Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ for language & violence, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 2023!!, a lot of time travel, SB being his charming self and everything that comes with it, mentions of smut, lovers to enemies, PTSD, humor & historical name drops, hurt, major angst
Word Count: 11.7k
Posted on Patreon May 9, 2025
A/N: Aaaaah, we're here! It starts funny, but it ends in heartbreak... Either way, I've been so excited for you guys to read this one! 😆
✨ Chapter title comes from Gone with the Wind (1939)
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 11: When You’re Slapped, You’ll Take It and Like It
They thought he was asleep. Or at least pretending to be. Either way, no one fucking questioned it.
Curled on the couch, one arm draped over his chest like he might’ve actually nodded off, Soldier Boy kept still, eyes nearly closed, barely breathing – like an antique six-foot paperweight.
A postcard picture of composure.
In the chaotic background, Supreme Court Barbie was talking – again. Wet Nap was nodding along with his girlfriend. Baguette Boy chimed in with another theory, something about quantum entanglement and paradoxical timelines. Mute Ninja Barbie was holding up signs and gesturing shit. The Asshole’s voice, gruff and grounded, cut through the clamor with a string of barely suppressed impatience.
Ben told them you’d come back. Hell, he told himself the same fucking thing, over and over, with the kind of confidence that could make lies sound like goddamn gospel.
It was a loop. That’s what he’d figured out when he saw your face in this century – exactly how he remembered you, down to the goddamn smile and stubborn spark in your eyes.
You were the exact same woman who had so recklessly wrecked him in 1942.
You hadn’t recognized him, though. And that’s when it hit him – you were living this in the wrong order. Out of sync with him. He’d already had you. Loved you. Lost you. And you… you hadn’t gotten to that part yet.
But when you vanished – again – this time on his watch, it hit different. Harder. Like some cruel joke the universe wasn’t finished playing yet.
He’d told himself you’d come back to this moment. This year. This room.
But you could’ve landed anywhere. He didn’t know shit. Not really.
You didn’t control it. Couldn’t. And hell, he didn’t control it either. What made him think he could?
What if you’d fallen through time and landed in the fucking Middle Ages? Or the goddamn Ice Age? What if he just watched you slip through his fingers all over again, except this time it was permanent?
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
He didn’t let it show. Not with the others still arguing behind him, still theorizing like any of them had a fucking clue what it felt like to watch the love of your life disappear while your hands were practically still on her skin.
He hadn’t told them. Not a word. None of them knew who you really were. Who you’d been to him. He didn’t want their sympathy. Didn’t trust them with that piece of himself. They weren’t his friends – they were yours. He knew they just tolerated him because they were fucking scared.
And the second you’d opened your mouth in this timeline and looked at him like a stranger, he’d slowly figured out what he had to do. He’d put the puzzle together, piece by piece. He had to do what was necessary. He was the only one who could do what needed to be done.
Trigger it. Push you.
Make you angry enough, desperate enough, emotional enough to bounce back again. Back to the past. Back to him. The first version of him. The one who hadn’t ruined everything yet.
But the glorious plan came with a teeny-tiny flaw: You might never land here again. You might be lost to him forever. He didn’t know the future. Didn’t know if you were meant to come back to this point here at all. Didn’t know exactly how it worked.
Shit.
Would he have to wait five minutes? A week? Six months? Another eighty fucking years to see you again?
He wasn’t sure he could hold up another round of this insanity.
Ben’s fingers curled into a fist, still resting casually on his chest, like he wasn’t white-knuckling the thought of losing you twice in one lifetime. Once was war. Twice was tragedy.
Every tick of the clock gnawed under his skin. Every breath stretched taut in his chest like wire. You’d vanished thirty-six minutes ago. Thirty-six minutes, forty-four seconds. But who’s counting?
You were supposed to come back here. This time. This place. He’d been so fucking sure.
Minute one: Triumph! He was smug as hell. Happy his plan had finally worked after a goddamn year of waiting and trying every fucking thing in the book – and now, you were gone. Time loop triggered. You’d landed in 1942, and Past Ben, that little shit, had eyes on tango. The loop was closing.
The team, on the other hand, worried and yapped around him, buzzing like a fucking annoying beehive.
Butcher was mid-sentence when MM interrupted with a sharp, “Right, but did anyone check if she actually exists anymore? You know, in our time?”
Soldier Boy smirked. He’d give it another three minutes before MM busted out your whiteboard from the corner.
“She’s not erased,” Annie said. “She’s–… she’s somewhere. She has to be. Her powers kicked in.”
“Yeah, but I mean, she could be anywhere,” Hughie offered, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Or anywhen? Like… French Revolution. Or Ancient Rome. Or Woodstock. Again.”
“Oi, imagine that,” Butcher grunted. “Shows up mid-orgy at Woodstock, starts philosophizin’ about multiverse theory while stoned out of her skull.”
Ben snorted silently. Wouldn’t put it past you.
“No, she’s already done that. She hooked up with one of the Grateful Dead,” Annie said matter-of-factly. “Said he cried during sex.”
The fuck–
“Besides, she told me she never visits a place twice to preserve the timeline. She wouldn’t risk breaking it,” Annie added. “She’s a scientist, not a lunatic.”
“She’s absolutely a bloody lunatic,” Butcher argued with a smirk. “Brilliant, dangerous, unbelievably reckless. And a fuckin’ woman. Which means she’s probably off tryin’ to stop Marie Curie from nuking 'erself.”
Minute five: The peanut gallery fully moved on to your hobbies.
“Didn’t she also once punch Tesla in the mouth?” Hughie asked quietly, scratching the back of his neck like a nervous tic.
Frenchie shook his head. “No, no, petit Hughie, that was Hemingway.”
“Yeah, because he told her girls can’t be physicists,” Annie confirmed, nose wrinkling. “She did say Tesla was hot. Tried to sleep with him. Not like, successfully, but she wanted to see if the rumors were true.”
Hughie furrowed his brow. “What, the celibacy rumors?”
“Yeah.” Annie nodded. “But he was a virgin. She didn’t wanna take that away from him. Apparently, he really was in love with that pigeon.”
“Probably for the best,” MM huffed, arms crossed. “Girl would’ve electrocuted herself on purpose just to time it with an orgasm.”
Ben’s brow wrinkled subtly. He’d never heard that story before. Or any of them. What the fuck exactly had you been doing during all your little adventures? You’d never told him about any of it. Probably because he wasn’t a friend of yours – or really anything to you in this time, except maybe your worst nightmare.
“Imagine her trying to teach physics in Ancient Greece,” Annie said, giggling.
Frenchie laughed and translated something Kimiko signed, “She says our time traveler would be mistaken for a goddess and start a sex cult.”
Ben smirked. He wouldn’t put that past you, either. Walk into Athens, throw on a toga, and start preaching feminism and thermodynamics. He could see it now.
“She’s probably in the fuckin’ Renaissance,” Butcher muttered, half-pacing. “Painted like one of ‘em oily tit angels while da Vinci strokes his beard.”
“Nah, she’d hate that,” MM said. “Way too many dudes named Giovanni telling her she can’t read.”
“Maybe she went to the moon landing,” Hughie offered.
“She’d punch Buzz Aldrin for not letting a woman walk first,” Annie said, grinning.
Yeah, you would…
“Kimiko says maybe she joined the Manhattan Project to slow it down from the inside,” Frenchie translated again.
Yup, you would do that, too.
A part of him wanted to stand up and tell them they were all fucking morons. He knew where you truly were. At least, he hoped he was still right about his own theory.
You’d fallen into his hands in 1942 like a goddamn fever dream – hair wild, eyes fire, lips ready to tell him off with beautiful four-letter-words. You’d broken something open in him back then. Unchained it.
And now? He’d handed you back to time with those same hands like a goddamn idiot.
Minute twelve: It was all theory and nonsense now. The team was trying to keep it light, clearly covering up their own nerves. Most of them were sitting, spread around the room like they were waiting on the results of a bomb squad after your explosion.
And Ben? Well, he was waiting for the goddamn fallout.
“She once said she’d punch Freud in the dick,” MM said, completely deadpan.
Kimiko signed something fast, and Frenchie choked. “She says our little physicist did punch Freud in the dick.”
“That tracks.” Hughie nodded along and gave a shrug. “She once told me she got into a screaming match with a guard at the Berlin Wall because she wanted to ‘see the vibes.’”
“She has terrible impulse control,” Annie agreed.
Ben rolled his jaw. That was true. Too true. You were always a sucker for a cause and a pretty face. You never could keep your genius brain in one lane. You always had to poke holes in history, just to see what spilled out.
“Or burning bras in the sixties,” Hughie proposed.
Oh yes, definitely. Ben vividly remembered your hatred for underwear. Not that it had ever fucking bothered him…
“She always had a feminist agenda,” Frenchie mused and pulled casually on his half-burnt cigarette. “Maybe she is rewriting history. One angry footnote at a time.”
MM nodded in agreement. “Still respect her for trying to start a union in 1890s Chicago.”
“Oui, she is very passionate about labor rights,” Frenchie added, smiling. “Because of her, Butcher gave us more vacation days and health benefits.”
Oh boy, Ben remembered that fun team meeting last year. He also remembered how you did the same thing for the workers in his father’s steel mill.
You could never just leave things well enough alone, could you?
Troublemaker. Liar. Cheater.
“Well, there’s a bloody reason her supe name’s fuckin’ Puck,” Butcher said with that slow, lazy smirk of his. “Fit right in with you chaotic lot.”
Ben wholeheartedly agreed. You’re the fucking embodiment of chaos meeting charm. Puck. Harmless? Debatable.
Minute nineteen: Ben’s worst nightmare started unfolding. Well, after your repeated disappearances from his life and maybe the decades of torture by the fucking Commies, of course.
But this next thing was easily top three. Because Hughie, and God fucking help him, made the mistake and–
“She once told me and Annie over a bottle of wine that if she ever married one man, it’d be JFK.” String Bean fucking shrugged. “Apparently, she has like… a thing for him.”
“Oh, yeah,” Annie confirmed, cackling. “Said he had ‘silver-tongue energy.’ She always joked about his presidential stamina and the devilish charisma.”
Ben’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his jaw tightened just slightly. Something slow and poisonous curled behind his sternum.
Silver-tongue energy? That fucking preening prep school prick? That smug bastard thought he was God’s gift to the Ivy League. Got away with fucking everything. He wore more cologne than Sinatra and couldn’t do ten pushups without wheezing.
Ben beat that wimp in wrestling at Choate. Twice. Back pain. Right. From getting tossed like a fuckin’ sack of potatoes…
Fucking Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if you were coming back smelling like Camel Lights and Cold War secrets, he’d nuke the whole goddamn state of New York.
“Ah, oui! I know for a fact that she has the audio of the ‘Ask not’ speech on her sex playlist,” Frenchie said with a smirk.
Wait, what?!
“She said that Jackie and Jack always gave her hope that power and romance could exist in the same room,” Annie added wistfully.
Ben let out a quiet scoff. He fucking gave you that. Real chemistry – not magazine spread bullshit.
For Christ’s sake, JFK cheated on Jackie in every goddamn state but Alaska. Ain’t that hard to get a wink outta the guy. He had scoliosis and wore a back brace under every damn suit. Could barely bend down to tie his own fucking shoes.
Ben’s eye twitched. Then he smirked, amused.
Asshole smoked his last cigar because of me…
Kidding! C’mon, kids, if he’d done it, it would’ve been clean. One shot. No questions.
He did fucking clap when it happened, though. Probably how that stupid rumor started in the first place.
But in all seriousness, letting that guy keep running the country would’ve been a national security risk. Shit you not, that idiot once confused Laos with fucking Legos.
Minute twenty-three: The team was debating your sex life like a twisted round of Jeopardy.
Frenchie spoke up again, “She has a bit of a historical kink, no?”
“Yep.” Annie nodded vividly. “Full-on. Rockstars, inventors, revolutionaries. She had a whole spreadsheet once.”
Kimiko signed again.
“She’s more of a Churchill-in-the-streets, Guevara-in-the-sheets kind of girl,” Frenchie translated, laughing with his head thrown back.
“She once told me if she could have a threesome with Feynman and Joan of Arc, she’d die happy,” Hughie noted with a small chuckle.
Ben didn’t doubt it. That sounded exactly like you. God, you were such a nerd. Nerdy and horny – just like he remembered you.
Kimiko typed on her phone and held it up, Hughie reading it out loud, “She always said that discussing the theory of relativity with Einstein had been better than sex. Maybe she went back to sleep with him?”
Ben’s brow furrowed. Better than sex? With who? You?
Bold claim, sweetheart.
Annie shook her head again. “No, she liked his brain but hated his attitude toward women. He was a dick to his first wife. She told me that.”
Ben sighed internally and rolled his eyes. Yeah, you told him that same story in 1942, too.
“Jim Morrison?” Kimiko signed next.
Annie burst out laughing. “Oh God. Don’t remind me. She did not regret that one.”
Ben raised an eyebrow.
Jim Morrison? Really? He vaguely remembered some barefoot burnout who made orgasm noises into a mic and wrote about snakes. That’s what got you fuckin’ going?
“Bogart? Slash? Ronnie Wood?” Hughie threw out more names.
“She does like cigars,” Frenchie chimed in, sighing almost tragically. “And stubborn men with unresolved issues.”
So you had a type, huh?
“Oi, she bloody loves doomed men, alright.” Butcher huffed a dark laugh. “Artists. Rebels. The more dangerous and angsty, the better. Men who fuckin’ burn too fast.”
Ben scowled. What the hell was this? A historical fuck list?
He wasn’t jealous, alright? He was just… aware. And slightly alarmed. You had more notches on your temporal bedpost than most people had in a lifetime. He should fucking know.
Was he just another one on the list? A little tick of fame and war paint? Another checkbox on the damn bingo card?
“She did sleep with Bowie,” Annie noted almost thoughtfully. “But only a little. Said he tasted like velvet and stardust.”
Stardust? And what the hell does “a little” mean? Did Bowie not bust inside you? Anal?
Christ, he hated those people for making him fucking think about this. You’d already lied and kept so many things from him. What the hell else didn’t he know about you?
“You guys really think she’s gone full rock groupie again?” Hughie asked, rubbing his jaw, more serious now. Doubtful.
“She did say she almost slept with Bob Dylan, but the mumbling turned her off,” Annie mused.
“She danced with Mick Jagger once at Studio 54,” Frenchie said, smirking. “And Keith Richards. Same night.”
C’mon!
He’d been there all the goddamn time. Why had you never picked him to dance with you? Welp, hopefully you told Keith to at least lay off the fucking heroin...
“Jesus fuck, she’s probably out there rewriting rock history with her pussy,” MM groaned.
Yeah. Apparently, you’d had your fun with every tragic genius who ever picked up a guitar.
How many famous men had you wrapped around your little finger, sweetheart? How many rockstars had you climbed like a goddamn jungle gym, huh? Had he been just another fucking name on your backstage pass?
The irony. Past him had always assumed you only had three to four lovers before him – max. Laughable. Now he knew why you’d always been so fucking calm when it came to his conquests – you were sneakily hiding your own shit.
Ben couldn’t even be fucking mad about that. Proud, maybe.
“Well, not just rockstars. I mean, she said Ben Franklin had ‘whore energy,’” Hughie said unhelpfully.
You said that about me once too, Ben thought bitterly.
Alright. That was enough. He knew you liked your fun. Hell, he respected it. But did they have to talk about it like you were some groupie for the ghosts of history?
Maybe he was just a notch on your belt, too. You liked danger. You liked history. You liked impact. Ben had all three.
Was he just your goddamn summer fling of 1942 with a side of daddy issues?
Did he even fucking matter?
Fuck ‘em. They didn’t fucking know what they were talking about. He knew you didn’t fake that shit. Didn’t fake that look you always gave him or a single orgasm. Didn’t fake love.
Right?
Minute thirty-one: The existential dread kicked in.
Ben shifted, just a bit. No one noticed. They were still going. Still laughing – like you hadn’t vanished into a glowing void and left his brain short-circuiting.
Butcher was laying odds on whether you joined the Black Panthers or got drunk with Churchill.
But Ben had stopped listening. On the inside, his mind was a goddamn war zone.
What if the loop broke? What if you skipped timelines? What if 1942 glitched and you ended up in 300 BC debating Plato about feminism in physics?
What if you didn’t come back?
What if past him fucked it up?
Fucking shit.
Sure, he’d been a charming devil back then – same as now. But one wrong move, one wrong word, and you actually might throttle the poor fella.
Minute thirty-four: The internal panic crescendoed.
Ben stopped pretending to nap. He wasn’t even hiding it anymore – he was staring at the ceiling like he could will time itself to bend. His plan had been simple. Send you back to the exact moment, close the loop, welcome you into his arms. He was so fucking smug and sure: You’d come back. You always did.
Right?
So where the hell were you?
He could still see the exact spot you’d been standing when you disappeared into thin air. A ghost image of you burned into the room, into the inside of his eyelids every time he blinked. The silence that fell in the second after had fucking gutted him. Still did.
Just like back then, you’d vanished within the storm.
He tried to think back – to the way your skin felt beneath his palms, the way you shook when you came, the way your eyes widened when he whispered marry me and I love you and you just stood there, unable to breathe.
He could still hear your fucking voice in his head like a phantom limb. Could smell the hay and the sweat and you – rain-washed and desperate. He remembered your hands on his chest, clinging to him. Your tears. That last look.
Fuck. Maybe he’d gotten it all wrong.
You left 1942, yeah. But that didn’t mean you returned to this moment. Time travel was tricky fucking bullshit. Unstable. You could’ve reappeared in 1752 for all he knew. Or 2086. Or never.
What if you died somewhere along the way?
What if you landed in his goddamn coffin?
But he’d been waiting eighty-one fucking years for you already. What were another few minutes?
This wasn’t over. It was never over.
Minute thirty-seven: He started timing his breathing. In, out. Calm the fuck down.
The jokes slowed. Everyone was shifting in their seats. Even Kimiko had stopped miming your historical seduction tours. The laughter faded, replaced by uneasy silence.
“She’s gonna come back and yell at us for talking about this,” Hughie said quietly.
“She’s gonna come back and punch him,” Annie muttered, nodding at Ben.
What if you came back and still hated him forever? What if he couldn’t fix it? What if you’d never see in this current version of him what you saw in the old one again?
Ben almost didn’t hear the sound at first. Not even with super-hearing.
A pulse. A sharp, electric crack.
The kind that made his spine straighten and rise from the couch. The kind that made his shoulders tense and muscles flex. The kind that made the hairs on his arms and neck salute and his heart pound furiously fast.
Green eyes snapped up, and there you fucking were. A vision, a dream, ripped straight from his fucking memories.
Not a hallucination. Not a figment of his worst fucking imagination. You were back. You were real.
You stumbled forward three steps like someone had unzipped the air and shoved you through it. Bare feet scuffed against tile, lungs breathing hard like you’d just run a mile underwater, limbs trembling, lips parted, eyes wild and wide, disoriented.
Ben was already on his feet. His heart fucking stopped. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t anticipated the most logical fucking thing on this planet.
You looked exactly like the night you left him. Why hadn’t he seen this fucking coming? Of course you’d look the fucking same.
Breathless. Soaked in rain. Dressed in a ghost of his past. Beautiful in the way that haunted dreams.
His dreams.
That navy dress – his dress – clung to your skin. The silk red bow still tangling askew in your wet hair. You smelled like summer thunderstorms and cigarette smoke and his old fucking cologne that they stopped producing sometime in the 60s.
For you, there weren’t eighty years between now and then. No time had passed. The wound was still fresh. Still bleeding and gushing like a fountain and drowning you.
The image of you hit him like a bullet straight through his heart, landing with the force of a hurricane.
And you? You took one shaky step forward like you were just learning how to walk again and locked eyes with him.
For just a moment – just one tiny, impossible, blinding fraction of a moment – he didn’t see the century between you two. Didn’t see the fucking broken pieces.
Just you.
No one else existed. Eight decades melted away in a second.
And him? No suit. No shield. No mask. No sarcasm. No Soldier Boy. Just Ben.
Just him – vulnerable, bare, raw. Same guy that stood in front of you in 1942. That held you when you had nightmares. That watched you sleep with your head on his chest. That always kissed you like the world was fucking ending.
Older, sharper, but still that same damn lazy smirk just waiting to be slapped off.
And you saw it. Saw it all.
He felt it – the heat of betrayal turning you into a fucking wildfire. You knew. It was all over your beautiful face – that flicker of recognition, that heartbreak, that rage crashing through you like a tidal wave.
You didn’t take your eyes off him. Didn’t blink. If your looks could kill like his offspring’s, he’d be a fucking smoldering crater right now with a hole down straight to Earth’s core.
He betrayed you. Deeply. He’d flicked a match and poured gasoline over everything the two of you had once declared sacred in the holy quiet of a bedroom and incinerated it like it never fucking mattered.
But it did. It meant the fucking world.
And if anyone knew what a betrayal this cutting felt like, it was him. Knew what it felt like when the one person you trusted the most, loved the most in this godforsaken fucking world, stabbed you in the back, twisted the knife, and fucking laughed.
And he hated himself for it. Hated to do to you what had been done to him.
He’d never forgiven and forgotten a single fucking prick that ever wronged him. Had ripped apart every heart that ever broke his, including yours. He lived and breathed revenge.
And still, you were fucking better than him, weren’t you? Better in every way imaginable. You could forgive.
Right?
His eyes flicked to the others around you. Silent, stunned, fucking shell-shocked. They hadn’t even noticed you at first, too busy debating their little butterfly effects, paradoxes, and Doctor Who bullshit.
But now, all eyes were on you.
And him.
Because you were still staring at him. Seething. Shaking. Rage in its purest form – and it was all for fucking him.
The mask had to slip back on, but the breath died in his fucking throat and his heart goddamn stuttered. “Told you, she’d be back,” he said, with all the bravado he could fake.
Like he had just woken up from his nap and hadn’t spent the last thirty-seven minutes counting, anticipating, panicking.
The scream came first. Feral, guttural, ancient. Something primal ripped from your throat like it had been building in your bones for eight fucking decades.
You snapped like a wire he’d strung too tight, lunged forward, and decked him clean across the jaw.
The punch snapped across his face, sharp and personal and full of all the fire he remembered. It cracked so loud, the room winced. You were a magnificent angel of vengeance.
God, he fucking missed you.
And Ben took the hit. Didn’t even try to block you. Knew he deserved it. Knew he had it fucking coming.
He staggered back half a step with a grunt, head snapping just slightly from the brutal force of it. Slowly, he turned back to face you, look at you, and then the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a smirk.
Smug. Cocky. Satisfied.
“There she is.” He grinned, then rubbed his jaw like it amused him, inspecting the ache with something between pride and admiration. “Actually fuckin’ felt that one. Good for you, sweetheart. Knew you had it in you.”
Sure, maybe he should dial it down a little, considering you stood in front of him with your chest heaving like you were ready to rip his tendons outta his body and tie them around his throat like a noose.
But who didn’t like a little humor to lighten the mood?
“You knew? All this time?” Your voice cracked, pressing each word out between your teeth like it hurt you. “You fucking knew?!”
But Ben just raised a hand, gave you a cool little warning wag of his finger – just for showmanship, for the peanut gallery that was frozen in place like you’d stopped them in time.
“Careful, sweetheart. Only get that first one for free,” he said.
And maybe that had been his mistake. It was like a challenge. One he should’ve known you’d accept in a heartbeat.
Because throughout this whole goddamn year of pushing your buttons – really since the first day he’d met you in 1942 – you’d never backed down from a single fight. Never flinched. Never faltered.
He beat you down, kicked you while you were there, degraded you, and ripped crater-sized holes out of your heart and spirit. And you’d always gotten back onto your feet and pushed him back just as hard – with sharper words and better insults. Words that burned through his blood and carved into his soul.
“What the fuck happened in your life to turn you into such a miserable, toxic, overbearing, narcissistic, insufferable piece of shit?!”
“You’re just a drug-addicted loser with daddy issues. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“No one likes you! And believe me, asshole, I fucking hate you!”
But you didn’t actually hate him, did you? Or maybe you did. Either way, it was his fucking cross to bear.
You didn’t say anything after that, and he just stared at you. Just stood there, jaw locked, tasting blood in his mouth that wasn’t even from the slap. It was from the fury in your eyes.
The hurt. The fucking grief.
He hadn’t expected that either. It was supposed to be a fuck-and-fling with destiny. And maybe, stupidly, a small part of him had hoped you’d fall into his arms and even thank him for it – for bringing you home and back to him. You hadn’t lost anything – not like he had.
But this clearly wasn’t that.
You’d barely had time to reel before the others closed in – Kimiko brushing past Hughie protectively, Frenchie lingering at your shoulder like he might catch you if you collapsed.
They all stared, but Butcher was the first to speak.
“Christ, sunshine,” he breathed. “You look like a bloody Victorian ghost who drowned ‘erself in a lake.”
“Te revoilà, ma futée!” Frenchie patted your shoulder with a bright grin.
But something changed. Something was off. Ben could see it.
You looked around the room slowly, like you were seeing it for the first time. Your brows furrowed, muscles slightly recoiling where the others touched you. You glanced at Frenchie, then Kimiko. Then Hughie. Annie. Your friends. But not with recognition. No joyous reunion, no relief.
Only confusion.
Ben watched your face shift – eyes trying to place faces, trying to label people you clearly knew, but with their names just out of reach like distant stars behind clouds. You were squinting at Hughie like he owed you goddamn money and you couldn’t remember from where. You looked through Frenchie like you were trying to find out where you’d parked your fucking car.
You tried to play it cool, nodding like everything was fine, but your eyes betrayed you – lingering on each face a beat too long.
Ben’s smirk faltered. Smugness gone. His heart kicked against his ribs.
Shit. He hadn’t accounted for this – for you coming back fucking broken and brain scrambled. Was this temporary? Permanent? Had it ever happened before? Normal? He didn’t fucking know.
“Yeah, I’m fine. ‘M good, guys.” You gave a half-hearted smile, let your gaze drift over each of them.
But Ben caught it – that little flash of insecurity in your eyes when they averted to your feet for the briefest second. The way you rolled your shoulders back with feigned confidence. He knew you well enough to see it, even if your so-called fucking friends didn’t.
Liar.
You weren’t fucking fine, were you? You weren’t asking them questions. You weren’t using their names. You were fucking faking your memory.
Ben ground his jaw, watching you. Still rattled by the way you looked at him with total clarity and at everyone else like they were fucking strangers at a bus stop. Blank stare.
“What happened?” Hughie parroted his girlfriend with a soft smile, oblivious to the raging chaos within you. “You blinked out of existence. Like… interdimensional poof.”
Ben saw the tension in your muscles, the uncomfortableness in your clenched jaw, the fear in your eyes, so he did the only right thing and drew their attention to him.
“Well, if anyone’s lookin’ for a fuckin’ recap, pretty sure my cum’s still drippin’ outta her.”
“What the–” Hughie’s brows drew together, gaze snapping from you to Ben and back to you again, as if it would somehow reveal the truth. “Jesus fucking Christ! Can we maybe... not lead with that? Please?”
There was a moment of quiet – or recharge.
Because in the following second, you saw fucking red. Deep red. Dark red. Blood red.
Your entire body surged forward, only Kimiko’s iron grip and Annie’s arms around your middle keeping you from tackling Ben to the ground like a ferocious animal.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKING–”
And he flinched. Slightly. Unnoticeable to the untrained eye. But he did.
Alright. Maybe he overshot it a little there. Went an inch too far. But it was all well meant.
“Oi!” Butcher’s voice cut through the hue and cry. “Are you two really goin’ right at it again?”
Silence.
Annie’s grip softened around you, but she didn’t let go. Her touch turned comforting, and it seemed to soothe you a little. Kimiko blinked in slow-motion and then exchanged wide-eyed looks with Frenchie.
“Is it… true?” Hughie was brave enough to ask.
You didn’t respond, eyes locked on Ben like he was your target. And it broke him.
But he didn’t let it show. Couldn’t. Not in front of them.
“Ready to talk like fuckin’ adults now?”
Your lips twitched with the hint of amusement. He swallowed subtly.
“Let me go,” you said quietly in the gentlest voice to both Annie and Kimiko. Not a question but a soft order. They complied.
You crossed the distance to him in three angry steps and looked him dead in the eye. “You cold-hearted, manipulative, narcissistic asshole–”
“Hey! I didn’t manipulate anything,” he snapped, feeling his own walls erect and defend – ready to block your hits. “I did you a fuckin’ favor. How about you stop whining like a goddamn brat and say fuckin’ thanks?”
You scoffed loudly, crossed your arms, shook your head in utter disbelief. “Oh, please,” you gritted mockingly. Then you put your hands on his chest and shoved him. “You did yourself a fucking favor!”
Another shove. This one even made his feet stutter a step.
“Alright, enough.” He laughed it off, trying to uphold the façade, although it cut deeper than he’d ever be willing to admit.
“Fight me.” You pushed him again. Provoked him. Like you wanted him to crack.
“Are you fucking nuts?” He scoffed a chuckle, but the feigned amusement didn’t even reach his eyes.
“Maybe. Do it.” Another shove at his chest.
“Okay, stop it!”
“Why?” You shrugged your shoulders, then smirked – dark and daring. You took another step forward, crowding his space like he was your goddamn dinner. “Why did you fucking do it, huh? What, didn’t wanna risk me screwing up your precious legacy, so you could still play the hero in your own fucked-up little fairy tale?”
His jaw twitched, eyes flickered. Whatever hurt he felt, he tried to swallow. “That what you think, hm?”
Internally, something shattered like glass. Sharp and cutting right to the bone. He shouldn’t have been goddamn surprised you’d think this lowly of him. Hell, this version of him had given you every fucking reason to. But he still thought, after everything, after you finally catching up to him, that you would–
He held your gaze, eyes fixed on you like the moon on Earth. And he could see it then, that brief flicker of hesitation – of uncertainty. You didn’t believe your own words, so maybe it wasn’t too late to still glue the pieces back together and pretend he never broke it in the first place.
“Yeah, I do,” you still snarled and only pushed him harder.
Fucking liar.
This time, he caught your wrists, pinned them down and pressed you against the nearest column, forearm to your collarbone, concrete cracking at your back as he tried to hold you in place.
“Alright, calm the fuck down,” he hissed. “You’re actin’ a little hysterical, sweetheart.”
“Oh, yeah?” you bit with a smirk and callousness between your teeth. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk about how you sound like your fucking daddy.”
That made him bristle. You were aiming fucking low and deep and knew it, too.
“‘M fuckin’ warning you,” he growled, his grip on you turning bruising.
But you didn’t seem to care. Not one bit. You didn’t give a shit anymore.
“There’s not one good fucking bone left in your body. You’re poison inside and out,” you spat, hatred pouring out of you from every pore. “You just wanted history to fucking remember Soldier Boy, the glorious American wet dream, instead of the sad, lonely asshole you really were.”
“You’re fucking wrong.” But a slight flare of his nostrils gave it away. “Don’t fucking push me, sweetheart. You won’t like the outcome.”
“No, I think I fucking will,” you retorted with a defiant fire in your eyes.
“Calm the hell down or–”
“Or what, huh?” you challenged fearlessly. “You’re gonna hurt me? Kill me? Try. I fucking dare you. I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be,” he gritted through clenched teeth and regretted it in that same breath.
“No, you should be.” Then a smirk curled your lips like slow-acting venom.
“I think you’re forgetting who’s fuckin’ stronger,” he growled.
“No, I think you are forgetting. It’s probably the fucking Alzheimer’s,” you retorted. “You know all those endless days I spent in the shed? Remember those, gramps?”
And then, he felt it – that languid crawl up his spine, snaking through his blood like ice water and freezing everything in place.
“I did more than just tinkering in there. I practiced. Trained,” you said smugly.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, green eyes flickering to the audience in the cheap seats.
All of them kept a safety distance in case either of you two fucking detonated. But Butcher recognized instantly what was going on, a dark, diabolical chuckle rippling through the office.
“That’s right.” You smirked, mean and vicious. “My powers are fucking back. Better than ever. Guess I do owe you a fucking ‘thank you,’ huh?”
“Un-fucking-freeze me. Now,” Ben threatened and tried to fight against your spell, although he knew it was useless. His body was locked tight.
There was no way back now. He was smack dab in the middle of whatever shitstorm you were brewing. His master plan slowly derailed and broke apart at the seams.
Maybe it was fucking stupid of him to believe you’d come back as damaged as you left. In some ways, you came back even more broken, but in others, pieces had seemingly stitched themselves back together.
“Or what, huh?” you prompted daringly, knowing you had the upper hand.
Ben looked at you, at the rage in your eyes and the hate in your heart, and swallowed harshly. He didn’t want this. Any of it. He just wanted you.
“Look, let’s just talk somewhere, alright? Alone,” he suggested and nodded his head toward the group.
Your gaze followed, same flicker of uncomfortableness in your eyes. Still strangers.
A slight nod. “Fine. You wanna talk alone? Let’s fucking talk alone.”
And then you gripped him tighter and shoved.
The first thing he felt was the blistering heat.
Then the weight of gravity shifted, pulling at his gut like a slingshot let go. No light, no sound – just the feeling of being ripped through space like paper.
The humidity clung to his skin like spit. Not humid like a summer storm, but wet and dense, the kind of thick that attached to one’s lungs and left sweat crawling down one’s spine before even registering the heat.
The air smelled like rot and soil – something old and still alive. He staggered, boots slipping slightly in the wet dirt beneath them, moss-covered earth hissing with steam and the squelch of rotting vegetation. Monsters of trees stretched upward higher than skyscrapers. Vines as thick as his arms twisted through bark, leaves the size of blankets hanging low.
The sky above him was a bruised, yellow hell with a metallic shimmer on the horizon. Not dawn. Not dusk. Wrong.
Birds – if you could fucking call them that – screamed in the distance. Something howled. Something else answered – alien and prehistoric.
Ben stumbled forward, coughing and blinking like you’d just fucking water-boarded him. “What the fuck…” he muttered, spinning around in slow, uncertain circles, searching for you. “Where the fuck are we?”
You stood ten feet away, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Remember when I told you back then that I’d make you a T-Rex’s fucking chew toy?”
He scowled. “Back then? Sweetheart, we had that conversation barely two hours ago. How fuckin’ scrambled is your brain, huh?”
“My brain’s fine,” you retorted, but he caught the slight quiver of your brow that revealed the truth.
“Coulda fooled me. You’re fucking insane,” he huffed.
“Oh, I know.”
And God help him, you said it with a fucking smile.
“So, what? You dragged me to the goddamn Jurassic to die with the fucking lizards? This it? The big revenge arc?”
“Cretaceous,” you corrected absently. “Should’ve paid more attention in school. Welcome to 65 million years ago. Figured it was a fitting setting for an ancient relic like you.”
“Funny.” He scoffed bitterly. “But bad news, sweetheart, some little dinosaurs ain’t gonna do me in.”
“Oh, I didn’t bring you here for them. I brought you here for this,” you said and pointed skyward behind his shoulder, his gaze following. “It’s not a second sun, you know? It’s an extinction-level meteorite. Same that wiped out the feathered reptiles. Impact is in about thirty-six hours – give or take a few volcanic eruptions.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking serious,” he grunted.
“Deadly,” you said and grinned puckishly. “Figured Russians already tried everything. Burned you, shot you, poisoned you. Nothing stuck. Had to get a little creative. Let the world do it for me.”
Ben squared his stance, masking the unease coiling low in his gut. “You’re just gonna abandon me here? Let a fucking rock do the dirty work for you?”
You smirked cruelly. “That’s the plan.”
His jaw tightened. “Cute trick. But you’re fuckin’ bluffin’. I’m not gonna fucking die here.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” You shrugged like you could care less. “Consider it an experiment. Let’s see if immortal really is an infinite number. Either way, you’re gonna suffer. That’s what I’m counting on. Because, even if you do survive the asteroid, there’s nothing going to be here. You’re gonna be alone. Just you stuck with your thoughts while Earth is rebuilding itself. And hey, if you do make it past the first 30 million years, you’ll have some monkeys here to talk to. Maybe you’ll finally understand your ex-girlfriend then…”
“You fucking–” But Ben stopped himself before giving in to what you so desperately wanted – him being an asshole. Someone easy to blame. “You don’t get to pull this righteous bullshit. Not after what you fuckin’ did.”
“What I did?” You blinked, incredulous. You took a step forward, disbelief twisting back into fury. “You fucking used me! You took everything you ever learned about me and manipulated it against me like I was just a fucking pawn in your sick, temporal chess match.”
But Ben didn’t back down, refusing to show even a flicker of hesitation. He had to get through to you. Had to get you to listen to him.
“No, no, you don’t get to play fucking innocent, sweetheart. You landed in my past. Snooped through my life like I was some goddamn museum exhibit in my father’s mansion. You slept in my fucking bed, planted yourself in my heart like it was fuckin’ nothin’, and played house with the version of me that was still stupid enough to believe in fuckin’ dreams,” he spat. “You think that wasn’t fucking manipulation? You thought you could rewrite history just by spreading your fuckin’ legs and smiling sweet.”
“I wasn’t cruel,” you bit, your crossed arms tightening around you like you were trying to hug yourself harder.
“No, you were fucking worse,” Ben growled. “You made me believe I was worth fucking somethin’. And then you fucking disappeared. No goodbye. No fuckin’ explanation. I thought you fuckin’ died.” He scoffed a dry laugh and rubbed a hand down his face, taking a step closer toward you. “Even worse, I thought my father was fucking right about you. That you left ‘cause you thought I wasn’t good enough. That I was fucking weak.”
Your jaw clenched, tears starting to burn in your eyes – but not falling. Not yet. “I never meant–… I tried to warn you. You wouldn’t listen!”
Ben’s face twitched, lips smacking. And for a brief moment, he just stared at you full of heartbreak.
“I know,” he choked out. “But I didn’t know that till a year ago. I waited eighty fucking years for you. For some goddamn answers. For someone to tell me where you fucking went. Do you know what that fucking does to a person?”
“I know what it did to you,” you replied, gaze raking over him like he was nothing. “And it proves you were never strong enough to be the man I thought you were. Proves none of it ever fucking mattered.”
“That what you believe, hm?” One step closed the distance again to you. “You were trying to change me. Don’t fucking deny it. You thought if you poured enough sugar on it, maybe I wouldn’t rot.”
“I never tried to change you. I just wanted you to stay the same,” you said, voice tight and full of hurt. Disappointment. “Look at you! You became everything he fucking hated. Everything he swore he’d never be. You didn’t just become the worst version of yourself – you fucking perfected it. You let anger rot everything good in you.”
Ben took a shaky breath, jaw locked, fists clenching at his sides, trying to push down that curling little feeling behind his sternum. It was starting to glow, and if you weren’t careful, that fucking comet wouldn’t be the only thing that wiped out these dinosaurs.
“I never stopped loving you.”
“Then why didn’t you stop yourself? Why did you tear it all apart?” Your eyes shined wet, and he knew you were choking back a sob. “You fucking broke me on purpose.”
“You think I wanted that? That it was fucking easy for me to treat you like shit? To watch you fall apart?” he countered. “I hated myself for it. For a whole goddamn fucking year. But I had to. I remembered how it went the first time, alright? I know when you got to 1942, you were fucking running from me. I was the guy, right?”
You gave him the faintest nod but didn’t say anything more.
“You fucking hated me. And if I’d treated you differently, if I’d gone soft like I goddamn wanted to every fucking day since I finally saw you again, maybe you wouldn’t have gone back. Maybe none of it would’ve fucking happened. You wouldn’t remember me. You wouldn’t fall in love with me. I couldn’t fucking risk it.”
By the end of it, Ben’s chest was heaving, but he tried to control whatever wanted to crawl out.
“You could’ve told me! You could’ve given me a choice!” you yelled.
“No, I couldn’t have!” he barked. “Because the version of you that loved me back then? She only loved me because of the fucking loop. And if I broke it… if I changed even one thing, you never would’ve fucking loved me at all. I thought if I just followed the goddamn script, we could have that again.”
“Have what again? The script is fucking broken! I told you that! Were you ever actually fucking listening?” you snapped.
“I was. And I don’t think it’s fucking broken,” he insisted, green eyes drilling into yours. “It’s not. It doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to hate each other. You don’t have to hate me. We can pick up where we left off. Better even. There’s no more fucking lies now. Just you and me and fucking honesty.”
“Are you fucking delusional?”
“No.” He shook his head, giving you a weak smile. “Clearer than I ever fucking was. We don’t have to stand in the fucking ruins of what we were. You just have to forgive me like I fucking forgave you.”
“This is fucking over,” you gritted through your teeth. “There’s nothing left to salvage here.”
“Disagree. It’s goddamn everything, and it’ll never be fucking over,” Ben stated firmly. He exhaled a deep breath, trying to stay calm, the ache in his chest a constant buzz. “Look, I know you just got back. I know you’re fucking pissed right now and wanna show me who’s got the bigger dick. That’s fine, sweetheart. I get it. Do what you gotta fuckin’ do. But underneath it all, I know you still love me. I know that feeling doesn’t fucking vanish in five minutes.”
“I don’t love you. I love him. There’s a difference,” you spat defiantly. “You’re not the guy I fell in love with. You’re just the fucking corpse that crawled outta his grave.”
“Bullshit,” Ben said and didn’t waver. Not an inch. No matter how much it fucking hurt. “I am him. Those aren’t just your memories. Those are fucking mine, too. You don’t get to take that away from me. I know what happened. I remember everything. Every second. I was fucking there. I know how you looked at me, how you touched me, how you talked to me like I fucking mattered. You can’t just flip a fucking switch and be done with it.”
“Watch me,” you bit and turned your back, walking away.
Ben followed you every step deeper into the screeching jungle, green eyes darting around everything that whispered and rustled in the eerie brush.
“I know the day you had, okay? I know what we did before you fucking disappeared. How long ago was it when you still felt me inside of you, huh? Fifteen minutes? Maybe thirty, tops? Bet you even still feel me now, don’t you?”
You snapped back around to face him, pointing a warning finger at his chest. “Don’t you fucking dare!”
“No, don’t you fucking dare!” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking erase anything. You think you can just ignore it? That pull you feel? Those feelings? They’re not gonna fucking go anywhere. Trust me. It’s been eighty-one years for me, and it only ever got fucking worse.”
“Guess, we’ll see,” you retorted. The fucking smirk came back – belligerent and hostile. “Since we’re both practically immortal, why don’t you check back with me in eighty years and see how I feel then, huh?”
“You wanna fucking break me? Fine,” he spat, almost coming nose-to-nose with you. “But don’t act like you’re some kind of victim here. You set the loop in motion just as much as I did.”
You took a step back, gaze lifting toward the meteor again. High above the clouds, a bright orange streak cut across the sky like a scar. Slow. Burning. Getting closer.
“You know what I like about this rock?” you asked rhetorically, using your little teacher voice again that he still wasn’t sure if he loved or hated. “It’s clean. Impartial. Doesn’t give a shit who you are or how powerful someone is. It hits, and everything fucking dies. Even you.”
Ben’s voice was quiet, lips twitching. “You don’t have it fucking in you.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah, I know you. I know you’re not leaving me here.”
“What, you think you fucking know me because you fucked me eighty years ago? You don’t know fucking anything! Never have,” you snapped harshly. “Wanna know why I can’t fucking love you now? Remember all those nightmares I had every night?”
“Yeah, and I held you through every single one of ‘em,” Ben stated.
You scoffed bitterly. “Yeah, well, they weren’t nightmares at all. Not really. Those were visions of you. Glimpses into the future. Of Soldier Boy. Of every cruel, vile, evil thing you’ve ever said and done.”
“You don’t fucking know shit,” he gritted, but on the inside, something squirmed in his ribcage.
You’d seen the worst parts of him. There was no hiding, no lying, no deflecting or convincing you it wasn’t true. And still, back then, you let him hold you, even though you knew the truth.
“No, I do. I know what kind of monster you truly are,” you said and never broke his gaze. And then, a first tear escaped your eye and streaked your cheek. “There’s no fucking redemption for you.”
Silence stretched between the two of you, brittle and sharp. The jungle screamed again, the earth trembled underneath his boots with something mighty.
“You think you’re better than me, hm? You’re not. You just never had to face the fucking consequences of your goddamn actions before like I did,” Ben said, voice low and cruel, slicing you like a blade. But you needed to fucking hear this. “Probably because no one you ever messed with was still fucking alive to tell the tale when you hopped back. Well, no one until fucking me.”
You didn’t say anything. Just spun around and started marching again as if you had a destination in mind.
“Look, I fuckin’ get it, alright? The world was mean to you and treated you like shit, and this is your little karmic payback,” he continued – persistent, relentless, and not taking fucking no for answer. Just like the first time. He’d wear you down again whether you fucking liked it or not. “This is what you do, right? Play pranks, mess a little with people who wronged you, screw with history. Literally – from what I’ve heard from your little group of nobodies. That’s why they call you Puck, right? Just sprinkle a little chaos everywhere and see what fucking happens.”
“You don’t know anything about me. Stop pretending that you do,” you huffed and kept up your pace.
“You think you’re not harming anyone, but you fucking do. Just because you didn’t rip people apart with your bare hands, doesn’t mean no one ever got fucking hurt,” Ben said, still on your tail, still not giving up. “You wondered what happened to them yet? Hm?”
That made your feet halt and your shoulders tense, but you didn’t turn around to face him. Not yet.
“Dottie? Florence? George?” He paused for a moment, as if to give both of you a chance to brace yourselves. “My mother?”
Your shoulders quivered. Ben could see it. But it didn’t make him stop. Not yet.
“They’re all dead, you know? Every single fucking one of ‘em.”
You glared over your shoulder. “This is why everyone fucking hates you, by the way.”
But Ben didn’t flinch. Didn’t get angry. Just stayed calm. “I’m not saying it to be cruel.”
“Then why the fuck are you saying it?” you snapped, facing him fully. “You know how much they meant to me!”
“Yeah, and they’re not gonna be around when you wake up tomorrow. No one fucking is,” Ben said quietly and could tell realization sunk in. Your face dropped. “But I’m still here. Just you and me left.”
He took a tentative step forward like he was approaching a deer and didn’t want to spook it. You didn’t move, just stayed.
“You and I are not so different, you know? Never were,” he said.
You scoffed, then shook your head. “I punched a few dicks and screwed a few more. So what? What you did borders on mass extinction. You can’t honestly believe that’s the same fucking thing.”
“It’s not. But if you keep up this shit, it will be. Give it a couple more decades, sweetheart, and you’ll be where I am,” Ben said, and it hit a nerve. He could see it by the subtle jump in your jaw. “Everyone you love is gonna be dead. Your so-called friends. You already killed your family – and don’t bullshit me. Dropping them off during a plague is a death sentence. You’re just too fucking cowardly to do it yourself. Just like now.”
“Fuck you,” you spat.
“You even still remember them? The other idiots? What are their names, huh?”
“Of course I do! They’re my fucking friends,” you claimed, but a blind person could see that you were lying through your goddamn teeth.
Ben certainly could.
“You’re forgetting shit, aren’t you?” he taunted, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“I remember you and what you did. That’s all that matters right now,” you said, confirming your little memory muddle.
“Look, I know why you lied back then. It’s the same reason why I didn’t tell you the fucking truth either. We thought the other one couldn’t handle it,” Ben said and swallowed, but he held your stubborn gaze. “And you know what? We were both probably fucking right. I wouldn’t have believed you back then. Or I would’ve been fucking scared of you. And if I had told you the truth, you would’ve thought I was fucking crazy. I could see it in the way you fucking looked at me when you got me outta Russia. You already thought I was. Just some old, forgotten relic, right? You never would’ve gone back. Not for me.”
“Clearly, I was right about the crazy part,” you muttered under your breath, scoffing.
“But you know me now. And I know you. The real you,” he went on, a smile hitching in the corners of his lips for a second. “And I was right back then – I always knew enough. It didn’t change anything. The other shit? It doesn’t fucking matter. It never did.”
You looked at him then, dress still damp, hair a mess, filled with rage and pain from head to fucking toe. And all he could think about was how you still looked fucking beautiful like this.
“There’s no you and me. We’re done,” you stated with all the conviction you could find, but he didn’t believe you. Not even a little.
“You really gonna leave me here and just forget about it? Let that rock drop on my head now?”
“No,” you said, and it sounded almost soft. Like a goodbye. “Turn around.”
And then he could hear it – a clicking sound behind them. A low, guttural hiss.
He saw it then – dinosaur. Velociraptor, probably – not that his knowledge on ancient, extinct reptiles was extensive. He hadn’t even seen fucking Jurassic Park yet.
The thing, whatever it was, was frozen mid-pounce, however – jaws wide and beady eyes locked onto his jugular. It was suspended in a glimmer of warped time like a fly in amber.
“You gotta be shittin' me,” he breathed, but as he turned around to you again, you were fucking gone.
And then, your little time spell lifted, and the raptor lunged.
Ben ducked, grabbed its scaled leg, and slammed it into the ground. But it was fast – snarling, vicious, and bloodthirsty fast. He cursed, rolled, landed a fist to its ribs. The predator screeched, and he pinned it, twisted its neck, and snapped it with a final crunch.
Its body dropped to the steaming earth, and Ben stood, panting just slightly. Not winded, but not untouched either, and he wondered how many more of those things there’d be.
“Fucking cute,” he huffed into the vastness of the prehistoric jungle. “Did you pack that thing for the trip, huh? I told you it’s not gonna fucking stop me. Is that all you fucking got? One little lizard? Gonna have to try fucking harder, sweetheart.”
But there was no answer. Just more screeching, more hissing, more primal noises that made his stomach churn. Just him, a jungle full of reptiles, and a glowing rock above his head that burned like a warning with a countdown.
“Don’t you dare fucking leave me here! You hear me?!”
Exhausted, Ben ran a hand through his hair and scoffed out a breath, sweat from the humidity gathering on his neck and forehead, heart hammering furiously.
Silence. Emptiness. Loneliness.
“I know you’re just trying to fuck with me!” he shouted into the void.
And then, he started saying your name, over and over again, calling for you, screaming it as the panic rose and his voice turned hoarse. But there never came a response. Fucking minutes passed.
“Didn’t take you long to lose your mind.”
You.
He swung around and found you leaning against a big tree, casual and cruel with your arms crossed and a pitying gleam in your eyes.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave me here. You’re just trying to fucking scare me,” he hissed. “It ain’t gonna work.”
“No, but this will,” you said with a sneer and crossed the distance to him in a few easy steps.
And then you fucking pushed him, and time warped again.
The humidity vanished.
It was sterile now. Stale. Bleach. Rust. Burnt skin. Familiar.
Too fucking familiar.
The dim lighting. The rusted table legs bolted to the concrete floor. That high-frequency hum in the back of his skull. His chest constricted, lungs forgetting how to fill. Strenuously, he dragged in a breath that stung and squinted around, heart pounding. His boots scraped against the cracked tile. The same cracks. He knew each fucking one.
“No,” he muttered, shaking his head as the bile rose in throat.
You appeared behind him, footsteps echoing like gunfire in the cold, one brow cocked like you came to enjoy the show. “Recognize it yet? We’re in 1987. Russia. Figured this place must be burned into that big roid-rage brain of yours. It already broke you once. Might as well let it finish its job.”
“Get me the fuck outta here,” he gritted through his teeth, the burning feeling in his chest not a soft buzz anymore but a roaring drone.
But you only smiled in amusement. “Beg.”
Ben breathed heavily through his nose, chest heaving. “Fuck you.”
You chuckled, unbothered, and sauntered to the metal door, peeking through the small window down the hallway. “Lots of scientists here. I wonder if they’re gonna be thrilled when they find two of you to experiment on.”
“This isn’t you. You’re not this fucking twisted and cruel,” he pressed out between his lips with strain, his body trembling as he braced his palms on the cool metal of the table where he’d been strapped down for years.
“No, but you are. Figured it’s time you get a taste of your own medicine,” you quipped.
And fuck, that smile on your lips might’ve killed him more than this fucking place ever did.
His fingers twitched against the table, eyes stuck on the walls, the drains, the surgical sink stained with blood and memories. And then, he saw the chains. The scorch marks from one of his outbursts. He felt the burn in his veins like it was fucking yesterday.
“How are you doing?” you asked casually as you circled him like a vulture. “Still think you don’t have PTSD?”
His nuclear core gave a low warning whine in his chest, and his body tensed on instinct, muscle memory from thousands hours of being helpless and violated under knives and poison and God knows what else.
“Again – fuck you, sweetheart,” he grunted. “This place didn’t get me the first time. It won’t fucking get me now.”
“No?” You tilted your head and then strolled over to the counter where a radio stood, your fingers skimming over the buttons. “Guess we’ll see.”
And then you turned it on, the room filling with the soft tunes of Russian pop, getting louder and louder till his skull screamed and his brain lit on fire.
The electricity in the air spiked. His hands gripped the edges of the table tighter, metal bending in his grasp. His jaw locked, teeth gritted hard enough to crack. He tried to breathe, tried to tamp it down, but it was rising fast. Burning up through every nerve like napalm.
Nuclear energy rolled off him in pulses. Unstable. Dangerous. Loud.
“You’re gonna fucking blow up both of us,” he hissed. “Turn it the fuck down!”
He wouldn’t die, but you would – or lose your powers. Either way, he’d be fucking stuck here again.
“No, I’ll be long gone by the time you blow,” you replied – still casual, still unbothered, still mocking. You were relentless now, stalking in front of him, the taste of vengeance hot on your tongue. “Who’s fucking weak now, huh?”
“Fuck you.”
He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of winning. Not even when his knees buckled and he sunk to the floor. Not yet.
You crouched down in front of him, calm and unaffected. “Say it. Say you’re fucking sorry. Beg me to get you out of here.”
“Fuck you,” Ben repeated, but his voice cracked as he fought against the ticking bomb wedged between his ribs. “You wanna fucking leave me here? Fucking fine. Doesn’t change anything. I still fucking love you... Thought about you every day in this fucking shithole. And you came. You got me out. You fucking saved me.”
“Yeah, biggest mistake of my life,” you scoffed. “Should’ve frozen Butcher when he knocked on my door and bolted.”
“You can’t run away forever.”
You came in closer, eyes burning. “You thought I’d fucking crawl back to you, huh? After everything?”
He shook his throbbing head, fighting it. “You need to fucking listen to me. You’re spiraling. It's the fucking serum. It's messing with your head. You ever actually been this long in the past before?"
You didn't respond, but he took your hesitation as a no.
"Just-... just calm the hell down, alright? Think it through–”
“No!” you snapped. “You don’t get to play fucking hero now. You’re not worried about me or anyone else. Never were, so don’t pretend you are now. You abused me and bullied me for a year straight just so I could fall into some fucked up predestined loop with you. That your definition of love, huh?”
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t throw that word around like you don’t know what we were. What we fucking are.”
The nuclear hum in his chest flared, pressure building in his sternum, but he forced it down. He couldn’t detonate. Not with you standing three fucking feet away.
“You don’t even know what love is. You just fucking twist it until it serves you,” you replied harshly.
“You don’t get to look at me like that,” he bit out. “Like I’m the fucking monster. You knew who I was back then, too.”
“I did,” you admitted, tears stinging your eyes. Your voice got quieter, barely audible over the radio and the constant crackle of nuclear energy. “And I still fucking trusted you. How stupid was I?”
“I-… I’m sorry,” he forced out, pushed the danger down further with all his might for as long as he could. “I never meant to fucking hurt you. I just wanted you back.”
A smile flashed on your lips. Sad and tragic. “You’ll never get me back. This is the last time you see me again. You understand?”
A beat, and then – he fucking screamed.
Not angry. Not words. Not your name. Just a raw, tortured sound that peeled the chipped paint off the walls. His chest began to glow. His skin shimmered. His vision doubled and whited out around the edges. He was seconds away from exploding.
“Get me the fuck outta here... Please,” he finally rasped with what little strength he had left. His eyes found yours but only witnessed coldness in them. The warmth he once knew and clung to like a lifeline – gone. Forgotten. Erased. “Please, get me out. Don’t fucking leave me here. Please.”
“I’m fucking done with you,” you said.
Your palm reached out and curled on his shoulder, and just like that, you pushed him out of the cold, out of the lab, and back into the present.
The light twisted. His bones stretched. His stomach turned, and the first thing he saw was you.
“Don’t fucking follow me this time,” you snarled. “I mean it – or I’ll leave you with the fucking Reds.”
And then, you spun on your heel and walked away, leaving him crouching, panting, and burning on the floor. Your eyes flicked across the group and landed on Butcher.
“All yours,” you said. “And by the way, I fucking quit.”
Then the office door slammed shut behind you.
Ben barely had time to lift his head before the rest of the merry fucking band made their way slowly and cautiously toward him. Annie, Kimiko, Hughie, Frenchie, MM – staring like they’d just seen him climb out of a burning orphanage holding a cigarette and a baby skull.
“What the fuck are you staring at?” he huffed and pushed the fury, the fire inside of him, down. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of exploding like the petulant, walking nuke they expected him to be. “If you wanna see a show, go find a fucking circus.”
He held it. Dug in. Gritted his teeth and shoved it down. Like choking on fire, like forcing a scream back down his throat until it died in his gut. The glow faded, slow and grudging, retreating like a beaten dog to its cage.
“You alright there, guv?” Butcher asked, voice soaked in that piss-and-vinegar mockery he always wore like cologne. “Bit warm in the cheeks. Heartbreak’ll do that to ya.”
“What-, uh, what happened?” Hughie asked, and for a second, Ben wasn’t sure if the kid was genuinely worried about him.
“None of your goddamn business,” Ben huffed and slowly rose to his feet, slipping the mask back on that fit him like a second skin. A snake that couldn’t shed its scales.
“Let’s go, guys,” Annie said and nodded to the door. The others followed, each of them sending him a little glare on their way out.
But Butcher stayed, lingering in the doorway, smirk curling on his lips like a jackal.
“I know what you’re fucking thinking, asshole,” Ben growled.
“And what’s that?” Butcher asked calmly, clearly enjoying the downfall.
“You think now that she has her powers back, you can turn her against me and take me out,” Ben gritted. “But it’s not gonna work. She’s not gonna fucking kill me. She’s not gonna betray me.”
Butcher’s smirk twitched with amusement. “Guess we’ll see. Didn’t look like she still needs a lotta convincing. Enjoy your evening, mate.”
Ben stood frozen, watching Butcher’s retreating back, and only exhaled the breath he’d been holding in when he was entirely alone. Again.
And for the first time in a year, he wasn’t sure time could fix it, and he wondered how he lost everything, how he ended up here – with nothing.
Without you.
▶️ Chapter 12: You’re Not Just a Man, You’re a Monument!
Did you think it'd go down like this? Did you enjoy getting Ben's side of things? Because we're far from done. Next week we get glimpses into Ben's life, starting with the serum and ending with what caused his downfall a little in the 80s 👀
And for a little fun: What was your favorite reader historical story? Punching Freud? JFK? 🤣
Coming Up:
Ben caught a look between the two of them – barely a glance but enough. It was the kind of exchange scientists made when they’d seen what had come before – when they were still pretending the next experiment might not end the same way.
“The serum rewrites you,” Frederick explained proudly. “Not just your body. It makes you what you should have been. The best version.”
Ben looked down at his hands again, trying to control the tremble. “Sounds like a lot of poison for something that’s supposed to help.”
“Poison can be medicine,” Klara stated. “If you survive it.”
Frederick continued flipping pages like he hadn’t just described a dozen men dying on his table. “You’ll undergo rapid metabolic overhaul. Tissue degeneration followed by cellular regeneration. And yes, there will be pain. But afterward, you will have capabilities beyond conventional human limits.”
“How much pain?” Ben asked.
“Enough,” Klara replied. “But you’ll be stronger after. Think of it like being melted down and poured into a new mold. Like steel.”
Ben swallowed hard. “And if the mold doesn’t hold?”
Frederick smiled as if he’d made a joke. “Then you’ll have done your country a great service, young man.”
Ben was quiet for a moment. “You believe this can win the war?”
Frederick nodded surely. “Oh, it will end the war.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Klara said, voice almost gentle. “To become the kind of man who can’t be ignored anymore. You’ll never feel weakness again.”
I cried. I screamed. What happened to her!?!? How did her extended time travel trip affect her!? Is she truly that manipulative and nothing mattered back then!? But that doesn’t make any sense!
On to the next chapter cause my head is spinning! Loved the Ben POV!
Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ for language, attempted assault & smut, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says BYE, SB being a nice and kind human, a bit of humor, fluff, a lot of exes, heavy dose of angst
Word Count: 11.0k
Posted on Patreon May 3, 2025
A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys! Baby boy was not cooperating with me at all this week lol. Ready to say goodbye? Deep breaths, babes 😘
✨ Chapter title comes from Casablanca (1942)
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 10: Here's Looking at You, Kid
The kitchen of the mansion had always run on the domestic diplomacy of Dottie’s sharp tongue, the tireless shuffle of Florence’s feet, and the way Frances could carry an entire roast duck, a tray of petits fours, and a silver bucket of ice without breaking a sweat or a smile.
Today was no different.
At half past noon, it was cooler in the kitchen. Not by much, not in July, but the oven heat was at least a familiar warmth compared to the rest of the house.
The room itself, however, was a whirlwind of flour and steam and shouted orders, while you were tucked into the corner by the island, looking marginally useful with a tray of unfrosted cupcakes in front of you and a star-tipped piping bag in your hands.
Earlier, you’d almost sliced a finger cutting strawberries – not that it would’ve done anything. You probably would’ve only broken the knife.
“Lord save us,” muttered Florence, snatching the bag from your trembling grip with all the grace of someone removing a stick of dynamite from a child. “You’re gonna frost the whole counter with that tremor in your hand.”
She wasn’t wrong.
At least, you looked nice. Your navy A-line dress was crisp, belted neatly at the waist with white that hinted at patriotism. You had even let Dottie do your hair that morning, which explained the intricate braid with a silky red bow in your locks.
Outside the windows, the grounds looked like a dreamscape – white tents rising like clouds against the green lawns, waitstaff in black and white bustling with trays like chess pieces, patriotic bunting draped across columns and fences, and a jazz trio already tuning up near the terrace.
One hour from now, the estate would be crawling with old money – Philadelphian coal royalty and their wives in fox furs and peep toes, oil barons from the Main Line, and of course, the Du Ponts.
“You’re gonna wear a hole in that chair if you keep fidgeting, honey,” Dottie teased, kneading dough with a firm grace that would make a ballerina blush.
“I’m not fidgeting. I’m merely… anticipating,” you replied and twisted your fingers in your lap some more.
“You’re anticipatin’ the way a turkey anticipates Thanksgiving,” Frances muttered with a snort, brushing egg wash over a tray of tiny apple pies.
“She’s calming her nerves, leave her be,” Florence threw in, icing cupcakes with practiced flicks. “I’d be twitchy too if half of Philadelphia came into my house with an eye on my man.”
Comforting.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Frances said instantly. “That dumb boy looks at her like he’s confusing her for oxygen.”
“Like a man lost in the dark sea, swimming toward a lighthouse,” Dottie added, smirking and proud of herself.
You groaned and tilted your head with narrowed eyes. “Why do I like you three again?”
“Because we know where the whiskey’s hidden, and we’ve seen you after two glasses,” Dottie sassed without missing a beat.
When Margaret then entered the kitchen, you didn’t jump, but you did straighten your spine like a schoolgirl waiting for inspection, even though she helped you pick out your dress and coached you as best as she could.
Ben’s mother wore a seafoam silk dress that did something devastating to her figure, her dirty blonde hair in a soft twist. Her peach lipstick even matched the carnations in the centerpieces.
“Oh, haven’t you been busy bees! Good Lord, it smells like Versailles in here,” Margaret said, grinning a little, waving at the heat. “Is there any air left, or did my husband’s ego suck it all up when he came downstairs this morning?”
Frances covered a laugh with a cough. Dottie didn’t even bother hiding hers.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” Florence said warmly, wiping her hands and giving Margaret a look that was almost sisterly. “You want coffee? Or a seat before you pass out in that dress?”
“Both, please,” Margaret sighed. “You’re a vision, Florence. I don’t know how you keep this place from collapsing into ash.” Her attention then swung to you, eyeing you with a raised brow. “Hiding, are we?”
“Obviously.”
Margaret gave you a gentle smile as she gracefully sat down across from you. “Well, you look lovely, dear. Terrified, but lovely.”
You gave her a wry smile. “I thought if I hid in here long enough, maybe the party would be over before I came out.”
“A clever plan,” she said, nodding. “Sadly, it’s no good. The vultures will circle either way.”
As you looked at her, you took note of the strain behind her green eyes as if she had suddenly aged thirty years over the last few days.
“How’s it been? Since he’s back.”
Margaret exhaled sharply. “Stifling. Determined to pretend his heart attack was merely indigestion. He leaves a film on everything like cigar smoke. Nothing like having a man who believes yelling is foreplay back in the house.”
You choked on your spit a little and coughed, not quite sure what to say. The last time the two of you had spoken about Ben’s father, she’d said she didn’t miss him at all.
It reminded you only too vividly of last night’s dream – a fight between Soldier Boy and Crimson Countess and apparently the last straw that made her give him up to the Russians.
And believe it or not, it had been about the fucking chimpanzee sanctuary. More specifically, how she wanted to hold this weirdly heartfelt musical for fucking apes.
And well, Soldier Boy thought it was the stupidest goddamn shit he’d ever heard. Yeah, of course he did because it was. But he didn’t have to be so mean about it:
“Christ, you’re gonna croon lullabies to a bunch of shit-flinging fleabags? Maybe you can teach ‘em to clap when you miss a note. Might be the only audience that don't fuckin’ boo you off stage.”
And God, how he would mock her singing!
“Listening to you sing’s like gettin’ kicked in the nuts by a donkey. Repeatedly. And the fuckin’ donkey still sounds better.”
“If screechin’ brakes and a goat had a baby, it’d still sound fuckin’ better than you.”
“When you hit those high notes, it’s like someone set a dumpster full of possums on fire.”
But the final nail in the icebox was this:
“Go build your little monkey circus, cooch. Maybe I’ll stop by and put ‘em out of their fuckin’ misery.”
Yup, no love lost there either.
Margaret then continued, your thoughts drifting back to her as her tone softened. “He invited the Du Ponts today. I’m sure you already know.”
“I do,” you said and almost chewed off your lower lip. “Any chance they might’ve succumbed to a house fire overnight?”
Margaret swallowed a laugh. “Unfortunately for all of us, no. The storm didn’t wash out those rats. And God knows no party of Richard’s is complete without some psychological warfare against his son. I’ve been preparing for this damn party like I’m heading into battle, not a celebration.”
You smirked a little, lifting a brow. “And what armor are you wearing under that dress? Chainmail?”
She laughed fully this time. “Only metaphorical. Though I did sharpen my wit and rehearse my contemptuous eyebrow.”
“That’s why I like you.”
“But you don’t have to worry about out a thing, dear,” she added and placed a comforting hand on your arm. “Your Benjamin wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.”
You arched an eyebrow. “Even if the pole had money wrapped around it?”
“He’d only use it to joust his father,” she retorted and sipped on her coffee with elegance.
The kitchen door then swung open with a creak and a flood of sun, and in walked the reason you hadn’t poisoned Richard Brooks’ scotch decanter yet.
Ben.
He was in a pristine white linen shirt rolled to the elbows, collar open, and navy slacks, the kind of casually perfect that makes your mouth dry. His hair was tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times already. He looked freshly laundered and stupidly handsome.
And very pleased with himself.
He scanned the kitchen like he was looking for you and instantly lit up when he spotted you by the counter. “George, I found her!” he called out through the door, but his sparkling apple green eyes stayed on you, grinning. “Wasn’t sure if you’d barricaded yourself in the icebox or climbed out the dumbwaiter.”
“I considered the dumbwaiter,” you muttered.
He strode straight toward you like you were magnetic, ignoring the polite chaos around him. He slipped an arm around your waist and kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then behind your ear.
Behind you, Dottie made a sound like she was gagging. Florence just kept frosting. Frances, always quiet, huffed softly under her breath – her version of a laugh.
And then, Ben got impatient and kissed you fully, fervently, and shamelessly in front of all four women. You squeaked against his lips, giggling.
“Benjamin Brooks!” Margaret gasped but stifled another laugh with a shake of her head.
“Mother.” Ben tipped an imaginary hat and smirked broadly. “Happy Independence Day.”
“Go get dressed, you scandalous boy,” she told him, shaking her head some more, but the smile on her face was undeniable.
“Already am,” he replied and then whispered in your ear, “Though I’d let you undress me again if you ask nicely.”
You lightly swatted his chest, cheeks flushing. “What are you even doing in here?”
“Why? Am I interrupting the coven meeting?” Ben grinned, his fingers trailing up and down your spine. “Figured I’d find you here when you weren’t in the shed. You do like to snack. Are you hiding?”
“Of course I’m hiding,” you replied.
“I should get back to work,” Margaret said, rising gracefully. “Try not to ravish each other where I can see it.”
“You’re no fun,” Ben called after her, still smirking like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I’m married to your father. Of course I’m no fun.”
Margaret then excused herself with another shake of her head and something about wrangling seating charts, dragging the staff with her so fast it was clearly a coordinated escape.
Ben then studied you for a moment, hands settling on your waist, thumb stroking the small of your back. You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest, letting yourself breathe.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked softly.
“No,” you said, eyes closed, inhaling his cologne like it carried memories you hadn’t even lived yet. “But I will be.”
“I’m not leaving your side today,” Ben said, kissing the top of your head. “Unless you push me into the pond.”
“No promises.”
He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The lawn behind the Brooks mansion glittered in patriotic spectacle – ribbons in red, white, and blue tied into neat bows on the ends of each table, floral arrangements exploding in bursts of carnations and white lilies, and American flags tucked into the centerpiece of every polished buffet cart and cocktail bar.
It was as if the entire backyard had been scrubbed and star-spangled for the sole purpose of impressing the crème de la crème of wartime Philadelphia.
The party was already in full swing: Servers weaved between groups of people with trays of champagne flutes and crystal bowls of chilled shrimp, there were monogrammed napkins on each table, and the band already played something jazzy beneath a striped canopy. The air smelled like rose water, cigars, and seven different kinds of expensive cologne under the burning July sun.
The guest list was curated – a mix of elite families with names older than the Constitution, sleazy politicians, and military brass.
And you? You were glued to Ben’s side, playing anthropologist among the gentry, clinging to his commentary like it was your first language.
His palm was splayed low on your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the silk of your dress, while he pointed out various names and whispered in your ear like a scandalous tour guide.
Because another thing he apparently shared with his mother – the love for high society gossip.
“See the guy with the side part and the fake war injury?” Ben leaned down toward your ear, his hand still snug and low on your back. “That’s Franklin Hughes. He’s been telling everyone he got shot in the shoulder in North Africa, but it was actually skeet shooting in the fucking Berkshires.”
You tilted your head, spotting a puffed-up gentleman shaking hands with Richard near the bar.
“And see that man in the seersucker with the cane? That’s Douglas Fitzroy. His daughter Audrey tried to climb into my lap at Easter when I was seventeen. I think she mistook it for a pony.”
You snorted into your champagne flute before noticing the curious stares of a few guests, mainly from a group of younger women by the buffet. You instinctively tightened your grip on Ben’s arm, even though your outfit gave the illusion that you belonged here as well – fake it till you make it.
You’d been on the Brooks lawn for all of thirty minutes and already counted at least six girls who looked like they wanted to push you into the nearest hedge.
“Over there, that’s the Carmichaels,” Ben continued joyously. “They own the distillery. He’s boring, and she’s more interested in the company of other women from what I’ve heard.”
“Ben!”
He chuckled at your little gasp and pecked your temple. Then his green eyes drifted across the lawn again. “Oh, uh, the girl by the fountain in the green dress? Don’t make eye contact with her. That’s Lucille Sinclair. I took her to prom once. She cried when I didn’t want to go steady.”
You frowned slightly, cocking an eyebrow. “Was this before or after you slept with her?”
He paused, scratching his throat. “During.”
“You’re awful.” You shook your head but couldn’t help the bubble of laughter. “How did you survive this long without getting clocked with a high heel?”
“I have quick reflexes.” He shrugged casually, then grinned that boyish smile again.
“Alright, so what’s the body count here, Brooks?” you asked, glancing around the lawn and still feeling those judgmental stares on you.
Ben played innocent. “How do you mean?”
“How many girls here have seen you naked?”
Ben nearly choked on his drink, then leaned down to murmur in your ear, “Statistically speaking, it’s best if you avoid speaking to anyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. Just to be safe.”
You snorted involuntarily. “That many?”
“Listen, I went through a very misguided Hemingway phase. Lots of brandy,” he retorted and then grinned again, completely unapologetic. “There was a time when I was very popular, alright? Rich, handsome, emotionally unavailable… I was basically catnip for that whole row of pearls over there.”
You followed his nod toward a row of young women near the garden steps, watching you with the kind of passive aggression that could only be bred in East Coast boarding schools.
“Besides,” he added, brushing his knuckles down your bare arm, “you’re the only one who ever told me no. And meant it.”
Jesus fucking Christ, this man…
You raised a brow, looking up at him. “Was that your idea of foreplay?”
Ben gave a sheepish twitch of his shoulders. “Look, my twenties were a bit of a blur.”
“You’re only twenty-three!”
“Which just means I’m still in my prime.” Ben smirked and wiggled his brows.
“Yeah, I have a feeling you’re gonna be in your prime for a while…”
“Thank you,” he said and looked so smugly gorgeous about it that you practically forgave him on sight.
“Not a compliment, Benjamin.”
You tried not to laugh, but it surfaced anyway, especially when he pulled you closer, forearm braced possessively against the small of your back like he wanted every silk-and-sequin heiress here to see exactly who you belonged to – or who he belonged to now.
And then, Ben grabbed you and pressed you up against a stone column wrapped in ivy, one hand firm on your hip, the other tangled in your hair as he kissed you senseless like he hadn’t just done the same thing five minutes ago. Or ten. Or twenty. You’d stopped counting.
“Feel what you do to me?” he whispered, grinding just enough for you to know. He kissed you again, rougher this time, fingers playing with the hem of your skirt. Then he smirked lazily. “Already picturing that dress on the floor, baby.”
“You are shameless. Stop it!” You made a noise between a gasp and giggle, slapping his chest again. “Every girl here already looks like she wants to light me on fire.”
“Correction,” Ben said, amused, “They want to light me on fire. You’re just collateral damage.”
Ah yes.
“Comforting,” you said out loud this time.
“You’re the only one here who matters, sweetheart,” he reassured you, cupping your cheeks, forehead touching yours. And then, his eyes flickered sideways for a split of a second. “Uh-oh. The Du Ponts have arrived.”
Cue the Imperial March…
You didn’t have to look. You felt it. The air changed, the sound warped, and everyone straightened just a little as the Du Ponts glided in like a parade of pearls and Protestant guilt. Grace, a fucking vision in silk white, was flanked by her parents.
And Ben? Well, he only kissed you again – one of those longer, deeper ones that curled your toes, lifted your head to the clouds, and made it clear he had no intention of being on his best behavior during this party.
“Well, isn’t that charming,” Grace’s shrill voice screeched behind you.
Ben didn’t turn around, finished his kiss with all the patience in the world. Then he sighed audibly against your neck, mouthed fuck’s sake, and slowly leaned back, finally twisting around – but only halfway. He didn’t let go of you. His hand remained steadily at your waist.
Then their eyes met, and you could feel Hell freeze over.
“Benjamin,” she said primly. “I see you’ve kept up your little… hobby.”
“Watch it,” he growled, shifting a little in front of you, not exactly shielding you but close. His fingers laced with yours automatically.
“I’m not a hobby, Grace,” you replied coolly, your thumb brushing over Ben’s knuckles to keep him calm.
Grace then looked at you – not like someone she’d only encountered once, but like someone she’d spent months privately raging about. Because she had. Ben’s so-called “phase” was supposed to have ended by now. And instead, here you were. Still next to him. Still touching him. Still making him look happy in a way Grace had never seen before.
“We’ve met, haven’t we?” she asked you like she didn’t fucking know, eyes flicking down to where Ben’s fingers were splayed possessively over your hip. “The tea room. I’m surprised you remembered my name.”
“Oh, I did,” you said with the sweetest smile. “It’s the same as the virtue you lack.”
Ben choked on a laugh, and Grace’s spine stiffened like someone had yanked it from above.
“I must’ve seen you two around town a dozen times this spring. Soda fountain, book store, even some little movie theater,” she said with venom in sheep’s clothing. “How… quaint.”
You arched a brow. “Are you making a fucking scrapbook?”
“I assumed it was just a bit of fun.” She ignored your quip, her smile curling like it hurt. “Aren’t you tired of pretending? After all, Benjamin isn’t known for his consistency.”
You took a casual sip of champagne. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s been pretty consistent with me… especially in bed.”
Grace blinked, smile dropped, looking like she choked on a pearl. Ben, on the other hand, coughed out a laugh that sounded downright gleeful.
Her eyes snapped to him with a coldness that exceeded Antarctica’s. “Your father invited me today. He still thinks you’ll come to your senses.”
“Really?” You smiled tightly. “I wouldn’t bet on it. See, his father can marry you two all he wants, your husband’s still gonna spend his wedding night with me.”
Grace’s face flushed a deep red. “I suppose some people cling to delusion when reality doesn’t suit them.”
You simply smiled again. “Exactly what I was thinking. Thank you.”
Grace didn’t respond straight away. Instead, she looked Ben over one last time, gaze dragging across the flush in his cheeks and the unmistakable impression of his hand on your waist.
Then she smiled – tight, sour, brittle. “Well. Enjoy the fireworks… while they last,” she bit and turned, stomping away with the stiff elegance of someone holding in a tantrum.
Ben let out a low whistle when she’d made it halfway across the garden again. “Christ.”
You glanced up at him – sheepish, innocent. “I was polite.”
Ben met your eyes, visibly impressed, a smile playing on his lips. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
You snorted a chuckle and took a sip from your drink. “Oh, honey, I’m pretty sure you’ll manage it eventually.”
Ben only smiled. That devastating, lazy smile that said he was exactly where he wanted to be. And then he kissed you – slow and possessive, like punctuation at the end of a sentence.
If the Brooks Fourth of July party had a theme, it wasn’t freedom, liberty, or the American dream. It was Richard. Richard Brooks – recovering heart attack survivor, self-declared titan of industry, and, as of today, Philadelphia’s most insufferable comeback story.
The lawn was full now – brimming with silk dresses and summer-weight suits, the clink of crystal glasses, and the low hum of political posturing disguised as pleasantries. The sun slanted through the trees in golden beams, but you were tucked under Ben’s arm in the shade as he charmed the hell out of some War Department colonel. Every so often, he dipped his head to murmur something wicked into your ear, and you laughed, leaned into him more. It was easy until–
A silver spoon clinked against a champagne flute.
The subtle hush that fell over the crowd wasn’t total, but enough that you heard Ben sigh under his breath.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Here come’s the resurrection speech.”
Richard Brooks stood at the head of the steps leading down to the garden, champagne flute raised, suit crisp and face composed in that particular brand of patriarchal smugness only men like him had patented.
“Friends, family, colleagues, esteemed guests,” Richard began, “what a joy to see you all gathered once again for our most cherished tradition.”
A smattering of polite applause followed.
“After my… brief medical interruption this spring, I’m pleased to report that steel doesn’t bend easy. I’ve recovered fully – stronger than ever – and I’m filled with clarity about what matters most. I have been reminded of how vital legacy is. How important it is to see the next generation step up, to carry our name with honor, with purpose. To host, to lead, to build.”
Next to you, Ben groaned under his breath.
“Mortality forces a man to ask: Who will carry the torch? Who will shoulder the mantle of responsibility, of excellence, of vision?” Richard continued, eyes flicking all too deliberately to his son. “I admit passing that mantle is no small task. One must consider not just bloodlines, but merit. Discipline. Readiness. This country rewards resolve. Focus. Clarity of purpose.”
You could practically hear Ben grinding his molars on top of your head.
“And while some among us are still… growing into the shape of that legacy,” Richard said, eyes narrowing now on you in Ben’s arms, “I remain optimistic. And next year, perhaps, we’ll be here not just to celebrate our country’s founding but a new union as well.”
The speech ended with polite applause. Richard basked in it, then descended the stairs with the force of a man who believed the world owed him something.
“I hate him,” Ben muttered.
“He’s practically announcing your engagement with an ellipsis,” you said, brow furrowing. It was almost a word-for-word reenactment of what Dottie had told you once. “Do we think there’s a wedding arch hidden behind the hedges?”
“Not funny,” Ben murmured.
You raised your champagne flute with a wry grin. “To your betrothal, honey. May it be fictional and short-lived.”
Ben eventually let out a snort of amusement and kissed your temple, pulling you closer. But the peace, love, and laughter didn’t last long. He barely had time to recover when Richard marched toward you two like a general surveying his troops, a man with a lapel pin in tow, and of course, Grace floated beside them like a victory prize on a parade float.
“That’s Senator Davis,” you whispered to Ben. “He’s a Republican, but he comes from a working class family and is a supporter of labor laws.”
Ben’s head whipped to you, brow knitting. “How do you know that?”
You shrugged. “I read.”
And then, the group stood before you, Richard and Grace flashing their fakest polite smiles, while Senator Davis looked annoyed at best and exhausted at worst.
Richard then placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder like a branding iron. “Senator, allow me to introduce my son, Benjamin. And this,” he gestured to Grace, “is Grace Du Pont. His fiancée.”
Ben sputtered. “Actually, I’m–”
“Soon to be,” Richard steamrolled. “It’s only a matter of formality. You know how young people are. Always delaying what’s inevitable. But these two? Perfectly matched. Old family. Solid values.”
“Huh.” The senator looked unimpressed by the theatrics, and you knew why.
Know your fucking audience, Dick.
Then Richard turned his chin slightly toward you, almost as if noticing a passing servant. “This is one of the staff assisting the event. Would you be a dear and bring the senator a refill?”
You opened your mouth before noticing Ben was seconds away from losing it.
“She’s not–” Ben started but stopped when you gently placed a palm on his arm.
“It’s okay. Let Daddy have his narrative,” you whispered to him with a wink and then turned to the senator and Richard with the brightest smile. “Of course! I’ll be right back with your drink, sir.”
Grace looked smug and triumphant as hell as she watched you beeline to the bar – but not for fucking long.
Pause.
You stretched your neck, cracked your knuckles. Time suspended and turned the party scene into a Norman Rockwell painting as you swayed easily like a breeze through a garden full of statues.
Waiters paused mid-step. A glass in mid-pour. A hand in mid-toast.
With a diabolical smirk, you let your fingertips graze the fabric of Grace’s white dress before tugging her hem just slightly under the tip of the cupcake stand’s leg.
Oh, this will be fun, Puck said. This party needed a breath of chaos.
You moved on to the delicately balanced champagne tower and nudged the base with a touch. Just enough to make it precarious.
And then, well, your eyes spied Betty Vanderbilt, reaching for a glass near Grace.
Not resisting the mischievous urge, you took a creative liberty and rearranged her path ever-so slightly. You then grabbed a drink for the senator, took a deep breath, and forced the most innocent smile. Angels didn’t wear halos as brightly as you.
And Play.
The scene resumed, and in a few gloriously chaotic seconds, your plan unfolded.
Betty tripped forward and crashed into Grace like a missile. Champagne flutes shattered like glass rain, the toppling tower cascading over Grace’s head in a vintage baptism of golden bubbles. She twisted, staggered, and slammed backward into the cupcake table, ass-first into a heap of patriotic-themed frosting.
“You absolute cow!” Grace shrieked, scrambling to her feet with blue frosting in her eyelashes and a dripping white dress doused in champagne.
“You ran into me, you viper!” Betty huffed, dusting off her dress.
“You’ve been jealous since Benjamin picked me!”
Betty’s eyes flashed. “Picked you? Sweetheart, Ben sampled the tasting menu! I wasn’t the only one. There was a goddamn waitlist!”
Grace lunged. Betty grabbed a champagne bottle like a club. Frosting flew. A small child screamed. Someone’s shoe caught on fire (unclear how). One of the band members dove under a table. You hadn’t even meant for it to get this out of hand, but now that it had?
Delicious.
Next to the senator and Ben, Richard stood frozen in absolute horror, watching the chaos unfold like a man watching his stocks crash in real time.
That was when you decided to return with the sweetest smile.
“Senator, here’s your drink–,” you started and then stopped, feigning a gasp as you clasped your chest with the outrage of a fine lady. “Oh my! What’s going on here?”
Speechless, Ben blinked like he regretted a few decisions again. “Uh…”
Senator Davis took one slow, disapproving glance at Grace, dripping with champagne and rage, before turning to Richard. “Charming girl,” he said dryly. “But not quite the picture of grace, is she?”
Richard’s face turned to stone.
And then, Ben finally stepped forward, pulling you gently and proudly to his side. “Senator, I’m sorry about the chaos. Please allow me to introduce my actual girlfriend.”
Richard’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then clenched shut.
Senator Davis took your hand. You straightened your shoulders and gave him a warm, practiced smile.
“Pleasure, sir,” you said cheerfully. “I read The Iron Puddler when I was sixteen. Made me feel like grit still counted for something, even if you didn’t come from money.”
Davis blinked in surprise but then gave you the warmest smile upon the mention of his cherished autobiography. “Well now, that’s a fine thing to hear. I wrote that book hoping some kid out there’d believe they didn’t need a silver spoon to make it,” he said, sending Richard a look. “That’s worth more to me than a good poll number. I wrote it for folks like you. People can either be defined by their circumstances or use those very circumstances to shape their future. It’s the essence of the American spirit, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely agree, Senator. It hit me like a thunderbolt, sir,” you continued your flattery. “Reminded me that being poor doesn’t mean you’re powerless.”
The senator chuckled happily. “That's all I was hoping for – one person to believe in the long shot. You’ve got fire. I like that. Just don’t go running against me,” he joked with a wink.
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. I’m not planning on running against you,” you said, giggling, and then placed your hand on Ben’s chest, cheekily nodding toward him, “But he might. He’s not one to rely on anyone else’s legacy either. He’s determined to carve out his own path.”
Ben smiled wryly, shooting a glance at his father. “She makes sure I don’t take a single thing for granted, sir.”
“Then you’ve got a good woman and better sense than most in your tax bracket, son,” Davis replied, laughing.
Ben laced his hand with yours and brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “She’s the reason I’ve come this far. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“Some think wealth is something you pass down like an heirloom. But there’s something to be said for building something yourself. If ever you two need support, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’ve always believed that anyone with the drive to build something of their own deserves a hand up, not a handout.” Senator Davis then turned to Ben’s father with a smile that was a little too polished. “You’ve raised a fine son with a strong head on his shoulders, Mr. Brooks. It’s rare to see someone so committed to building from the ground up, especially when he’s got the option to take an easier route. It’s commendable. And with someone like her beside him, well, I’d say he’s well-positioned for success.”
Richard looked like he’d bitten through his cigar and someone had drained the bourbon from his blue bloodstream.
And you? You looked up at Ben, grinning smug as hell. “I think I just officially became your father’s nemesis. Should we get out of here before he bursts a vessel?”
“Before you get caught in the crossfire, yes.” Ben chuckled and tugged you away before his father could combust.
The afternoon had been a blur of sunshine, laughter, and clinking glasses. As the day wore on, the party shifted to something quieter and drunker, strings of lanterns beginning to glow against the falling dusk.
You never left Ben’s side, charming every congressman and colonel alike with a trained laugh. You’d made yourself indispensable.
You only slipped away for a moment, excusing yourself inside to the powder room. You smoothed out your skirt, washed away the sticky remnants of stolen cupcakes, and applied a new coat of lipstick since most of it had landed on Ben at this point.
On your way back to the garden, the empty mansion echoed faintly with distant music and laughter from outside. And then there he was:
Richard Brooks was already waiting, posted by the doorway to his study like a vulture smelling fresh meat.
“Miss,” he said, not even bothering to finish your name. “Inside. Now.”
“I was just heading back to the party,” you said, forcing a polite smile.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he said and opened the door with one hand and stepped back, waiting like a man who never heard the word no.
You walked past him, breath shallow, pulse fluttering like a caged bird. And then it was just you, Richard Brooks, and the scent of whiskey and old power clinging to the room like rot.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, absentmindedly pouring himself a glass of bourbon. “Making friends. Charming donors. Wiggling your way in like a parasite.”
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. Careful. Controlled. “What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Brooks?”
“I want to make this very simple,” he said, stepping closer with the slow gravity of a man used to the world bowing to him. “You want money? I’ll give you money. You walk away from my son. Tonight. I don’t care where you go, but you disappear. And in return, I’ll write you a check large enough to make sure you never have to get your hands dirty again.”
The heat crawled up your chest. You scoffed a disbelieving laugh. “I’m not for sale.”
“You are. You just don’t know your price yet,” he said and took a long sip from his drink, staring at you like you were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s the game plan? Stick around long enough to get a ring? Or were you hoping for a baby first? Anchor him down, ruin his life properly.”
Your throat went dry. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m realistic,” he snapped. “You think I don’t know your type? You think he’s the first boy with a bleeding heart and a hard-on?”
“Go to hell,” you bit through gritted teeth.
“Oh, don’t play coy now. It’s unflattering. You’ve wrapped yourself around my son like ivy around stone, hoping no one notices what you’re choking.” Richard tilted his head with a smirk, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Don’t think I haven’t seen girls like you before. Pretty. Starved. Sharp enough to keep your legs crossed until the stakes are high enough to spread them. How long did you hold out before you gave my son what he wanted?”
“I love Ben,” you said fiercely.
But Richard only scoffed a humorless laugh, amused. Condescending. His trademark. “Please, let’s not pretend for a second this is love. You needed someone to pick you up off the street, and he was stupid enough to do it. He’s always had a weakness for broken things. He likes the way you moan. That’s it. You’re not the first little stray to wander into our lives, after all.”
Your blood ran cold, skin crawling. “Fuck you.”
“You’re a pretty little thing for a gutter rat. I’ll give you that. Voice like honey, mouth like sin, decent pair of legs…” He stalked forward, sneering.
You took a step back. “Stay away from me.”
“Why?” He smiled, all teeth like a shark. “You’re fine letting my son put his hands all over you. Why not me? I could make it worth your while. Why waste your charms on a boy who’s still wet behind the ears when you could have the man who built everything he’s trying to give you?”
“Don’t,” you warned sharply, hands balling into fists.
He only laughed darkly and took another step toward you, eyes raking you up and down like a lion circling. “Oh, come on. You’re not shy when it’s him.”
And then, his fucking hand came down – bold, calloused fingers grazing your hip like they had every right.
Goddammit!
Like father, like son, like fucking grandson.
But it was his grave mistake to underestimate you.
Your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist like iron, body moving faster than your brain. You didn’t squeeze at first. Just let him feel the pressure. Enough to make him flinch.
“I suggest you take your hand off me,” you said, sharp as a razor. “Now.”
Then you squeezed. Not enough to break bone, but enough to make his knees buckle. Enough to make him gasp, to panic, to understand that something was very wrong. He tried to pull back, but you didn’t let him.
On the inside, you were terrified. Because for a blink of an eye, you didn’t know how this would end.
“What the hell–” His eyes widened, choking out a strangled sound. “You–… what are you–… You’re–… you’re a goddamn–”
Jesus fuck, please don’t say it.
“–witch!”
Shit. Not again. Why did this keep happening to you?
But this time, you used it to your advantage, leaning in closer with a fearsome snarl. “That’s right, you little Puritan shit. Be fucking scared because if you ever touch me again, Florence will be picking pieces of you out of this leather chair till 1953.”
His blue eyes narrowed as the pain set in. “You crazy little–… Let go of me!”
“Dad?”
Ben’s voice shattered the moment. He froze in the doorway, scanning the room in sharp confusion – his father’s disheveled state, your tense shoulders – and that’s when he saw it. The panic on your face. Your body trembling like a leaf in a storm. Your eyes wet, wild, and locked on the floor like if you looked up, it would all come crashing down. His gaze flicked from you to his father’s twisted face down to the wrist you were still gripping tightly.
That was when you finally snapped out of it and dropped it like it burned you.
Richard yanked his arm away, cradling his wrist like it had been caught in a bear trap. His face was red. His eyes burned.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” Ben asked, brow furrowed.
“I–… Ben, I didn’t–… He–” The words tangled. You’d never stammered in front of Ben before. But this moment wasn’t built for composure. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, ready to crack them on impact.
Richard stumbled back, face contorted with both rage and humiliation, painting on a mask. “She assaulted me. The girl’s hysterical. Look at her! She’s not right in the head.”
Your stomach turned. Your heart dropped. “That’s not what happened, you fucking–”
“She came onto me,” Richard continued, fully drilling his gaze into Ben now like a basilisk. “Started touching me. Got handsy when I told her it wasn’t happening. You really think she’s with you for you, son?”
But Ben didn’t look at him. Not once. His glassy emerald eyes stayed on you. It seemed like he wasn’t even listening to his father. He came closer to you, touched your cheek with a gentleness that almost broke you.
Because he believed you. Because he knew you. Every inch of you.
“Did he touch you?”
You swallowed hard, biting back the stinging tears in your eyes, but you gave him the weakest nod. Silent.
And that was all it took. Something in him snapped.
“You bastard fucking touched her?!”
“Ben, don’t,” you tried to intervene carefully, keep the situation from escalating. You wanted to pull Ben back. Wanted to beg him not to do this. Not to ruin everything for you.
“Watch your goddamn tone, son!” Richard warned, seething with anger. “She’s clearly lying!”
Ben was on his father in a heartbeat, shoving him roughly against the closest bookshelf, hard enough to rattle a few leather-bound works off the shelves.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!”
“Spare me the dramatics,” Richard said, snorting. “The girl’s been in your bed for weeks. What’s the difference?”
“She’s not yours,” Ben growled.
Richard laughed loudly. “Don’t tell me you actually think this is love, son. You barely know her. You think she’ll stick around once the lights go out? She’s using you. You’ll see it eventually. They always leave. She’ll leave too. She’ll take everything, drag your name through the mud, and walk away. You can dress it up any way you want, boy, but at the end of the day, she’s just your whore.”
Ben’s fist slammed into the sideboard with a thunderous crack. The lamp wobbled. You flinched and tentatively placed your hand on his arm. You could feel how fast his heart was beating, could feel your own panic ratcheting higher.
“Ben, don’t,” you whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Please, just… don’t.”
But Ben didn’t let go of his father or look at you. Not yet. His hand gently pushed against your shoulder to shift you aside. Out of harm’s way.
“Say one more word about her and I’ll make sure it’s your last in this goddamn house,” he threatened, voice more thundering than the summer storm brewing outside the study’s windows.
Richard only scoffed, shaking his head and smoothing out his dress shirt as Ben’s grip finally loosened, hands falling to his sides. “Christ on a cross, don’t romanticize this. What, you’re calling it love because she spread her legs?”
“Fuck you,” Ben spat.
Fuck you.
Something clicked. You stood frozen behind him, heart pounding, lungs too tight to fill, brain buzzing like a bee hive. Somewhere behind your ribs, where your mind met the deeper currents of knowing, a ripple moved through your sense of reality, subtle but cold. That gnawing, familiar feeling was back, a persistent hypothesis creeping with it this time.
What if–… No, it can't be.
Maybe you were never steering anything. Maybe all you’d done was arrive exactly on cue.
“I’m marrying her,” Ben announced, straight to his father’s face and ripping you out of your chalkboard theories.
The silence was only interrupted by thunder roaring outside, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if it wasn’t just the sound of your heart exploding. Like Oppenheimer was throwing a goddamn trial run in your chest.
“No, you’re fucking not,” Richard bit like it was an order his son was supposed to obey.
“I am,” Ben stood steadfast, his deep voice unwavering. “Tonight, if I have to.”
“Benjamin–”
Ben cut in firmly, bristling. “I will not let you lay another finger on her. I will not let you speak to her. I will not even let you goddamn look at her.”
“She is nothing but a broken little–”
“She is mine,” Ben snapped. “I’m done. I’m leaving with her right now. And I’m never coming back. Keep your money and your legacy. Choke on it for all I care.”
“You’re deluded. You’re not thinking clearly. You’ll regret this, son. Trust me,” Richard continued spewing.
But Ben had already turned his back on his father. He took your hand. His grip was tight. Sure.
“Let’s go,” he said to you, voice softer now.
Your legs felt numb. Your body still shook, muscles twitching.
“Ben, are you sure? What if–”
He stilled for a heartbeat, then turned to you fully, and all you could see was the devotion glistening in his eyes. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
You couldn’t stop the tears this time. Not from fear. Not from anger. Not from worry. But because it felt like you were fucking drowning.
Ben walked out of the study without another word, your hand safely in his.
But the adrenaline clung to your skin. You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know what came next. All you knew was that the man at your side had just set his life on fire.
For you.
Your heart hammered more furiously than the thunder cracking outside as Ben dragged you down the familiar maze of dark hallways, the tapestry blurring in your vision, Richard’s voice still ringing in your ears, but your hand still in Ben’s. His grip was so tight it would’ve probably hurt anyone else, but you still didn’t let go.
Lightning slashed white across the windows as Ben yanked open the double doors to the drawing room. You stumbled through after him, still trembling, still trying to catch your breath, still tasting bile.
And then you heard her voice.
“Benjamin?”
Ben stopped cold. You nearly collided into his back.
Margaret Brooks stood by the piano in her seafoam party dress, and she wasn’t alone – Dottie, quiet as a shadow, hovered just behind her, holding a tray of empty glasses and an anxious expression. Margaret’s eyes locked on her son, then on you – disheveled, breathless, teary-eyed, your hand still clutching Ben’s like a buoy out at sea.
And she knew.
She didn’t say how. Didn’t ask. She just stepped forward slowly. “What did he do?”
Ben’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. His shoulders shook with the effort not to go back and punch a hole in the study wall. He squeezed your hand, fury still radiating off him in waves. You could feel the heat of it in your skin, in your chest, in the way your heartbeat hadn’t slowed since you’d dropped his father’s wrist.
Margaret nodded once. “I see.” Then she turned to Dottie. “Get my travel case and that stack of twenties I keep behind the dressing screen. Hurry.”
Dottie vanished without a word.
“I should’ve burned this whole place to the ground years ago,” Margaret muttered, eyes flicking toward the stormy window before they landed back on you and Ben. “But if I can’t walk out, at least you two can.”
Margaret’s expression softened as she looked at you. She touched your cheek – light, maternal. It made your throat tighten. “You know, dear, after that first dinner, I knew you were the one person in this house who couldn’t be bought or bullied. Which means you’re exactly who he needs,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You make him happy. I haven’t seen him smile like that since he was ten years old. Don’t let him forget how to. You take care of my boy. He’s a pain in the neck, but he’s got a good heart.”
You nodded, fighting tears, too choked up to speak.
The thunder rumbled low and mean outside the windows, a distant growl growing steadily closer. You could hear voices echoing down the halls, servants ushering guests indoors as the storm rolled in. The party was no longer spilling across the lawn – people were beginning to trickle into the ballroom, clinking glasses and polite laughter rising in the wake of the approaching downpour.
Then, without a word, Margaret slipped off the massive diamond ring on her left hand and pressed it into Ben’s palm. The thing was a glacier – ornate, heavy, and stunning. He stared down at it like it might explode.
“What–, uh… You-, uhm, you want me to propose with this?”
She snorted humorlessly, shaking her head. “Good God, no, Benjamin! That thing is cursed. Only ever got two decades of eternal misery out of it. For God’s sake, don’t put that on her finger,” she retorted and cupped her son’s cheeks, looking into his eyes intently. “But it’s worth a fortune. Pawn it. Use it to buy her a ring. And maybe something with a roof and plumbing, yes?”
Ben nodded slowly in her palms, brow so intensely furrowed you wouldn’t be surprised if those creases stayed permanently.
“I’ve waited twenty-three years to say this: You are nothing like that man, and I am so proud of you for it, Benjamin,” she whispered and kissed his forehead.
Ben froze and shut his eyes, swallowing hard, and you could see what it did to him – the quiet devastation of a son who’d waited his whole life to hear those words and never believed he would.
“There’s no time to argue. Go to the stables at the edge of the property. No one goes there this time of night. Not in this weather. Use the old servant path past the orchard. You remember it, Ben,” Margaret said.
“I do,” Ben replied, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“I’ll tell your father you stormed off after a tantrum. He’ll believe that. He always underestimated your spine.”
Ben gave a bitter huff.
“I’ll never forgive him for what he did to you,” Margaret added, directed at you both. “But I can still help fix the ending.”
Dottie reappeared then, out of breath, carrying a small overnight suitcase and an armful of coats. Outside, the thunder roared louder, closer, the wind howling like something unholy.
Ben pulled you close, holding the suitcase in one hand and your waist in the other. You both followed Dottie, quick and silent, down the servants’ corridor toward the back door that led out to the garden path.
Dottie cracked the door open, looking left and right. “Coast is clear.”
Rain pounded against the roof now, soaking the porch as soon as you stepped outside. Cold, blinding sheets of it. You gasped as it hit you, but Ben just held the coat over your head and guided you through the downpour, across the gravel, past the hydrangeas whipping in the wind.
And then you ran.
The rain chased you two down the hill like hounds nipping at your heels, slamming the world into a blur, thunder cracking like the earth itself was breaking apart. You sprinted across the lawn, mud splashing under your shoes, lightning streaking white through the clouds and splitting the sky. Your pulse hammered loud in your ears, but the questions and doubts were even louder.
By the time you reached the stables at the far end of the property, your clothes clung to you like a second skin, chilling your muscles to ice. Rain pelted down, cold and hard, stinging your cheeks and numbing your fingers. Thunder roared across the sky like a cannon, drowning out your breathless sobs and the frantic beat of your heart.
Ben pushed the heavy barn door open with his shoulder, glancing back at the dark outline of the mansion once before ushering you inside. You stumbled in after him, dripping, shaking, soaked straight through to your bones. The door slammed shut on creaking hinges behind you, muting the storm to a low, feral growl. The scent of hay, horses, and damp wood filled your lungs.
Panic curled tight in your ribs, sharper than the cold. You didn’t know where to go, what to do. The walls felt too narrow, the future too wide.
“Why didn’t you just tell him to go fuck himself?”
“Ha, I imagine that would’ve probably gone over well…”
You grabbed a beam to steady yourself, rainwater dripping down your back, your throat closing around a sound you couldn’t name. You were breathing too fucking fast.
For a moment, everything was pitch black. Ben fumbled along the wall, fingers brushing until he yanked a brass hanging lantern from a hook on the wall and flicked it on. The low golden light washed over his face, catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the soaked, wild mess of his hair.
He then stopped short in the middle of the barn, hands braced on his hips, chest rising and falling beneath his drenched dress shirt. He looked around quickly – assessing, scanning the space like he could plan ahead, like he could solve everything if he just stared hard enough.
“This’ll do for the night,” he muttered, half to himself. “We’ll figure out where to go in the morning. I can sell the ring, get us on our feet. Just need-… need a plan.”
You wrapped your arms around yourself, dripping, freezing, too full of emotion to speak. The high beams above you groaned with the wind, lightning flashing blue and white through the gaps in the slats.
Ben then finally turned to you, his chest still heaving, hair plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched with fury and adrenaline. His eyes found yours instantly, and something in them softened. He stepped forward, closing the space between you, rainwater dripping from his lashes. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing rain off your cheeks like you were made of glass.
“You okay?”
You nodded in his palms but shivered, too.
“Did he–” He bit his lips harshly, another surge of anger rumbling through him. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. No, nothing like that,” you replied, quickly shaking your head. “Just scared me. I stopped him before anything could happen.”
Ben pulled you flush against him then, arms coming around you and holding you tight. He rested his chin on top of your head.
“How did you even do that? I mean, you’re–”
Small. Weak. Fragile. A woman.
Whatever it was, he stopped before he said it.
“I’m not soft.”
“Prove it.”
“I wouldn’t hesitate to go back in time and fucking kill you!”
“Oh, you can certainly try, sweetheart.”
Your heart battered your ribcage. You swallowed heavily. “Oh, uh, adrenaline… I guess. Didn’t really think about it.”
“Right, yeah… Good,” Ben said, but you weren’t quite sure he believed you fully this time. “I should’ve gotten there sooner. Never shoulda left your side at all. I promised you I wouldn’t, but I–”
“Hey, hey, no…” You looked up at him, seeing the thunder-lit fury in his emerald gaze. You cupped his jaw, rough and sharp beneath your gentle palms. “It’s not your fault, okay? You got there. You believed me. It’s all that matters.”
“I shoulda known. Shoulda put him through a fucking wall,” he gritted, muscles shaking under your touch. “I’ll never forgive him for what he tried to do. We’re done with him. With all of it. Just you and me, alright? We’ll make it work.”
Your grip faltered. The words scraped at the raw, unsure part of you. That feeling was back. Stronger. Not even a feeling at all anymore – just truth. A fact you didn’t want to believe in like God.
“Look, while you were away, I talked to Hardwick again. He said he might have something for me. Pays well,” Ben said, and your heart slowed for the first time that day – not for a good reason, though.
“The army general?”
“Yeah, he said we wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. Said we’d be taken care of.”
Your mind flashed with the next lightning strike. Your lips pressed into a tight lines, the creases on your brow even tighter. “What-, uh, what exactly did he say?”
“What does it matter?” Ben looked at you in confusion, probably for the same reason he always had – protecting you.
He had it handled. There was no need for you to worry.
“Just tell me,” you still insisted.
Ben exhaled a small sigh through his nose but relented like he always did, too. “He said they found some scientists in Germany or something. Said it might take a couple more months, though. Maybe years. But they’d take care of us now. Recruit me… or whatever. Said something about paperclips…”
“Ben–” You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep breath.
“What?”
Don’t get frustrated with him, you reminded yourself. He doesn’t know.
“Did he maybe say Operation Paperclip?”
Ben nodded slowly, forest green eyes flickering. “Yeah, I guess. How d’you know?”
“I-… Your father’s golf buddies talked about it today.”
Yeah, you had listened to that conversation very intently. From what you’d gathered, they’d found out about Frederick Vought’s existence, discovered his plans for Nazi super soldiers, and heard about first trials in camps. Only casualties, no successes. But you knew there’d be one, eventually. Then two. No contact made yet. But that would happen as well.
You were sure about history, weren’t you?
“Hey, look at me,” Ben’s deep voice pulled you back. His thumbs brushed your throat, hands locked around your neck, forehead pressed against yours. “We’ll be okay, I promise you.”
But you couldn’t believe him. Not anymore.
“Ben, wait–”
His lips crashed against yours, tasting of rain and relief. His kiss was desperate. Hard. Addicting. You stumbled back from the force of it, your spine hitting the barn door, wood wet and splintering beneath your soaked clothes.
And you kissed him back just as fervently.
His hands buried in your hair, your ribs, your thighs – anywhere he could touch, like he had to grip every inch of you because he didn’t trust the world not to rip you away.
And you clung to him, shaking, breathless, heart breaking.
“You’re it for me,” he rasped between rougher kisses. “You understand? There’s no one–… There’s nothing else.”
And you never stopped him.
Your legs wrapped around him, massive hands clawing at your ass like you clawed into his broad shoulders. His knuckles brushed up your thighs, dragging your soaked dress higher and higher and higher. Your mind went higher with it.
You whimpered as his fingers shoved your panties aside, his touch rough, reverent, rampant. Yours was desperate, desecrating, despondent as you fumbled at his slacks, unbuckling just enough.
The thunder outside barely hammered louder than your own heart.
“Oh, c’mon! One song. How about something from the fucking 80s? Like Cyndi Lauper! I’m sure you’d like that, huh?”
He pushed into you in one fierce, unrelenting thrust. The oxygen left your lungs in a choked cry, and he filled your lungs with his next kiss. Devoured you like he was trying to crawl into your very skin to stay.
Your fingers dug into his back, twisted the soaked fabric of his shirt in your dying grip. He groaned your name like it undid him, heavy head falling to your shoulder as he held you there, his body shuddering with the force of it.
“I’ve never lo–” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t breathe.
And you couldn’t either.
The thunder growled above you like a warning, the storm outside only amplifying the chaos inside you. He moved again, and you whimpered, overwhelmed by the pressure, the stretch, the maddening, soul-breaking closeness.
“You’re it. You’re everything,” he groaned, thrusting harder, rhythm gone to ruin.
And you were shaking.
From the cold, from the heat, from the whiplash of fear and want and love and devastation. You didn’t know which part was louder – the terror of what came next, or the ache to fall apart in his arms and stay there forever.
Ben kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your eye where a tear escaped.
His thrusts grew messier, less controlled. One hand gripped the door beside your head, the other wrapped tight around your waist, grounding you. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did.
And still, you tried to carve something real out of the ruin.
Your body moved with his, dizzy with need, lost in him. Every thrust was a promise. Every breathless, broken word was a vow.
“How about something a little slower… Time After Time! That’s fucking perfect for you!”
“Ben–”
“I’ve got you. I’ve always got you, sweetheart. That’s it,” he growled, his rhythm stuttering as your body clenched around him.
You could barely keep up with the half-incoherent words spilling from him. Desperate, beautiful nonsense. Confessions torn from the back of his throat.
And all you could do was feel him – thick and hard, and so deep, it hurt, it ached, it mattered.
Ben never saw the spiral in your eyes. Didn’t feel the tremble in your hands as panic and desire collided like fire and gasoline. He drove into you with every ounce of desperation he felt – relentless and bruising, as if only he went deep enough, hard enough, he could stay inside you forever.
And your hips rocked against his, chasing the edge together and outrunning everything else.
“Led Zeppelin, huh?”
“Yeah, I got it for my twenty-fifth birthday. I went to Zeppelin’s first tour in 1969. Only wear it on special occasions.”
“Oh, yeah, right… Happy fucking birthday, I guess.”
You loved him. You bit down on his shoulder as you came, cried out his name and everything else. It tore through you – sharp, electric, wild. Your head fell back against the door, body tight and shuddering in his hold, letting the rain on the tin roof drown out the war in your heart, you wished you could Pause right here.
But you didn’t stop time. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t stop yourself.
You kissed his temple. His jaw. His mouth. You held him tighter than you ever had.
And you were losing him.
Your name fell from his lips, wrecked and worshipful at once. He buried himself as deep as he could go – one broken thrust, one strangled moan, one bruising grip on your ice-cold skin, spilling into you, thick and hot.
The world was still for a moment till your mind screamed through the haze.
“That’s a closed loop. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, I think it fucking does…”
“Marry me,” Ben murmured through the patter of rain, barely coherent, barely audible. It was a whisper, rough and low. Not a grand declaration. Not some dramatic plea. Just two words spoken into the hush of the barn, forehead resting against yours, his breath still ragged.
And your eyes snapped open.
You felt it more than heard it, like your whole world had just shifted a few inches sideways. His eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and there was something in his gaze that leveled you more than anything else had tonight.
“I mean it. Marry me,” he repeated, louder this time. Firmer. Surer. He swallowed thickly. “I love you. I know I should’ve said it before. It’s not because I didn’t feel it. I did. I do. I just-… I never knew how. You make me feel things I don’t know what to do with. You always have.”
And tears welled in your eyes, but not for the reason he thought. He didn’t know how much loving you would ruin.
But he kept going, hope laced in every word. “This isn’t a mistake. I’ve been sleepwalking through my whole goddamn life and then you–… you showed up like a fucking miracle, sweetheart. And suddenly I know what I want. I want you.”
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. You just stared up at him, trying to find footing on ground that didn’t exist.
And your legs loosened around him before you even realized you were doing it, letting him slip out of you, soaked dress clinging to your skin.
A half-step. A breath of space.
His eyes flashed with hurt and confusion. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you saying anything? Why are you pulling back?”
“I-… I just need a minute,” you managed to push out, head dizzy, barn spinning. “Why would you do this…” you muttered to yourself, not meaning for Ben to hear, but he did.
You weren’t talking about him, though. Soldier Boy.
“Do what? Don’t you want to? I thought-… I thought you loved me, too.” His brow furrowed, trying to understand something he never could.
“No, I-… I mean, I do. I love you, okay? God, I love you so much,” you assured him, your feet pacing frantically on hay and damp earth.
“Then what is it?” He was trying so hard to keep calm, but panic flashed behind his green eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He knew. He fucking knew.
“I just-… I need space. Please. I need… I need time, okay? To think,” you tried to explain, but your head was too convoluted to function, memories flooding your mind and drowning all coherent thoughts but one:
Why would he sent you here?
Ben’s jaw clenched. “Why do I feel like you’re running?”
“I’m not!” you cried, voice cracking, tears falling. “I’m not trying to run away from you.”
“Then what is it?” He stepped forward. “Is it something I did? Something I said? Just tell me–”
“I can’t!” you snapped, chest heaving. “I can’t tell you anything!”
He flinched like you’d slapped him. You were only making it fucking worse.
And you hated yourself for it.
“I need a second,” you whispered. “Just… give me a second. Please.”
And you bolted.
You didn’t wait for his answer. You stumbled toward the barn door and out into the rain, the storm swallowing you whole. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. You would’ve stopped if you did. The cold slapped you in the face. Mud squelched beneath your feet.
You ran behind the barn, to the side where the shadows swallowed everything. The wind ripped at your hair. You crouched behind the nearest tree, hands fisted in the wet bark, heart galloping, lungs seizing.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Okay, it’s fine. Just breathe. You can think. You can–”
But the storm was louder than your thoughts. Ben’s voice echoed faintly in the distance – your name, over and over again. Desperate.
And then that horrible, all-consuming pull unfurled from your spine, from the deepest part of you where time lived like a ticking bomb. Electricity surged up your arms. The world folded in.
Shit. Not now. Not ever.
But you were already gone.
▶️ Chapter 11: When You’re Slapped, You’ll Take It and Like It
Should we do a mental health check-in again? How are you holding up, loves? Was this the end to 1942 you've expected?
Hang in tight for Soldier Boy's POV next week. We're going back to the future 😉
Coming Up:
The scream came first. Feral, guttural, ancient. Something primal ripped from your throat like it had been building in your bones for eight fucking decades.
You snapped like a wire he’d strung too tight, lunged forward, and decked him clean across the jaw.
The punch snapped across his face, sharp and personal and full of all the fire he remembered. It cracked so loud, the room winced. You were a magnificent angel of vengeance.
God, he fucking missed you.
And Ben took the hit. Didn’t even try to block you. Knew he deserved it. Knew he had it fucking coming.
He staggered back half a step with a grunt, head snapping just slightly from the brutal force of it. Slowly, he turned back to face you, look at you, and then the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a smirk.
Smug. Cocky. Satisfied.
“There she is.” He grinned, then rubbed his jaw like it amused him, inspecting the ache with something between pride and admiration. “Actually fuckin’ felt that one. Good for you, sweetheart. Knew you had it in you.”
Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ for language & smut, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, sexism/feminism, angst, nightmares, Soldier Boy x Liberty/Stormfront (it hurt lol), heart attack, fluff and feels
Word Count: 13.8k
Posted on Patreon April 25, 2025
A/N: This one is purposefully long with a few small jumps as time goes by 😉 Basically a chapter with a lot of foreshadowing underneath and few heart-crushing lines (from Ben) to drive the dagger in real deep as we ramp up for the big one next week. Enjoy their nausea-inducing love while it lasts! 😘
✨ Chapter title comes from Casablanca (1942)
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 9: As Time Goes By
At first, there was only warmth.
Your body was curled against his, still cocooned in the afterglow of everything that had unfolded hours ago. The room smelled faintly of his cologne, spiced and clean, and of candlewax, tobacco, and sleep.
Somewhere down the hall, the old house creaked its bones. A radiator hissed. Ben breathed evenly beside you, his broad chest rising and falling with a peace you hadn’t seen on him until tonight.
You might’ve stayed there. You might’ve slept through until morning.
But time didn’t move in straight lines for you. And sleep? Well, it was never as safe as it should’ve been.
Chandeliers. Marble. Chrome. Velvet. It hit like a film reel catching fire.
The world spun sharp and artificial, dripping in gold and red like a club soaked in champagne and blood. Cigarette smoke curled in the air like snakes. It smelt like bourbon and perfume that cost more than rent. The room was closed off and quiet, shut off from everything else, but the faint sounds of jazz music and the hum of a party just going on outside those four walls drowned in.
You knew where you were. Time had a scent, your brain announcing the exact date like a conductor on a train ride informing you about the next stop.
1952.
And there he was.
Ben, a little older. Harsher. Shirt unbuttoned, hair slicked, jaw clean-shaven like a Hollywood star, sitting with his bow legs sprawled out and one arm slung around the back of a velvet chaise lounge like he owned the whole goddamn world.
His smile was all teeth – cold and calculated – and his sparkling green eyes didn’t hold softness, only amusement, like he was constantly bored and waiting to be impressed.
The woman beside him was draped over his shoulder like a mink. Dark-haired, cruel-mouthed, with a cigarette holder dangling between her fingers and a voice like glass shattering. She wore diamonds like knives and a red dress like a challenge. High cheekbones, hard eyes, a smirk like she’d stepped over graves in heels just to make a point.
You knew her, had seen her on the news and in temporal glimpses before. She was American by passport, but her blood sung of Reich-born purity. A survivor – not of war, but of ideology.
Your stomach twisted.
You hated your fucking brain sometimes. You tried to will yourself away, to wake up, to control your dream and powers like the movie Inception had you believing you could.
But there was no escape. You were stuck here. Just another witness to history with no real power.
“I’m starting to think you only invite me to these things so you can show me off,” she said, fingers crawling up his chest.
Ben raised his champagne flute in salute and smirked. “You’re not wrong.”
She rolled her eyes. “And here I thought American men were supposed to be subtle.”
“Subtlety is for men who don’t already own the room.”
She giggled like dark silk. “You always were too soft when I met you. That little streak of sweetness? It was disgusting.”
Ben leaned in, one hand on her knee, corrupted by time and power. “You cured me of that.”
Your stomach tightened more. You wanted to throw up, felt the bile rise in your throat. But you stood there – still, just part of the wallpaper.
The woman purred, pleased. “Good. Sentimentality makes men soft.”
“Softer they are,” he said, chuckling, “the easier they are to break when we crush them underfoot.”
And for a heartbeat, it felt like he found your eyes across the room and was looking directly at you, sucking the oxygen from your lungs one atrocious word at a time.
Her laugh was low and theatrical, like someone who hadn’t meant it in years. “The famous golden boy. America’s sweetheart. You used to have a conscience, you know. Always trying to protect the weaklings.”
Ben snorted, his smile weaponized. “Conscience got in the way. I got over it.”
You stiffened, heart breaking into sharp pieces and shattering to the polished marble floors by your feet like a broken mirror – but this seemed like more than just seven years of bad luck ahead.
She clicked her tongue, pleased, her fingers trailing along his razor-sharp jawline in awe. “That serum really did a number on you.”
“It just cleared the fog.”
“That’s my boy.” She smirked cruelly, leaning in, her red-painted lips grazing his neck, his hand hitching higher on her thigh. “Humanity is a failed experiment. Mercy is fiction and compassion a leash. Good thing you cut yours a long time ago.”
Ben didn’t flinch. He grinned – soulless, hollow, and wolfish. “They’re all goddamn insects. Screaming about meaning. Scratching at their cages. They only pretend they’re free.”
“I heard there was another fire at a protest downtown,” she said coolly, swirling her drink. “Shame. What a loss.”
“Should’ve picked a better cause.” Ben laughed darkly into his glass. “Let them march. Let them scream. We’re built to outlast them. That’s what the serum proved, didn’t it?”
She nodded, shifting into his lap, straddling him. “We’re evolution. The end of weakness.”
Your breath caught somewhere in your chest, heart pounding behind your ribs like a prisoner as Ben looked at her like he respected her cruelty. He kissed her then, harsh and possessive.
Their laughter spilled across the room like gasoline. You felt your skin burning with hellfire.
“And you worried I couldn’t handle it,” Ben then said, mocking, grip tight on her hips. “Said I had a fuckin’ heart. That I might hesitate.”
“You proved me wrong. All that kindness in you – it was just programming. The real you was underneath. The serum just stripped the softness off.” She smiled like she was proud of the creation he’d become. Her masterpiece. “That’s why my husband picked you. He wanted someone the public could worship. The boy next door with a monster underneath.”
Ben laughed, a sound that didn’t belong to the man you knew. “Christ, they bought it, too. The press, the soldiers, even the politicians. Especially the politicians… All I had to do was smile and they opened every fuckin’ door. Learned to speak their language. Talk about patriotism. Family. Hard work.” His sneer turned as sharp as the combat knife he carried. “Makes it easier to gut them when they’re not lookin’.”
Your nausea morphed to white-hot anger the longer you listened to them, but you slowly began to understand why you were here – why your brain wanted to remind you of this.
You weren’t supposed to forget, to fantasize. You were supposed to remember the version of him who let a monster crawl into his lap, kiss his mouth, whisper hatred into his soul, and called it fucking foreplay.
And she laughed like he was the funniest man in the world. Of course she did –low and delighted. “You’re darker than I expected, Benjamin.”
“I always was. Just needed the right company.”
That one hurt the most, a piercing dagger to your heart, slicing it in two without a care in the universe.
They clinked their glasses, celebrating superiority.
“The world will learn,” she murmured against his skin, lips brushing his ear as she set both their drinks aside. “Not all at once. But they will. Through collapse. Through fire. Through obedience. You play the golden hero. Meanwhile, you leave bodies under rubble and call it collateral.”
She sounded like a fucking manifesto.
You felt yourself shaking, a tremble that ran bone-deep. This version of him didn’t love. Didn’t mourn. Didn’t feel. He was what happened when power met emptiness and got everything it fucking wanted.
And then you watched her kiss him. Messy. Thoughtless. More dominance than desire. Ben grinned against her lips but didn’t kiss her back with any real heat. You could tell it was a game to him, something to stave off the boredom.
She slid his shirt open, dragging blood-red nails across bronzed and freckled skin. She ground against him, and he tugged her closer, palm running up her spine.
They collapsed back onto the velvet chaise in a tangle of limbs and silk and smug disdain. Every movement was transactional. Purposeful. His hands roamed her body like territory, hers clawed at his shoulders like she was digging her name into the surface of a monument. She dragged her mouth down his chest, biting hard enough to bruise, and he laughed – like it was all just theater.
Like none of it meant a damn thing.
You jolted awake like a punch to the gut, air tearing into your lungs too fast, too sharp, scalding and aching like you’d been holding your breath under water. Sweat clung to your skin, hair damp against your neck. The sheet tangled around your waist felt like chains.
“God,” you groaned, dragging a hand across your face. “Not that fucking Nazi bitch.”
Jesus fucking Christ, why her? Why couldn’t you just watch him fuck Crimson Countess instead? At least that woman was only painfully stupid and not evil in a delete-the-human-race kind of way.
Your heart hammered so loudly you didn’t even notice the body stirring behind you. The blanket fell to your sides as you sat there, gasping for air, like you’d clawed your way out of another world – or fucking Hell. You weren’t quite sure.
“Hey,” Ben's voice broke through the fog, groggy with sleep but alert as he sat up next to you. “Hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”
You didn’t answer at first. You were still there – still seeing his hands on her hips, the twisted smile he wore, the dismissive way he talked about human beings like they were goddamn gum stuck to his combat boots.
Ben watched you closely in the pale wash of the moonlight, green eyes adjusting. You could feel the heat of him beside you – bare chest, sleepy hair, hot breath. His skin was still warm, still familiar, but your own felt like it had been scorched raw.
And for a second, you hated your own brain. Hated how it blurred the lines so easily.
“Jesus, you’re shaking.” His voice lost its sleep-soft edge. “Are you okay?”
You flinched when his hand tentatively splayed across your shoulder, fingers brushing the edge of your spine like he didn’t want to spook you. It wasn’t intentional – you hadn’t meant to, your muscles locking up under his touch on reflex.
And he noticed. Of course he did.
Ben froze, swallowing. “Sorry,” he said quickly, drawing his hand back. “Didn’t mean to–… Did I–… Did I do something?”
God, it wasn’t fair he asked you that. What a fucking loaded question.
“No, uhm, no–” You shook your head quickly. “Just a dream, okay? Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Well, uhm, I’m awake now,” he said in a lightly joking tone, ruffling a hand through his hair. He was quiet for a moment, teeth gnawing on his lower lip, still thinking about daring to touch you again. He didn’t know if he could. If you wanted him to.
His hand jittered with the need to hold you.
“Bad dream?” he asked quietly, lump stuck in his throat, breaths of uncertainty fanning against your shoulder blade.
You nodded, swallowed. You tucked your knees up to your chest, hugged them instead of him.
“You have these a lot, huh?”
“Every night.”
Silence again.
Ben shifted beside you, his weight sinking into the mattress as he leaned in slightly. “I didn’t know. Why did you never say anything?”
You huffed a laugh – dry, fragile. “Well, I’m not exactly used to sharing a bed with anyone.”
You tried to ignore, fight how your skin began to crawl in his proximity. They were two different people, looked at you differently, but the voice – that deep, rich baritone – it was still the same that had said all those awful things and meant them.
“Right.” Ben smacked his lips, and you could hear the cogs turning in his head without even looking at him. “You wanna talk about it?”
“No, look, I said I’m fine,” you snapped. A little too harshly. Too unfairly. You exhaled a sigh through your nose. “I’m sorry. Just–… Give me a minute, alright?”
You made the grave mistake of glancing over your shoulder and finding his eyes. And he looked at you like he worried. Like he cared. Like he fucking loved.
It goddamn near killed you.
“I always thought you were running from something,” Ben said softly when the silence had stretched on too long. “When you first showed up, you looked like hell. And when I offered you a place, you looked like I’d offered you a way out of a burning house.”
And it almost broke you that he didn’t know he was the fucking fire you were constantly trying to escape.
He went quiet for a second, eyes flickering across your face in the dark. You could feel it – his mind working on overdrive, trying to piece together the right thing to say without making anything worse.
And you didn’t mean to – you really didn’t – when his fingers reached for your arm and you jerked away again. Fucking muscle memory.
You hated someone with his face but none of his soul.
“Ben, please–… Please don’t touch me right now,” you begged quietly, desperately, and avoided looking at him like he was the ruin of something that once felt sacred.
But this time, you might’ve broken something inside of him.
And he snapped.
His hand shot out and grabbed your arm, spinning you to face him before you could pull away. His other hand locked around your jaw. Not soft. Not careful. His grip was all tension, all desperation – like holding you in place was the only thing keeping him from splintering in half.
He was trying to hold the world together, trying to hold you together. And sure, you could've easily used your powers and bolted out of there, twisted his arm clean off his body, but your love for him kept you tethered in place like it always did.
All you needed was a second to clear your head, really.
“No,” Ben bit. His voice was raw, harsh, fingers tightening around your arm. “You don’t get to shut me out anymore. Not after last night.”
“Ben–” You struggled in his arms, squirming against him. “Let go–”
“No. Not this time. Not until you look at me.” His voice cracked with hurt, and you found his eyes. “You keep pushing me away like I’m the enemy. Like I’m gonna hurt you, and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”
Your breath stuttered, and he saw it. Saw the flicker in your eyes. The way you wouldn’t meet his.
And it fucking gutted him.
Ben stared at you, jaw clenched. “Jesus Christ, after last night? After everything you gave me… after everything we did – you’re really gonna look at me like that?”
“I didn’t mean–”
“Yeah, you did,” he cut in, the wound you sliced even audible in his tone. “You meant it. You mean it right now. You won’t even let me touch you.”
You stilled in his grip, shoulders drawn tight.
“Last night, you let me see every damn part of you–” His fingers curled around your waist, dragging you closer, like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his own. “You let me touch you. You let me in. And I touched every inch of you, sweetheart. You don’t just get to take that back like it didn’t mean a goddamn thing.”
“It’s not about that–”
“Then what is it about? Huh?” His eyes burned, voice rasping as he pushed forward. “You think I don’t see it? The way you push me away like I’m gonna rip you apart? You think I don’t know something’s eating you alive? I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna let you drown five fucking feet away from me.”
“It’s not that simple,” you breathed, your voice hoarse.
Your hands pressed to his chest, trying to create distance, but he leaned in anyway, nose brushing the side of your cheek as he anchored you there. Close. Inescapable.
“That’s not good enough,” he said, pulling you closer still, sheets slipping dangerously low between you. “It’s like you’re waiting for me to let you down. Like you’re… bracing for it. And I don’t know how to prove to you that I won’t. I’m not gonna disappoint you.”
But you will, your mind argued.
Not him. Not this version. But the man who sat on that velvet chaise with blood still under his fingernails. The one who only saved lives because the headlines said it made him look good.
“Ben, please…” The tears came hard and fast, burning your eyes and skin like acid rain.
“I know what I saw,” he said, voice rough but steady, like he was grounding himself in the truth. “I know what I felt. You didn’t just give me your body – you gave me you. You gave me your goddamn heart.” He paused, swallowed, fingers digging deeper into your flesh. But he didn’t look away, not even for a second. He held your gaze, jaw tight. “And I gave you mine. You know I did. I guess… somewhere along the line, you got under my skin, and now you’re in my goddamn bones, sweetheart. Can’t fucking erase that.”
You sucked in a breath like your life depended on it, lungs close to collapsing in on themselves. “You don’t understand,” you argued weakly, barely audible but loud enough in the quiet morning hours.
“Then make me,” Ben said. It wasn’t a demand – it was a plea. “I’m not asking for all of it. Hell, I’m not asking for most of it. Just–… Don’t make me the villain in some nightmare I wasn’t even in.”
You trembled in his grip, your body alive with guilt, indecision, and terror, and for a moment, you wanted to push him away, to pull back into the secret bunker you’d built. How could you explain all of it to him? How did you tell someone the thing you were terrified of was a future only you could see?
You couldn’t say anything, and you couldn’t escape your feelings either. You were too close. The heat of him, the rawness in his eyes – it was everything you wanted.
And everything you fucking feared.
Ben’s thumbs brushed under your eyes, catching the tears you hadn’t realized had fallen. “Hey,” he said quietly like he was trying to keep you from falling apart. “It’s me. I’m right here. Always. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
You closed your eyes, breath catching in your throat. His other hand tightened its grip at the back of your neck, not rough but steady. Anchoring you.
“I’m strong enough, okay?” Ben’s voice dropped, low and desperate and full of promises he’d never be able to keep. “Whatever you’re carrying, I can handle it. I’m strong enough to carry it, I swear to God.”
You couldn’t speak. The weight of his words pressed down on you like a thousand stones, each one heavier than the last. You didn’t know what to say. So you just made a small, broken sound in your throat and pressed your forehead softly against his, nodding, unable to fight the pull anymore.
But you weren’t giving in. You were just giving up.
Ben’s breath ghosted over your lips, and you could feel the way he was holding himself back. He didn’t close the gap between you. You felt it, felt the way his chest heaved, the way he was trying so damn hard to give you space.
“You think people are good?” you whispered your question into the silence of the night, as if asking it too loudly during daylight would provoke a wrong answer.
Ben blinked, hesitated. “What do you mean – like, deep down?”
You nodded in his palms, and he didn’t answer right away, worrying his bottom lip.
“When I was a kid,” he said eventually, “I used to think so. Thought people were trying their best, that everyone had a little good in them if you looked hard enough.”
“And now?”
He looked away for a beat, to your hand on the mattress, brows faintly furrowed. “Now I think… some people are just mean. They like power or control or watching something break in their hands. Doesn’t make them broken. Just makes them what they are.”
You remained quiet.
“But there’s still good ones too,” he added, softer. “I just think they’re harder to find.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My old man, mostly.” He huffed a small chuckle, humorless. “I think most people would rather double down than admit they were ever wrong, you know?”
“Yeah,” you breathed, nodding once more. “Do you ever think people deserve second chances no matter what?”
Ben wet his lips in thought before answering. “I think it depends on the person. The choice. What they do after the mistake.”
“And what if they don’t know they’re lost?” you asked.
He glanced at you again. “Then someone’s gotta be willing to help them find their way back.”
You swallowed hard. God, you wanted to believe him.
“Even if they’ve done unforgivable things?”
This time, Ben was quiet for a moment longer.
“I think if someone’s trying – really trying – to be better, then yeah. I think redemption’s possible. But not everyone wants that. Not everyone deserves it.”
That landed somewhere heavy in your gut.
“I think the problem is,” you said and found his eyes, “people always want to believe they’re the hero. Even when they’re not.”
Ben tilted his head. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot, huh?”
You looked away and nodded. “Lately.”
He didn’t push.
“I used to think,” you whispered, “that there were good people and bad people. And if you were lucky, you’d find someone good and hold onto them. But it’s not that simple, is it?”
It was so easy to want to trust him like this. So easy to believe in the version of him lying inches away, heart in his eyes. The one who made you laugh. The one who’d give you the world.
“No, uh, I guess not,” Ben said quietly, the confusion etched into his brow, still wondering, still trying to figure out what your questions meant.
After a moment, you eased back under the covers, swirling head hitting the pillow. Ben mirrored your movements and lay down next to you, but you didn’t move closer.
He shifted – just enough to be near, not enough to touch. Then he reached out, slowly, and let his hand rest between you, palm up on the bed. A silent offering. Not a demand.
You stared at it – and then tentatively placed your fingers in his. He gave your hand the gentlest squeeze.
Warm. Steady.
Grounding.
You studied him for a few pounding heartbeats, lying there, facing each other, hand in his. And all you could think about was how you never wanted this version of him to go away – the good one.
It was unfathomable, too much for most to grasp, how this man next to you – the sweet one, the kind one – could ever say and do all these vicious and barbaric things.
Didn’t that mean those parts had always been there? Even now? How could such vile seeds sprout and blossom in only ten years?
Math was the universe’s answer to everything, but it still couldn’t answer you this.
“Want to tell me a stupid story?” you asked suddenly, your heart seeking to find the light within him.
Ben’s brow lifted. “Like what?”
“Like… childhood. Teenage embarrassment,” you said, your lips involuntarily twitching with a smile as you watched him.
Ben chuckled, carding a hand through his hair, and sighed. “Alright, when I was a kid – I’m talking seven or eight – I tried to impress this girl from the neighborhood by building her a treehouse. Except I didn’t actually know how to build, well… anything. So I used cardboard boxes and tied them together with string.”
You snorted, smile spreading. “Let me guess… it collapsed?”
“Oh, immediately.” Ben laughed. “While she was climbing into it.”
“Oh no, poor girl.” You bit back your own laugh.
“She scraped her knees and never spoke to me again.”
Your teeth tugged on your lower lip, the smile barely containable underneath. “So you’ve always been charming, huh?”
“Charming and tragically underqualified,” he said with a wink.
“I don’t think you’re underqualified in all areas of life,” you teased cheekily, watching the dimples form as the boyish smile rose.
“Well, uh, thank you. Glad you think so.” He scratched his throat and blushed. Actually blushed. Like all he really was, was just the boy next door.
“What about birthdays? What was your favorite one?” you asked with innocent curiosity.
But the smile faded.
“Oh, uhm…” He hesitated and cleared his throat before he decided to answer. “We-, uh, we didn’t really celebrate birthdays. My-, uh, my father always said birthdays were earned and that I hadn’t done a damn thing worthy of a cake or a song. Said you don’t get to be celebrated for simply being born.”
The ache that bloomed in your chest was slow, wide, and throbbing. “Ben–”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, shaking his head as if he was shaking off the pain. “I didn’t know any better. I was a kid. Just thought that was normal, you know? No parties. No presents. No cake. He always thought birthdays were indulgent. Wasteful.”
“And your mother?” you asked softly.
You knew Margaret had shut down eventually, probably because of reasons just like this one, but you also knew it must’ve broken her heart that her son didn’t even get something as innocent as cake for his own birthday.
Ben exhaled a long sigh. “She tried, I guess. She used to sneak a cupcake into the garden. Said it was ‘just because it’s Tuesday.’”
“I’m sorry,” you breathed, barely able to hold your tears back.
“Don’t be. Had a good life. Better than most,” Ben said and looked at you as if he knew you hadn’t. “You know, sometimes, I’d wait until the whole house was asleep. No staff, no lights. Just me... I’d tiptoe past the study, even when it was empty – because God forbid I woke him up – and I’d sneak a slice of cake from the kitchen. Hell, sometimes even bread if that’s all we had left that day.”
Silence settled again, softer now, the tension gone. Ben tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, brushing his knuckles along your jaw.
And then it hit you – a memory. Not a distant one. One from here. The first dinner you’d shared with him in this house.
Ben never got to celebrate his own birthday, but he made sure you had yours. He gave you what he’d never been given. And not because you’d expected it. But because he’d wanted to.
“That night, after I told you it was my birthday, you gave me cake,” you said.
Ben’s lips curled into a soft smile as if he knew you’d put it together now – that it hadn’t been just cake.
“I didn’t think it meant much to you,” you added, the realization almost too much.
You’d just been a stranger back then, and he’d still done the kindest gesture for you. Something so personal it bordered on heartbreak.
“Didn’t it, though?” he asked, green eyes twinkling with something more than amusement. His tongue swiped over his teeth, fingers stilling the little circles he’d been absentmindedly drawing on your skin. “You said it so casually back then. Like you stopped expecting something a long time ago. Like your birthday didn’t matter. And I-, well, I guess I just figured it should, you know?” Then he gave a shrug like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down. “You should have what I didn’t. Simple as that.”
Simple.
“You remember the projector you gave me?” he asked then, catching you off guard.
“Yeah, wasn’t even sure you liked it,” you replied.
“I-… I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted. “No one’s ever done something like that for me. Given me something just because they thought I deserved it, you know? Not because they had to or because they wanted something. You just did it so casually.”
“It wasn’t a big deal,” you replied softly, squeezing his hand. “Just figured you might like it.”
“But it was a big deal… to me,” he said, swallowing thickly. “You know, I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to figure out what to give you in return. You don’t seem like a jewelry person. And flowers and chocolates seem like they’re not good enough.”
Your lips twitched with a faintly amused smile. “It’s called affection, Ben. You don’t have to trade me livestock.”
Ben snorted a breath of laughter. “Well, livestock would’ve been easier to figure out.”
The silence that followed was thick and warm and golden.
And you looked at him then, really looked – like you’ve done so many times before whenever those doubts and fears crept back into your mind – and could see none of the monster you ran from in the future.
Maybe, just maybe, you’d already changed the outcome. Maybe you being here, right now in his arms, in this moment with him, was enough to undo all the damage and aches.
If anyone could find a way to cheat the system, it was you.
And then, you finally scooted closer, Ben welcoming you fully into his embrace, his warmth, protective hands steady on your skin. He still didn’t push. He waited.
For you to lean in. For you to let go.
Your lips brushed against his – tentative, testing, and then tempestuous. The fears, the worries, the whole world dropped away in that moment – no clock, no consequence.
You sank into him, into the gravity of it – the ache and the safety, the chaos and the calm, the ruin and the refuge.
The kiss hit like a wave – hard, fast, breathless. Your mouths crashed together, teeth scraping, lips bruising. You gripped his shoulders like you were drowning, dragging him closer, deeper, until his arms locked around you like he’d die if you slipped away again.
Ben groaned into your mouth, one hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding down your back, pulling you flush against his bare chest. You whimpered when he bit your lower lip, and he growled when you yanked his hair in return.
Reverent, raw, ruined.
He was coaxing you back to life, setting your skin alight with every haunting touch.
His breath hitched when your palms pressed against his shoulders, easing him back down onto the mattress. He went without a word, without resistance, letting you take him under like the tide.
You climbed over him, bracketing his hips, the soft morning light painting your skin in dabbled gold.
Ben watched you as your fingers ran across his chest, over the plane of muscle, the steady thump of his heart beneath your touch. The way his throat moved, the flicker in his forest green eyes – there was a vulnerability there he almost never let anyone see.
You kissed the space above his heart and felt it stutter beneath your lips. His hands smoothed up your thighs – but he didn’t dare to grab, didn’t dare to pull. You could feel the heat of him pressed between you, hard and ready and still waiting for you to decide.
To take.
And then the knocking started – frantic, sharp, and out of place in the hush of dawn.
Ben stilled beneath you, brow furrowing and grip tightening, a groan of frustration escaping low from his throat as his head sunk back into the pillows.
“Mr. Benjamin? Ben? Please–”
Florence.
Three more rapid thuds against the heavy oak door followed before you both started to move. You slid off Ben and slipped under the covers as he scrambled out of bed and reached for his slacks, still half-crumpled on the floor.
You could see how he steeled himself, the invisible armor you’d watched him peel off last night reforming before he opened the door. You clutched the sheets tighter to your chest, fighting the embarrassed flush in your cheeks.
You, naked in Ben’s bed, would surely make it into the morning newsletter of the staff gossip.
And then Florence stood there in the hallway, in her pale morning dress, her apron wrinkled, her bun slightly askew – something you’d never seen before. Her knuckles were white around the edge of the doorframe.
“It’s your father,” she said without preamble. “He collapsed near the study. I believe it was his heart.”
Ben went still. Not a muscle moving, not a breath escaping.
And you? Well, you slowly started to panic internally as the seconds ticked by. Had you–? Were you–?
No…
“I’ve rung Dr. Norwood. He’s on his way.” She then glanced behind him, and her mouth twitched – whether in approval or concern, you couldn’t tell. “I thought you should know.”
Ben swallowed once. “Did he say anything?”
“He was conscious. Barely. Couldn’t get up.” Her voice softened, and this time, the worry was unmistakable. “You should come down.”
Ben gave a nod, automatic, and turned back to you – expression unreadable, jaw tight.
“Stay here,” he said quietly, already pulling a shirt over his head.
“Do you need–”
“I’ll be back soon.”
You nodded, and he was gone.
The county fair stretched wide under the June sun, the air thick with the mingling smells of grilled sausage, fried dough, and the sweet scent of cotton candy and kettle corn.
The fairgrounds buzzed with color and laughter: a brass band played ragtime near the main pavilion, children darted through clusters of hay bales, women in cotton dresses strolled beneath bunting-draped stalls, and sunlight turned the dust into gold as it kicked up beneath worn boots and saddle shoes alike.
Ben walked with his hand firmly laced in yours, a half-melted lemonade in the other. And all the while, he’d brush his thumb over your wrist, leaning in close to whisper something private (and dirty) into your ear or kiss your temple when you laughed with your head back.
You should probably preface this by stating that, over the last three and a half months, Ben had been happier than he’d ever been.
Mornings spent tangled up in bed, late-night drives to nowhere, afternoons where the only agenda was you.
He smiled more. Touched more. Laughed more. Everything was blissfully fine.
And Ben’s father? Well, the bastard survived, so there really was nothing to feel guilty over.
Sure, some people would claim you were – directly or indirectly – responsible for that man’s heart attack.
Indirectly for instigating his wife to start a feminist revolution at the dinner table and seducing his son to rebel against the best-laid plans. But really, you had just been a supporting character with a natural curiosity. Could someone seriously blame you for this?
And sure, some would be all too quick to point a finger at you for your direct involvement by stopping that dick’s heart for barely a breath.
It had been less than five seconds, alright? And it wasn’t like he’d dropped immediately after you’d done it. There had been several hours between those two completely unrelated incidents. Besides, the man smoked, drank, ate fatty red meat, and harbored rage issues like there was no tomorrow, so who was to say you were responsible for his little health scare?
Cause and effect could not definitively be proven and as sure as hell wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. Anything could’ve taken that tyrant down a notch.
It wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t almost killed your boyfriend’s father. End of story.
And if anything, if you truly had been a tiny bit responsible, the universe should’ve written you a goddamn thank you note. You’d practically gifted everyone in the mansion a fucking vacation.
Ben was happier. The staff was happier. And Margaret was downright drunk on life.
As soon as her husband had been wheeled away, she’d already picked out a private clinic in Switzerland before she even asked if he’d survived. Sadly, Richard Brooks, ever the controlling business magnate, didn’t go for it and set up camp at an exclusive convalescent clinic nestled in the wooded hills of Bryn Mawr instead – just outside the city.
The estate-turned-sanatorium catered to men like the Brooks patriarch – powerful, prideful, unwilling to be seen at their weakest.
And for the first time in his life, Ben had space to breathe. His father still sent for him once a week, doling out sharp instructions between rounds of rest and rehab, but the weight of his daily presence was gone.
Margaret, on the other hand, never visited her husband at all. She saw him once when he was still at the hospital in Philadelphia, but during that visit, you hadn’t been quite sure if she hadn’t just been aiming to give him another heart attack that would stick the way she’d been relentlessly antagonizing him.
And now, you were here, on a warm Saturday in late June, meeting two of Ben’s friends for the first time – a schoolmate from Choate, Quentin, and his sharp-tongued girlfriend, Josie. The four of you made an easy group – flushed from sun and sugar, teasing each other like you’d known one another for years.
“That’s the third pie sample you’ve taken,” Josie pointed out with a mock-scandalized gasp, giggling as she watched you go for a blueberry flavor this time. “You know they’re gonna make you buy one.”
“I’m just being thorough,” you said, licking your thumb. “It's a civic duty. What if someone sold subpar pie?”
“She’s a patriot.” Ben chuckled, leaning close to brush a smudge of berry off your cheek. “Upholding American values. God bless her.”
Josie rolled her eyes and elbowed her boyfriend. “Do you think they’re always like this?”
Quentin grinned. “Well, I’ve only known her an hour, but I’d put money on it.”
“You’ve still got a little bit of jam on your lips,” Ben murmured, brushing his thumb by the corner of your mouth. His tone was warm, teasing, and far too amused. And by his little smirk, you knew there was no jam at all. “Want me to kiss it away?”
Cheekily, you nodded, grinned, and draped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a searing kiss before he could do it himself. And both of you still smiled all the way into the kiss, not being able to stop.
Behind you, Josie let out a soft laugh. “God, you two are revolting.”
Quentin lifted a brow, amused. “They’re adorable. Leave them alone.”
“No, seriously,” Josie said, sidling up beside you. “It’s like watching the first ten minutes of a musical before someone starts singing on a balcony.”
You turned to her with mock offense. “I haven’t burst into song once.”
Untrue. You sang and played piano at the mansion all the time – especially for Ben.
Josie smirked. “Give it time. You’ve got that look in your eyes.”
Ben frowned, glancing down at you. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m-in-love-and-mildly-dazed’ look,” Josie clarified, clearly delighted. “It’s the same face Quentin made when he saw me eat five corn dogs in a row last year.”
Quentin nodded solemnly. “I’d never known love before that moment.”
You and Josie burst into laughter, while Ben only rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He just slipped his hand around your waist and pulled you subtly into his side.
You then nudged Josie playfully. “Let’s ditch them before they start flexing over who can throw a horseshoe farther.”
Josie smiled, linking arms with you. “Agreed. The boys can grunt and puff all they want while we go get kettle corn and admire the handmade quilts.”
Aside from Dottie, you hadn’t exactly made that many friends yet in this time period. You’d almost been elated when Ben had suggested an outing with some of his closest friends. He’d never introduced you to someone from his life before who didn’t live in the mansion or worked at the steel mill – much less as his girlfriend.
But he had said the word so casually and easily today, full of pride even, that it made your heart swell and soar like a hot air balloon. You knew this was a big step. Something was settling.
But that familiar itching feeling still gnawed on you. Not as often. Not as prominent. But still there.
You knew you used to have friends where you came from, but their faces were blurry and their names just always on the tip of your tongue. You forgot parts of your childhood too, which arguable wasn’t the worst.
Your memories were fading.
Never the big things but the details.
You still knew you grew up in a trailer park. The town? Gone. You knew you were from the East Coast, though.
You knew you had studied physics in Montreal and could remember the contents of your textbooks like the back of your hand but not the teachers who taught them to you.
You knew you’d lived in a ground floor apartment in New York, tucked underneath a stairwell, but you couldn’t remember the district or your own kitchen sink.
However, without fail, you could always remember him – and you had no idea why.
The nightmares hadn’t stopped, not even a little. It was like your brain was sacrificing memory capacities to remind you of the danger sleeping in your bed. But whenever you woke up – panting, sweat-drenched, and with fear in your eyes – Ben would just be there and hold you, not saying a word.
Ben watched you disappear toward the artisan tents, arm looped through Josie’s. His eyes lingered on the soft sway of your hips in the yellow sundress, a fond, secret smile grazing the corners of his mouth.
Quentin let out a low whistle next to him, chuckling. “Oh, buddy, you’ve got it bad.”
“Hm, what?” Ben snapped out of his daze, blinking at his friend.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” Quentin noted, a subtle smile creeping onto his face.
Ben cocked an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Lighter.” Quentin gestured vaguely. “Like you’re not carrying around the weight of seven generations of Brooks men on your shoulders.”
That made Ben snort. The men then drifted away from the girls toward the edge of the field, where a few picnic tables sat beneath the lazy shade of oak trees. The noise of the fair dulled behind them, replaced by the hum of cicadas.
“She’s good for you,” Quentin said then, watching Ben lean against the trunk of a tree.
“Yeah, she makes it easy,” Ben replied simply, toying with an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
“Not a sentence I ever expected from your mouth.” Quentin smirked. “I’m honestly still trying to figure out how exactly you pulled this off.”
“Oh, trust me. So do I.” Ben huffed a small laugh. “She just showed up one day. Like she knew where to find me.”
“So, what’s next?”
Ben didn’t speak right away. His gaze wandered to where you were pointing something out to Josie at the ring toss booth, your hands moving animatedly like you were explaining physics again while your hair caught sunlight like gold thread.
“I’m looking at houses,” Ben replied after a beat.
Quentin’s brows shot up. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah, but not in the city – outside. Big yard, porch. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can build something that’s mine. Ours,” Ben stated but didn’t look up, too coolly pocketing his hands in his slacks.
“Wow. So this is real.” Quentin blinked, then thoughtfully licked his lips. “What about your old man? You think he’s finally ready to relinquish control when he comes back?”
“No.” Ben let out an amused laugh at the idea alone. “But I don’t need him – or his money. I can do this on my own. I know what I want now.”
“Which is?”
Ben hesitated, then looked out over the fair – at the sunlight spilling like honey across the grass, at the crowd, at the space you’d just disappeared into.
“Peace. A home that’s mine. Her in it.”
Quentin studied his friend for a moment, then gave a sly grin. “So, are you going to marry her too or just haunt a porch together like a pair of charming ghosts?”
Ben chuckled softly but didn’t deny it, scratching the back of his head. “I mean, I’ve been thinking about it.”
Quentin raised an impressed brow. “Jesus, you really are gone.”
“Well, I’m not rushing it. It’s more of a someday kind of thing,” Ben assured, but there was a faint smile playing across his lips.
“Does she know about all your plans?”
Ben shook his head. “Not yet. I wanna show her first. Want it to be right for both of us. Not sure she’s ready yet, you know?”
Quentin nodded slowly, then teased, “You always were a sentimental bastard underneath the attitude.”
“Well, don’t tell anyone.” Ben chuckled lightly. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
Quentin slapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and approving. “Well, do me a favor and don’t propose till I’m ready to pop the question to Josie. Otherwise she might raise Cain if she finds out you of all people got there first.”
“Hey, no promises.” Ben laughed, amused.
He smiled when his eyes found you in the crowd again, the love in his chest a steady thrum. Not loud. Not showy.
Permanent.
The Ferris wheel, now aglow in soft pastel lights, turned slow and deliberate against the dusky indigo sky when the sun had dipped below the horizon.
String lights blinked like stars strung across booths, and somewhere in the distance, a fiddle played the opening bars of a waltz. Children carried oversized stuffed animals and parents carried yawning toddlers.
Ben helped you climb into the swaying seat, his arm settling around your shoulders, and you instinctively leaned in.
“Gotta say, that’s probably the most romantic thing you’ve done so far,” you teased Ben, nudging him in the ribs a little.
He smirked that lazy, boyish grin again – the one that flipped your insides upside down. “Wait until I get you to the top.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
God knows that man could never keep his hands to himself. You wouldn’t have put it past him to go third base on top of a Ferris wheel.
“Depends on how much you like heights.” He winked.
Yup, as expected.
But once the fairgrounds blurred into a mosaic of warm, twinkling lights below you, he actually surprised you by tucking you closer to his chest.
“You ever been on one of these before?” Ben asked, his own natural curiosity about you peeking through once more.
Sometimes he’d ask you about your life, your childhood, your memories from school or Christmas, and you actually would’ve loved sharing those moments with him – good or bad.
However, there was one tiny problem:
“Uh, I can’t remember.” You shrugged and tried to be as subtle and casual as possible about it. “Maybe, yeah. When I was a kid.”
Ben pecked your temple but never pressed. Somehow, even without knowing the full truth, he seemed to sense the borders of what you could say – and what you couldn’t.
It wasn’t always easy – carrying this big secret around like a second brain. You didn’t even fully understand the rules – whether staying longer meant damaging something, whether loving him harder meant losing him faster. The equations on your chalkboard hadn’t yielded positive results so far. But in moments like this, you wanted to believe time could bend enough to make space for both of you.
Ben then grew quiet next to you – thinking, brooding. And you knew by now that something was on his mind again. Probably his father. That was usually when he became uncharacteristically mute – like someone had tied a weight around his throat to choke him.
“You always get this contemplative at high altitudes?” you teased.
Ben’s mouth twitched. “Only when I’m weighing the pros and cons of throwing myself off something tall.”
“Jesus, not dramatic at all, are we?”
He exhaled a sigh through his nose. “He comes back next week.”
Ah. There it is…
Three months worth of spending nights and days with him had sort of morphed you into an expert on all things him.
“Clinic says he’s well enough to return to his usual routine. Which means barking orders, throwing parties, and pretending nothing ever happened. He’s throwing his annual Fourth of July party. Same thing he does every year. Big, loud, obnoxious, too many cigars. Wants it to be his ‘triumphant return to society.’”
“Huh. Like Caesar marching back from Gaul,” you quipped.
Too bad you’d already played Ides of March with that man.
Ben snorted. “You’re not wrong. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s expecting a big military flyover.”
“Classy.” Your smile then faded slightly, chewing your lower lip. “I’m not invited, I’m guessing.”
Ben’s silence was answer enough.
“It’s fine,” you said quickly and forced a smile. “I’ll just stay in my room. Ration my chocolates, write in my journal about the war effort, and look longingly out the window like I’m in a Jane Austen novel.”
Ben turned toward you, brow furrowed. “You’re not staying in your room. You’re coming with me.”
You blinked. “Ben, I don’t think it’s–”
“You’re my girl,” he cut off your protest. “And I want everyone to know it. I don’t care what he thinks or if he has another heart attack by the damn champagne tower.”
Your breath caught a little. God, this boy…
You looked at him then – the way the wind lifted his hair, the clean line of his jaw, the unshakable way he said things he meant and never walked them back.
You wanted to live in this moment forever. In this golden, impossible bubble of carnival lights and him saying things like ‘my girl.’ You wanted to give him everything.
“You ever think about how all of this will just… be gone someday?” you mused, squinting at the blurred colors of the carousel spinning under a canopy of stars. “The fair, the music, the booths. Blink and it’s history.”
Ben glanced over at you with that quiet, amused look he gave you sometimes – like he wasn’t entirely sure what kind of puzzle you were, but he wanted to spend his life trying to solve it anyway.
“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”
“I’m serious,” you said, trying not to laugh. “Entropy, decay, time marching on – it’s all just a slow slide into disorder.”
“Remind me again what you studied?” he asked dryly.
You grinned and nudged him with your shoulder. “What, you don’t like a girl who can calculate the collapse of the universe?”
“I like a girl who can out-think half the men I know and still kiss me like I’m the only equation she can’t solve.”
Oh. Well, point for him.
“But seriously,” Ben continued, “you’re not hiding. I’m not letting him dictate that. I don’t want a future unless you’re in it.”
Shit.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, comforted by the steadiness of him and the creaky Ferris wheel car that somehow felt more stable than the rest of your life.
Your heart weighed heavily, but you smiled anyway. “You might regret that. I have no idea how to navigate country club hors d’oeuvres without starting a class war.”
Ben laughed. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Alright, I’ll come to the party,” you agreed and ignored your heart, which blinked like a neon warning sign between your ribs. “But only if there’s pie.”
He chuckled softly. “That can be arranged.”
“And I want to wear something entirely inappropriate.”
“Also allowed.”
You stared at him, something hot and electric blooming in your chest. You looked out over the grounds again – rows of flickering lights and laughter echoing below.
“You know, we’ve got plans, you and me,” Ben said suddenly.
“What kind of plans?” you asked, brow raised, shifting a little to look up at him.
“I said I’d figure out a way out of that hellhole for both of us. I still mean it,” Ben said, deep voice untypically hesitant like he was testing the idea out loud for the first time. “I’ve been looking at houses.”
You sat up a little, your heart pounding like a demolition hammer, throat dry. “You-, uh, you have?”
Ben nodded and smiled. “There’s one I keep going back to. Found it last week, and I don’t know… Feels right. I think you’d like it. Needs some work, though. A lot of work, actually… The porch steps need replacing, the roof’s a mess, and the windows rattle like a haunted saloon.”
“So perfect, then.”
“Perfect,” he echoed.
You were speechless. You’d never suspected he’d been dreaming behind your back. But you wanted to answer. God, you wanted to say yes and kiss him senseless and let the night carry you straight into forever. But reality tugged like a thread at the edge of your dress.
The part of you that lived in spreadsheets and time travel formulas wanted to tell him that buying a house with a girl who could theoretically be ripped out of this timeline at any moment was probably not a sound financial decision.
“It’s about an hour outside the city. Old place,” Ben continued, green eyes searching your face. “But there’s this little outbuilding on the property. Think it used to be a carriage house. Brick. Sturdy. Could be turned into a workshop.”
You swallowed, your heart thudding only louder. “A workshop?”
“I thought you might like it,” he said and gave you a cheeky smile as if he knew exactly how to make your heart soar. “Figured it be ideal for your tinkering. Your experiments. I don’t know much about the physics of whatever it is you do in George’s shed, but I figure if I can’t understand it, it’s probably important. I can picture you in there with your hair tied back, goggles on, muttering equations and setting things on fire.”
A laugh bubbled out of you, warm and stunned. “Oh, you think I’m just some mad scientist who needs a shed to explode things in, huh?”
“I mean, you did nearly set our bedsheet on fire last month,” Ben teased you. “Not in the good way…”
“That was a side effect! Totally unintentional. Science is messy,” you defended. Seriously, that only happened one time, alright?
“You’re messy.”
“True,” you admitted proudly. “But I get results.”
Ben laughed softly. “But I’m serious, alright? You light up when you talk about that stuff. That thing you built last month with the vacuum tubes and the light sensor – I don’t even know what it does, but you looked like you’d conquered the moon.”
Ugh. You wished. Fuck Buzz Aldrin.
“It was just a proximity alarm,” you replied. Honestly, you were just beating boredom by building random gadgets with whatever scraps you’d find in George’s shed. Sometimes you did miss flipping through TV channels on a lazy Saturday on a couch.
“See? You say that like it’s normal.” Ben laughed, watching your cheeks turn red under the colorful lights, but then the humor faded from his eyes as he glanced back toward the fairgrounds. “I don’t have the full money yet. The house is cheap, but it still needs a down payment. I’m working on it. But I’ll get there. I swear. I’ve got a few things saved, and I might sell the car.”
There was guilt in his tone. Shame, even. As if he had already failed you by not conjuring up the entire future out of thin air like a bunny from a top hat.
“But you love that car,” you argued softly.
Ben only gave a small shrug of his broad shoulders. “It’s just metal. This–,” he gestured between the two of you, “–this is more.”
You squeezed his hand. “You know, I never expected you to do it all alone. I know it’s weird – a woman offering to pitch in. But I don’t want you to carry everything by yourself. I want this to be ours, too. And maybe I also want the upstairs bathroom to have a really nice tub. I’ve kind of gotten spoiled over the last few months,” you quipped.
Ben looked at you like you’d just spoken in tongues, both relieved and unsure if he was even allowed to feel that way. He scratched the back of his neck, chuckling a little. “Well, I’m glad to hear you say that because I might have another idea.”
He didn’t directly say he needed your help. He never would. Because he wanted to provide. Because his father had conditioned him to think anything less was a failure. But it was there – in the hesitation, in the subtle shift of his shoulders. That need. That quiet ask.
“What were you thinking?”
“Well, uhm, I figured maybe you could invent something? Something smart, something useful. Doesn’t have to be flashy. And I could take it into the city. Sell it, or license it, or whatever people like me do. You know, I’ll take the meetings, flash a smile, wear the suit.”
You arched an eyebrow in amusement. “So you want me to be your secret genius in the basement while you take the credit?”
“Exactly. A reverse Edison, if you will,” Ben said.
You snorted a small laugh. “Oh, honey, Edison was Edison. He made a whole career out of stealing ideas from people smarter than him.”
“Perfect,” Ben replied, grinning. “We’ll just continue a proud tradition.”
Not the worst idea he’s ever had, your inner Puck sang mischievously while he already rolled around in dollar bills.
And then the bigger question hit you like a thunderbolt: Whose invention could you hijack without guilt?
You mentally opened a file folder titled Men Who Deserve to Be Robbed – and it wasn’t even a fucking short list. Hell, you’d rob Edison blind in his sleep and still feel absolutely nothing.
And sure, your abilities were like a cheat code to capitalism. You could practically feel the timeline shiver beneath your feet. Invention theft? That was a whole different ethical category than ripping off Wall Street and placing bets on sports games.
A small-ish part of you even felt bad about it – briefly.
However, you then reminded yourself of Hedy Lamarr, who helped invent frequency-hopping and got zero recognition during her lifetime because, you know, tits. Rosalind Franklin literally died while Watson and Crick strutted off with her DNA work. Mileva Marić, Einstein’s brilliant first wife, who probably had her fingerprints all over the theory of relativity, got written out of the narrative. And last but not least, there were women like Margaret Knight, who invented the machine that made paper bags and had to goddamn sue a man who tried to steal the patent.
So yes, if you “borrowed” something from a few future men, you were sure history could cope. Call it fucking karmic redistribution.
Cosmic balancing or whatever…
After all, if your plan to rewrite the future worked, Homelander would never be fucking sneezed into existence in the first place. Didn’t you deserve a little something for that favor?
Lise Meitner cracked nuclear fission and didn’t even get a Nobel!
And then, your mind was suddenly buzzing with ideas, mentally raiding the patent archives of the future like a war criminal with excellent taste.
The list in your head quickly became extensive. The transistor radio? Tempting, but messy. Velcro? Possibly too weird. Solar panels? Ambitious. But then there were penicillin production, the jet engine, the electric razor – honestly, men were begging to be fucking robbed blind.
Hell, you could patent the damn Frisbee and fund your entire life with Ben from the back end of a plastic disc.
Vive les fucking femmes!
“You’re thinking about it too hard, sweetheart,” Ben broke through your thoughts with an amused laugh. “You always get this little crease between your brows when you’re trying to out-logic yourself.”
“Do not,” you muttered.
Ben then quietly bit his lips. “Look, I know it’s not ideal – me being the front. I mean, you’re brilliant. Scarily brilliant, even. I promise this arrangement would only be temporary, you know? To get a foot in the door? But I don’t want a life where you’re stuck behind me in some shadow. I want us side by side.”
Translation: I don’t want you to become clinically depressed like my mother one day, but also, the world doesn’t take you seriously right now due to your vagina.
And God, you hated how right he was. But if you tried to walk into a patent office right now with a device from thirty years in the future, you’d probably be laughed out of the building.
“Fine,” you sighed, nodding. “You go march into meetings with investors and wow them with your penis.”
Ben snorted a chuckle, gently kissing the top of your head as if it would soothe the ache this time period caused sometimes. Luckily, it did a little.
“The brains behind this operation is still you, sweetheart,” Ben added softly and pulled you closer, nuzzling his nose into your hair.
You buried your smile into his coat as the hush of the Ferris wheel cradled the things neither of you could promise but desperately hoped for.
Dreaming a future into existence.
The soft hum of cicadas drifted through the cracked window of the work shed as your fingers twisted a final coil of copper into place. The air smelled like old wood, smoke, and the faint tang of metal – a strangely comforting cocktail you’d come to associate with long afternoons spent here, hidden from the rest of the mansion, the party preparations, and Ben’s increasingly suffocating father.
The asshole had only been back two fucking days and was already driving everyone up the tall walls of the mansion.
As you reached for the wire cutters, the door creaked open. “I swear to God, George,” you muttered without looking up, “if that’s you looking for your soldering torch again, I’m invoking squatters’ rights.”
“Relax,” came Ben’s amused voice, warm and unmistakably close. “It’s not George.”
You glanced over your shoulder, offering a crooked smile. Ben leaned against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled up and the first two buttons undone. His hair – and Lord help you – was slightly tousled, like he’d just raked a hand through it in frustration. The late afternoon sunlight cut sharp behind him, shoulders slouched like he’d just come from a war. Which, to be fair, he kind of had.
Ben didn’t move toward you right away, only stood there for a beat, jaw tight, apple green eyes scanning your half-finished contraption like he was pretending the world outside hadn’t just tried to bury him alive again.
“Rough day?” you asked, returning to your work. “Are you here to tell me your father wants to build a runway in the backyard for Roosevelt’s plane?”
He huffed a tired laugh. “You could say that. He did mention fireworks. Big ones. The kind that might violate state law.”
You giggled softly. “Maybe I can help with that. Been exploding a lot of things in here recently.”
For a week now, you’d been trying to come up with the perfect invention for you and Ben to sell and finally get out of this place. You were heavily leaning toward polaroids or disposable cameras.
No pressure.
“What is that supposed to be?” he asked, nodding toward the mess of copper, wires, and what may or may not have once been part of George’s broken lawnmower.
You sighed dramatically. “Well, so far it’s nothing and only good at electrocuting me… and maybe creating small indoor thunderstorms.” You wiped your hands on an old rag and finally turned your full attention to him. “How’s your father? Any new pearls of wisdom?”
“Oh, he dropped a good one this morning.” Ben grinned and then proceeded to mimic his father. “He actually said, and I quote, ‘She’s a pretty little thing. A boy needs his amusements. Just don’t parade her around like a prize hog.’”
“Charming. You guys have a real Norman Rockwell family dynamic going on. Glad to know I’ve got the Brooks seal of approval as a temporary whore.” You snorted. “I hope you told him I’m very corrupting, practically feral, and can’t be trusted near high society.”
“Oh, I did.” Ben chuckled. “You should hear what else he says when he thinks I’m listening.”
You arched a brow. “Let me guess – I’m a bad influence and possibly a communist?”
Ben huffed a laugh. “Close.” He then raised a hand and ticked off fingers. “Let’s see… He said that you’re too clever for your own good, too opinionated for a wife, too mouthy for polite company. Also said you argue like a politician. Oh, and my personal favorite – ‘curves that men fight wars over.’”
Thank you?!
“He said that?” You cocked an eyebrow, fighting the repulsive shiver creeping down your spine. His father always looked at you like you were something exotic he didn’t quite approve of but wouldn’t mind sampling.
“Verbatim. Over scotch. Twice.” Ben smirked, unaware. “Said I always did like toys with bright packaging and sharp edges.”
You pursed your lips. “Wow. Flattered.”
Ben gave a tight smile. “He said you’ll chew me up and spit me out. That you’re the kind of woman a man ruins his life for, which I think was meant as an insult, but all that did was get me hard again.”
You blinked, then tilted your head, your heart stuttering a little. “Well, for the record, I don’t plan on ruining your life. But if I do, tell him I’ll make it memorable. How’s that?”
Ben laughed softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes anymore, letting out a long sigh instead. “He also said the Du Ponts are coming tomorrow. Real subtle message. Guess he’s hoping Grace shows up in a white dress and a shotgun.”
“Is the shotgun for me or for you?”
“Both of us, I’m guessin’…” He offered an apologetic wince that wasn’t nearly apologetic enough. “He still thinks that I’ll come to my senses once I’ve had my fill.”
You waited for the jealousy to rear up, but it didn’t. You weren’t worried about her. You were worried about him.
“And have you?”
Ben’s eyes locked with yours, sending you his signature lazy, mischievous smile. “Not even close, sweetheart.”
“I don’t suppose we could stay in here until next week, huh?” you mused jokingly.
“Tempting. But then my father would assume you murdered me in cold blood.”
You smirked. “Wouldn’t be the worst headline I’ve had.”
“Apparently her folks are very keen on picking things back up. She’s not married yet. He made that real clear,” Ben huffed, rolling his eyes back. “I told him I’d rather take a vow of celibacy and become a monk.”
“Really? You?” you teased.
Ben laughed, tilting his head back. "Well, I was hoping you'd sneak into the monastery by night."
You looked at him – at this beautiful, exasperating, filthy-mouthed dreamer who somehow had crawled into your ribs and never left — and it hit you again, deep in your chest.
“What if he’s right, though?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “What if you wake up one day and realize you are like him?”
Ben’s eyes snapped to you, all trace of teasing gone. “Don’t say that.”
You held up your palms in defense. “I’m not trying to pick a fight.”
“I know,” he said gently. “But it’s not gonna happen.”
You swallowed hard, turning back to your tinkering on the bench to occupy both your hands and mind with something else. “Just feels like we’re running toward something, and I don’t know if it’s our future or a brick wall.”
He blew out a slow breath, raking a hand through his hair. “You know what your problem is? You’ve got this whole wild, brilliant mind, and somehow it still makes room for the worst-case scenario.”
You sighed a little, even though your whole body wanted to scream the truth. “It’s just... I’ve seen it happen. People chasing comfort until they don’t recognize themselves anymore.”
Ben frowned. “You think I don’t ask myself that? That I don’t lie awake some nights wondering if it’s all carved in stone? That no matter how much I fight it, I’m gonna end up like him?”
You swallowed thickly, heart heavy in your chest.
“You really think I’m that close to being him?” he asked then, voice rough around the edges, and you knew all he wanted to hear was that you believed in him – that you knew he was good and would never, ever walk down that path of darkness.
But how could you with everything you knew?
You glimpsed at your chalkboard – at the unfinished and unsolvable equations, which were supposed to tell that you were on the right track. That this was the way to fight goddamn fate.
But there was no comfort written chalk.
“I don’t want to think that,” you said carefully, eyes focused on the copper wire in your hands. “But you grew up in his world. You know how to fake it. You’re good at it. And sometimes… I don’t know. What if one day it’s easier to go back to that than keep fighting it?”
Especially if I’m gone and can’t be the angel on your shoulder, your mind added in silence.
Because you knew the future. You knew what happened when he did go back, when the fight drained out of him, when he let the numbness win. You’d seen what he’d become. You’d stood in the ruins of it once.
Ben was quiet for a long time.
“Look, if I ever did go back to that life, the only way I could survive it is if I drowned myself in it. Booze, whores, money, noise. Numb myself enough to forget what I gave up. To forget you,” he said, a bitter, broken smile crossing his lips. “And even then, I’d still hate every minute of it because you’re not there.”
You tried to be brave. You really did. But some dark little knot still twisted behind your ribs.
Outside, thunder rolled across the hills, guttural and ominous. The wind picked up, rattling the door of the shed as the sky began to dim, announcing a summer storm. It felt like the entire universe was angry with you for meddling with its plans as well.
You opened your mouth to reply, but Ben’s hands were suddenly at your waist, slow and deliberate as he stepped up flush behind you. You froze for a second before he leaned in, breath warm against your ear.
“Stop worrying so much, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dropping to a low, seductive tone, all grit and gravel. “I told you. I’m not leaving you. And I’d burn the whole goddamn world down before I let anyone take you from me.”
Well, considering the circumstances, that vow was less romantic than he probably thought it’d be.
“Don’t seduce me in the middle of an electrocution hazard.” You gave him a look but were barely able to hide the smile.
He only ever came to visit you in the shed for two reasons: either venting about his father or missing you. Today seemed to be both.
Ben shrugged innocently behind you and picked up a spool of copper wire and toyed with it, rolling it between his fingers like he was picturing using it on you. All the while, his wolfish green eyes kept dipping to the hem of your dress.
“Just thinkin’... Might be our last moment of peace before the circus hits tomorrow.”
“Smooth.” You grinned teasingly, but the flicker in your stomach betrayed how quickly the heat spread. “This is a workshop. A sacred place for science. No seduction allowed.”
His hands put their attention back to your waist, gliding slow and warm around your hips. “Come on. Even Einstein went for a roll in the hay. Probably.”
You snorted. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love it.” He kissed just behind your ear, sending sparks all the way down your spine. “Love when I take what’s mine.”
His hands roamed your body, slow and deliberate, fingertips grazing over the fabric of your dress. You could already feel how hard he was, pressing into you, lazy and thick.
You leaned back into him instinctively. “Ben, George could walk in any second–”
“Then I better be quick.” He smirked against your skin, one hand sliding down your side, fingers playing with the skirt of your dress, bold and purposeful. “Besides, I like when you worry. Makes you clamp around me like you’re trying to keep me inside.”
“Benjamin!”
He chuckled, deep and warm like bourbon and sin. “C’mon, baby, been thinking about you all damn day,” he muttered into your neck. “While my father lectured me on mergers and legacy and how I’ve ‘wasted enough time on distractions’ – he meant you, by the way.”
“Sure.” You huffed a laugh that died in your throat when his palms skimmed your stomach, hot and broad.
“And I just kept thinking about you in here, grease and chalk on your cheeks, dress wrinkled, legs bare, tinkering with all your little mad scientist toys. And all I wanted was to–,” he kissed the spot just behind your jaw, where your pulse spiked, “–come bend you over this bench and ruin you where you make magic outta junk.”
You felt his belt unbuckle behind you – quick and practiced. Clink.
Ben’s hand slipped lower, and you gasped as his thick, long fingers found the slick heat between your thighs.
“Christ, honey… No panties?” His voice was ragged, laced with a reverence that made your cheeks burn.
“It’s too hot for cotton, okay?” You giggled weakly, your breath catching several times in the middle of it as his fingers kept exploring.
“Already so wet for me, huh, little genius?” he rasped between littering kisses along your neck and shoulder.
“Yeah, well, congrats. I’ve got a Pavlovian response to belt buckles now,” you quipped breathlessly.
“You know,” he murmured, pointer finger sliding between your folds before he faintly pressed against your clit, “you’re real dangerous when you say all those fancy words I don’t understand. Gets me all hot under the collar.”
“Everything gets you hot.”
“Damn right.” He smirked, teeth nibbling on your shoulder. “Can’t help it. I’m fucking obsessed with you, sweetheart. My little physicist. My brilliant, stubborn, filthy-minded girl who makes sparks fly – literally – and has no idea how sexy she is when she’s mouthing off with pliers in her hand.”
Your brain short-circuited when he then pressed closer, grinding against the curve of your ass, thick, heavy, and leaking. Middle finger joined the lonely one, rubbing soft circles over your bundle of nerves that made you squirm in his hold.
“Ben–”
“Shh,” he hushed, the smugness undeniable in bis voice, “Just let me take care of you, baby. ‘M managing your stress levels like the good, attentive boyfriend I am.”
You snorted half a whimper, involuntarily clenching around the emptiness in your cunt. And Ben noticed, grinned wider.
But that was what always wrecked you the most. The soft edge under the filth, the reverence in his voice even as he played you like a sinful little instrument, the way he touched you like you were both holy and his to ruin. It was as addictive as any vice in this world.
One drag of a cigarette and now you were doing heroin.
Your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, already began calculating angles of entry, force of friction, and how quickly you could achieve orgasm before George walked in looking for his wrench set again.
Ben gathered the fabric of your skirt, fingers raking it slowly up your thigh, bunching it at your waist. His other hand pressed to the small of your back, guiding you to lean slightly over the workbench like you were his own personal offering.
His lips trailed down your spine, lazy, messy, and sinful as always. You braced your palms on the bench, white-knuckling around the edge.
His knee nudged your legs farther apart, grip firm and tight around your waist. He stroked himself behind you, your ears picking up the slick drag of skin over velvet hardness.
Your thighs trembled shamelessly, and then – he pressed the thick, perfect head of his cock between your legs.
And just… stayed there. Teasing. Lingering. Rubbing.
He didn’t move. Just rocked, slow and torturous, coating himself in your arousal without giving you what you needed most.
Mother of Einstein, have mercy.
Ben grinned against your neck when a little whine escaped you. “That’s it, baby. Let me feel how much you need it. Say you missed me.”
“I saw you four hours ago.” You made a noise that was half a snort and half a gasp. “And you already defiled me twice this morning.”
“Say it anyway.”
“I’m gonna strangle you with your own belt if you keep doing this,” you threatened playfully, panting.
“Promise?” Ben’s grin was downright wolfish.
You smiled, amused. “I missed you.”
“Good girl.”
And then he pushed in with one rough, filthy thrust that knocked the air out of your lungs.
You cried out at the sharp snap of his hips as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open inch by burning inch. His grip on you was iron-tight, holding you in place like he never wanted you to get away.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he growled. “Still so wet. Still so goddamn tight, even after everything I’ve done to you.”
His hips started moving, deep and steady, claiming you over the workbench with every thrust. Rough, demanding, possessive.
“Ben–... fuck,” you moaned, helpless under the weight of him, under the fire igniting low in your belly.
Your body arched into his rhythm, every drag of his cock through your walls hitting deep, just right to make you delirious. The bench creaked beneath you, tools rattling with each movement, but you didn’t care. Maybe the only consistent variable in your life now was Ben – his hands, his heat, his cock filling you so perfectly it felt like your soul rebooted.
If George walked in, you’d probably just wave and tell him to knock next time – and maybe explain the wiring diagram mid-orgasm.
Hell, let the blue-blooded ghosts of Ben’s ancestors hear your strangled moans and spin in their fucking graves.
One of his hands then slipped to the front, rubbing tight, merciless circles over your clit again with ruthless fingers. The other one stayed flat against your lower back, pinning you in place while he took you – every stroke thick and relentless, your body jolting forward with every pound.
The brutal snap of his hips turned feral. Harder. Faster. Rougher. Sharp teeth grazed your shoulder, his hand squeezing your hip tight enough for a bruise to stay – at least for a little while.
Somewhere in the haze of sweat and slick skin and unspeakably sinful noises, you wondered if this was the real reason women didn’t get credit for their work – because the moment they tried to make history, some man came along and railed it out of them.
And now you were getting bent over a workbench with a genius brain and absolutely no coherent thought left.
The rush hit like a wave crashing over rocks – hot and shattering and all-consuming. You bucked back into him, crying out his name with a broken moan, barely muffled by your arm. Your body clenched and spasmed hard around him, knees buckling as he fucked you through it.
“Jesus, that’s it, baby. You takin’ it like a goddamn dream,” he growled low in your ear, losing control as your walls fluttered around him.
He punishingly drove in deep once, twice more for good measure, spilling inside you in hot pulses and with a groan that sounded like it had been clawing its way out of his throat since sunrise.
Thank fucking God for your IUD. In close to five months, he’d never asked once about protection. You honestly didn’t know what was going on in that head of his sometimes.
The shudder of his hips then rocked both of you against the table. The room stilled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex and sawdust. Ben slumped forward, pressing his face into the back of your shoulder, breathing heavy.
“Next time, warn me before you whip your belt off like a gunslinger,” you panted with a cheeky smile.
“Next time,” Ben rasped, nuzzling your neck, “I’ll tie your wrists with it.”
You wheezed, shaking your head, still breathless. “Why are you like this?”
Ben pressed a kiss to your shoulder blade, then the back of your neck, smug grin underneath, still twitching inside you.
He pulled out of you slowly, carefully smoothing your wrinkled skirt down before tucking himself in. Then he spun you to face him, holding your wobbly frame.
“All you, honey,” he replied, smirk smug and wide and lazy. He pecked your lips. “I’m gonna marry the hell out of you one day.”
Your heart almost jumped out of your ribcage. Was he serious? Was he thinking about that? You hadn’t even thought about that.
Ben then pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one between his lips.
You arched an eyebrow. “You better not think about lighting that in here.”
He snorted, square still stuck between his teeth, matchstick in hand. “You plan on filing a complaint with the shed manager?”
“No, you idiot, but you light that in here, we’re both going up like a firecracker before the party tomorrow,” you sassed. You were not about to go up in flames in a toxic sex crypt.
Ben laughed, tucking the nail behind his ear instead.
“You’re lucky I still let you in here. Truly, you’re the worst kind of distraction,” you quipped.
Ben had the audacity to look proud of himself. “You practically begged me to stay.”
“Oh, please, I only tolerate your presence because you’re decent in bed and occasionally bring snacks,” you teased him further.
“Decent?” he repeated, turning toward you with a wounded look in jest. “Decent? Woman, you were seeing stars five minutes ago.”
“You’re confusing an orgasm with a head rush from the lack of ventilation in here.” You grinned, then fully giggled when he barked a laugh and grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him.
You let yourself be folded into him, the warmth of his body anchoring you like it always did. The wind was whistling outside, the light that filtered into the shed through the cracks darkening. You could smell the rain in the air now – wet soil and electricity – before thunder roared once more across the garden like cannon fire.
Ben then took your hand, gesturing toward the door. “Come on, let’s get inside before the storm hits.”
You nodded, but your eyes drifted back to the chalkboard full of half-erased symbols, smudged like the memories of him you couldn’t clean off, as if meaning might surface if you stared hard enough. A futile map for a journey you were already too lost to finish.
But you squeezed his hand and followed him into the dark anyway, hoping you could outrun the storm a little longer.
▶️ Chapter 10: Here's Looking at You, Kid
I'm fully aware you guys have a love-hate relationship with this chapter. Ben dreaming, reader worrying, and a Fourth of July party next week?! Well, let's light 'em up! 🎆🧨👀
Coming Up:
On your way back to the garden, the empty mansion echoed faintly with distant music and laughter from outside. And then there he was:
Richard Brooks was already waiting, posted by the doorway to his study like a vulture smelling fresh meat.
“Miss,” he said, not even bothering to finish your name. “Inside. Now.”
“I was just heading back to the party,” you said, forcing a polite smile.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he said and opened the door with one hand and stepped back, waiting like a man who never heard the word no.
You walked past him, breath shallow, pulse fluttering like a caged bird. And then it was just you, Richard Brooks, and the scent of whiskey and old power clinging to the room like rot.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, absentmindedly pouring himself a glass of bourbon. “Making friends. Charming donors. Wiggling your way in like a parasite.”
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. Careful. Controlled. “What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Brooks?”
“I want to make this very simple,” he said, stepping closer with the slow gravity of a man used to the world bowing to him. “You want money? I’ll give you money. You walk away from my son. Tonight. I don’t care where you go, but you disappear. And in return, I’ll write you a check large enough to make sure you never have to get your hands dirty again.”
Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader
Warnings: 18+ for language and canon-level violence, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, angst, sexism, smoking & drinking, jealousy, fluff, a steamy end
Word Count: 10.3k
Posted on Patreon March 28, 2025
A/N: Another monster of a chapter, but I love this one haha! Probably one of the steamiest first kisses I've ever written 🫠
PS: I'm still a little slow with everything. April sunk its teeth in me and refuses to let go 🙈
✨ Chapter title comes from Casablanca (1942)
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List
Chapter 5: We'll Always Have Paris
Your eyes snapped open, your entire body jolting awake as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on you. A violent gasp escaped your lips, your skin clammy, slick and sweat-drenched from head to curling toes.
Your pulse was a frantic beat in your throat, your heart thundering in your chest as your mind scrambled to catch up with the nightmare that still clawed at the edges of your consciousness.
The images were still all there – sharp and clear.
The hellish scenes of bloodshed – the brutality, the faces twisted in terror, the screams – felt like memories, raw and unrelenting. But they weren’t yours.
The bloodied and broken faces you’d witnessed were fragments, scattered pieces of time, fleeting and sharp. And they all had one thing in common:
Soldier Boy.
Each memory that had come to you in the dead of night felt like a warning. A warning to watch out. A warning to keep your guard up. A warning to see the monster underneath the charming disguise. The gentle smile, the quiet manners, the warmth of his voice – it was all a façade. A beautiful, well-crafted mask.
His kindness was a lie, and the nightmares were proof.
You flinched when the memory of Black Noir resurfaced in your mind. You couldn’t shake the images – the bones snapping with sickening cracks, the jagged screams, Soldier Boy’s cold and empty laughter. You could still hear the sizzling flesh and smell the melting skin when Soldier Boy burned half of Noir’s face off. The spray of blood and brain was so vivid, so hot, it blurred your vision. You felt the warmth of the blood on your skin as if it were your own two hands that had done the deed.
Then, there was Mindstorm and the sound of a skull cracking open as the shield hammered down – so sickeningly loud, it echoed in your bones. Soldier Boy’s body loomed like a shadow over the twisted limbs, no remorse or pity in his serpent green eyes, only cold, unyielding emptiness, stripped of all warmth and always waiting to strike anyone who dared to meet them.
And his proclaimed enemies weren’t the only ones. Men, women, children. The atrocities, the cruelty – acts too vile to speak of. And Soldier Boy didn’t care one bit about any of them, cold and impassive like it was just another casual affair.
It was always the same. He never hesitated.
The memories clung to you like chains. You were drowning in them. It was a kaleidoscope of horror that wove together a clear picture of the monster underneath the charm.
With shaking hands, you pushed your trembling body upright, gripping the bed like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. You had to remind yourself that it wasn’t you. Those weren’t your crimes, even though they felt like it, the nightmarish memories warping your perception.
How many had there been? How many more would there be?
Your gaze flicked to the door, your hair matted to your forehead. Dread filled the hollows of your heart at the thought of going downstairs. You couldn’t face him – not after everything you’d seen.
You had to get the fuck out of here, or the mansion would become your goddamn tomb.
Museum to mausoleum.
But what choice did you have? You’d already spent a week here and weren’t any closer to getting home. Instead, you’d gotten only closer to the enemy.
You couldn’t escape. You couldn’t let him see. You had to play your part. You had to survive.
On weak legs, you stumbled out of bed, washed the remnants of your dreams off your skin, and forced your feet to move downstairs.
Florence sent you straight to the sunroom to grab some coffee, not entertaining any other breakfast ideas of yours this morning. But you weren’t hungry anyways, your stomach still twisting into knots. The terror was seared into your mind.
“Hey.”
“Jesus fuck!” You flinched at the sound of his voice behind you, almost dropping the cup of brewing hot coffee in your grasp to the shining marble underneath your feet.
Ben chuckled warmly. “Well, good morning to you, too, sweetheart.”
You shook your head, trying to clear the haunting images from your mind. “Morning,” you muttered into your mug and swallowed a big gulp of coffee.
Ben’s brow knit, head tilting when he finally noticed the tension in your muscles. “You okay? You look-, uhm–” His hand reached for your shoulder in worry, but you pulled it back, bringing distance between you two.
“What happened to the no-touching rule?”
His hand dropped to his side, frown deepening. “Oh, uhm, I assumed we were past that since you–“
“Well, you know they say you shouldn’t assume things,” you cut in sharply.
“Did I-, uhm, do something to offend you?”
You scoffed internally. What didn’t he do?!
You glanced at Ben, seeing the confusion etched into the stern creases of his brow. Your gaze dropped to his hands, large and mighty – the same hands that would be covered in so much blood in the future you weren’t sure he could ever wash it off.
You still felt the sticky, scarlet wetness on yours. Could see the fear in their eyes. His victims.
“No, uhm, I’m fine,” you said, knowing you couldn’t blame the guy in front of you for something he hadn’t done yet. It didn’t mean you had to like him a lot, though, either. “It’s not you. Just didn’t sleep well. Bad dreams.”
“Plural, huh?”
“Yeah, plural,” you confirmed grimly. “Look, uhm, I think I’ll just go back upstairs. Not really hungry this morning.”
“Right…” Ben nodded and watched you head for the safety of your room. “Look, uhm, wait! Cindy?”
Right, that was you. Honestly, if you’d thought you’d be stuck here with him for this long, you would’ve thought of a better name.
Ben caught up with you in the hallway, and you could see in the determined gleam in his green eyes that he wouldn’t let this go – let you go. Of course. Why would he respect boundaries or personal space?
You didn’t say anything, only turned to face him and stared at him without trying to blink.
“I-, uh, I have to go into the office again today. Why don’t you come with me, huh?” he suggested. “You’ve already spent a week locked in here. Maybe you’re going a little stir-crazy.”
“Maybe,” you admitted. He honestly might have been onto something.
“I could show you around the factory. We could have lunch in town together after?”
Pondering his proposal, you crossed your arms and averted your eyes to your seesawing feet. You knew you couldn’t get plausibly out of this one without either offending him, causing more confusion, or making him question your entire existence even more.
“Sure,” you agreed after a beat. Maybe you’d find another kind stranger in town that you didn’t personally know in the future who could help you.
Maybe Hitler still had some space in his bunker for you.
“Okay, uhm, I’ll wait here for you while you get ready,” Ben told you.
“Great,” you replied wryly and headed for your room.
“Maybe opt for appropriate footwear today, sweetheart,” Ben joked – at least it was the attempt of one.
“Yeah, whatever you want,” came your deflated reply, accompanied by a deep sigh.
But you didn’t know Ben’s eyes stayed on you, on the way his shirt clung to your curves as you trudged up the stairs. You were still wearing it to sleep, had been the whole week, even when he was sure Ms. Vivian had given you plenty of other options.
And one thought stuck with him then: Maybe not all hope was lost.
As you neared the steel mill, large clouds of black smoke billowed high into the sky. The ground around the factory was covered in soot and ash. In the distance, you could hear the whistling of trains, passing on the railroad tracks close by.
The grit and grime of industrialism.
The air was thick with metal, oil, harmful fumes and chemicals as Ben led you inside the mill. PPE wasn’t a thing yet either, no masks or other protective gear for workers in place – unless you counted the leather gloves, hard hats, and steel-toed boots as an adequate safety measure against cancer.
The noise was deafening with the constant hammering of clanking steel and workmen shouting over the rumbling of enormous and intimidating machinery. The temperature on the factory floor was sweltering, especially when you passed a row of blast furnaces and molten steel pouring into molds.
The only thing that came close to describing a place like this was Hell.
And sure, a true and proper lady of the time would’ve been scared shitless here, but for you, a physicist and history buff, it was enthralling.
If the mansion was like the Museum of Natural History, the steel mill was its technical counterpart.
You’d been so in awe you hadn’t even noticed Ben had laid a palm between your shoulder blades, guiding you through the narrow paths. His protectiveness made your skin crawl.
“I will put you in the fucking ground. Understood?”
Soldier Boy’s threat to Black Noir rang in your ears. You stopped in your tracks, forcing him to find your eyes, and then gestured to the arm around you.
“Ben,” was all you said – a mindful warning.
He lifted his hand but didn’t retrieve it to its entirety – hovering. Looming. “I’m just looking out for you. This place is a little dangerous for a woman. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine,” you replied with a firm tone. “I’ll stay close.”
Ben accepted it with a nod, although you could tell by the clench of his jaw that he didn’t like it. You didn’t know exactly why he brought you here. Did he really just want you to get out of the house, impress you some more, or subtly scare you?
Frankly, you weren’t surprised you were channeling Black Noir’s memories, most of all. Being Soldier Boy’s newest victim of long-term abuse, you’d always related to the poor guy.
“You know how steel is made?” Ben asked you and flashed you a smile, cocky in nature.
Impressing you it was, then.
“Iron ore is molten in a blast furnace, which is then refined and poured into molds or rolled into sheets in the rolling mills,” you replied and tried to sound as casual as possible. Bored.
Good luck impressing me, fuckboi…
Ben blinked at you and shut up rather quickly afterward, ending the tour when you reached his father’s office upstairs, still offering a view of the factory floor below through a row of windows on one side.
The office stood in stark contrast to the steel mill itself and reminded you of a miniature version of the mansion’s study – a massive and antique mahogany desk taking over the entire space, leather chairs, and blueprints and photographs of the mill in its prime on the walls around you.
The room was a another symbol of authority and influence.
“So? What d’you think? Ever seen a place like this?” Ben asked as he sat down at his desk – or his father’s – while your eyes still curiously took in all the items in the room, trying to fit puzzle pieces together.
“Can’t say that I have,” you admitted, your gaze drifting out the window and to the hard working men below.
Before Ben could respond, the phone rang and demanded his attention. It didn’t take long for you to realize that on the other end of the line was his father.
“Look, I’m trying. They said–… Yes, sir. I apologize. I know it’s important. I–… Okay, yeah, I’ll try my best,” Ben said, barely getting a word in as far as you could tell.
The gritted smile he pressed onto his lips was painful enough for you to guess that his father’s answer had probably been something along the lines of “Your best isn’t fucking good enough, son.”
“Everything okay?” you checked when he hung up with a deflated sigh.
“Yeah, uh… Sorry you had to hear that,” he said with a clear of his throat and a smile that faltered before it reached his eyes.
“You guys need to increase production for the war, right?”
Your question took Ben by surprise, but mostly because he was constantly underestimating you – or any woman for that matter.
“Yeah, uh, my father wants to get the government contract, but our competitors are making it tough,” Ben said.
“What’s the problem?”
“Oh, I don’t want to bore you, sweetheart,” he brushed your question off with a condescending chuckle.
Internally, you cracked your knuckles. Nuh-uh. You wouldn’t let that fly.
“You’re not,” you replied, strolling closer to his desk, pointing a finger at the opened ledger in front of him. “Are those the production records? Can I see?”
“You can, but I don’t think you’ll be able to make much sense of them,” Ben said.
“Try me,” you challenged with a smirk and plopped down on the leather armchair opposite him.
Ben clicked his tongue, fingers briefly tapping on the mahogany before he passed the leather-bound ledger over to you. You felt his eyes burning holes into you as he watched you carefully go through it, page by page.
“Well,” you finally said after an eternity and put the ledger back down on the desk. “Short-term solution would be to optimize your production flow downstairs with a few simple adjustments – like rotating their shifts, upgrading machinery... Long-term, you’re facing increasing costs in both labor and raw materials, especially with upping production output. You should move quickly on capital. The war’s only gonna drive up inflation.”
Ben pursed his lips, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I-, uh, I’d already thought about all of that. Wasn’t sure it’d pay off, though.”
Your brow furrowed, somehow not quite believing him. “Well, did you calculate it?”
“Did you?”
“Yeah, just now… in my head.” You gave him a shrug of your shoulders.
“Right…” Ben nodded with a swipe of his tongue over his lips. “Well, so have I. Why don’t you show me on the chalkboard over there, and I can see if your results match mine, sweetheart.”
Your lips drew a smirk, folding your arms over your chest. “Did that little trick actually work for you in school?”
“No idea what you mean,” he tossed your way, smile full of false halos.
“Alright, what’s the formula for profit?” you shot right back. Expectedly, Ben blinked at you quite cluelessly. “Can you do a production function?” Again, silence. “Do you know what marginal costs are? Economies of scale? The law of diminishing returns?”
“Of course I know what it is,” he huffed with an arrogant role of his eyes.
“Really? What is it?” you returned wryly, causing him to stump and swallow. “‘Cause I don’t know myself. Would probably help if a man explained it to silly little me. Go on. Impress me. That’s what you want, right?”
Ben smacked his lips in clear defeat. “Fine, you win.”
“Alright,” you said and rose from your chair in triumph, strolling over to a chalkboard in the corner of the room. “Let’s start with the basics, shall we?”
Two hours in, you had kicked off your uncomfortable heels across the room. They flung right past Ben’s head in his palm, elbow resting on the arm of one of the leather chairs. He’d turned it to you as he lazily sat, bowed legs man-spread wide, watching the equations you’d drawn on the board.
But you didn’t know the jade green eyes were mostly fixed on the curve of your ass in that tight, maroon dress. On the zipper in the back of your neck he wanted to pull. On the hem of your skirt his fingers itched to hike up your thighs.
Only when you’d turn to face him every few minutes, would his gaze lift back to your drawings, your nonsensical scribbles, your sparkling eyes, pretending he wasn’t entirely distracted. Pretending he understood.
You could tell he didn’t entirely, though. But it didn’t matter.
“If you implement these changes, you could increase output by 36%, which is enough of the market share to beat out your competitors,” you explained. “You’re looking at an additional profit of roughly 3.5 million.”
“Hmm,” Ben hummed, satisfied. “Not bad for a year.”
“Oh, no, this is per month.”
“Per month?!”
“Yes, per month.” You grinned, smug and victorious, having him right where you wanted him – a ‘fuck you’ to the patriarchy. “Guess we’re even for the clothes, then.”
His tongue swept over his lips, eyes narrowed, head tilting a little more as he watched you closely. A smile rose. Intrigued. Amused. Maybe even a little affectionate.
“Guess we are, sweetheart.”
And you? Your little win made you fucking gloat – and spurred you on.
The two of you had one thing in common – a shared need not only to impress anyone who ever dared to wrong you, but to show you were better than them. Smarter. Capable.
Your parents had constantly underestimated you. Your teachers had. Vought had. Butcher had. And Soldier Boy had, too.
But when you’d hit, they’d never see it fucking coming.
You weren’t scared of Ben. Weren’t scared of this world or this time. Weren’t even scared of his father, because you knew, if push came to shove, you could get out. You could beat them. You could make them fear you.
In your own time, you were a supe among many. Here, right now, you were the only one.
Knowledge was fucking power, no matter what shape it came in.
“How old are those furnaces? They don’t seem very energy-efficient,” you noted, sauntering over to the row of windows, watching the men work down below on the factory floor.
They were hardened and worn. Their skin was dirtied with soot. Sweat beaded along their foreheads in rivulets under their hard hats and dripped down their cheeks and necks. Their muscles were strained with each hit of a hammer and each heave of a steel beam.
Those guys were, what Soldier Boy had coined, real men.
And you respected them for it. Unlike the spoiled brat behind you, who’d only scoffed in amusement and said, “Are you kidding?” when you’d asked him if he had ever worked on the factory floor before.
“Well, they’re not the newest, but they work fine,” Ben replied, scratching the nape of his neck.
“Well, you don’t have to get new ones, but you can upgrade them,” you remarked. “Your cooling off period is too long. If you better insulate the furnaces, they can retain heat longer. Might also wanna make sure ventilation and airflow is sufficient. This way, you can reduce downtime and produce more. Faster, too.”
“And how would I do that?”
Smacking your lips, you contemplated for a moment. You could explain it to him, but you knew he wouldn’t understand it. “You got a head engineer here?” Slowly, unsurely, doubtfully, he nodded. “Great. Can you get him for me, please?”
Ben leaned back in his chair, lips pursed, considering your request. Considering you.
Then, he nodded again and rose from his seat with a heavy sigh, trudging toward the door.
“Oh, and Ben?” His eyes met yours. You sent him a smile, smug and utterly pleased. Innocent. “Can you also grab some food, please? I’m starving. All this thinking is making me hungry, and I skipped breakfast this morning.”
He licked his lips, rolled the bottom one between his teeth, bit down a little too harshly, but in the end, he gave you a tight smile. “Sure thing.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” You smirked broadly, knowing Ben was aware what you were doing, and if he’d been standing closer, you would’ve smacked his ass, too. Called him a “good little secretary.”
And Ben? Ben just took it. Resigned. Knew he couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t do anything. Knew he needed you. Knew you held all the cards. Knew you had the leverage. And he? Well, he had nothing. Not really.
Ben brought back food. Anything you could’ve possibly asked for. More even.
Crispy bacon and pancakes and waffles. Hash browns. Toast with melted butter, soaked right through the bread. Sausages. Scrambled eggs. A thermos of coffee. A whole apple pie, still warm.
How had he possibly acquired all of this in a span of thirty minutes? You had no fucking clue.
Apparently, money could buy anything, anywhere, at any point in time.
Ben also brought a guy named Fred, head engineer.
Both men then stared at you as you held a TED talk and scribbled drawings, formulas, and numbers onto the board. Ben sat in his previous seat in the leather armchair, posture unchanged. Fred was perched behind him, nodding along with a furrowed brow.
The nods told you he was agreeing with you. The creases told you he was pondering two questions: Who the fuck is this chick? and How the fuck does she know all this goddamn shit?
When you were done, Ben’s lips curled, glimpsing up at the older man behind his right shoulder. “You agreeing with this, Freddie?”
“Uh, yes, sir.” Fred scratched his head as he narrowed his eyes at your equations, the hesitance in his voice not missed by you.
“Then why the fuck haven’t you suggested that yet? Isn’t that your fucking job?” Ben prompted, the sudden authority in his voice and the callous gleam in his eyes taking you by surprise.
So, there it was – that little piece of Soldier Boy you’d been missing. You’d known it was there all along. Dormant. Slumbering. But the beast had woken up.
It made sense. Here, in his father’s office, he had to pretend to be every bit the man he wasn’t.
“Well, uh, I didn’t–… I wouldn’t know how,” Fred stammered, scratching a hole into his head at that point.
It wasn’t entirely his fault. Some of the stuff you’d suggested wasn’t really common knowledge at that point in time. But you weren’t too shabby to Edison some historical dick. How many men had taken credit and downright stolen from women over the centuries?
Yes, that’s right. You were doing this for the matriarchy. Vive les femmes! or whatever…
“I can teach him,” you chimed in all too helpfully.
Sure, you had no personal beef with Fred. Your feud was with his boss, but you accepted the engineer as collateral damage.
“Heard that, Freddie? She can teach you.” Ben chuckled mockingly, but it wasn’t aimed at you. Fred got the full brunt of it. You, on the other hand, received a wink and a smirk as your reward.
By the end of the day, you found yourself in a cloud of nicotine as four men sat behind you – drank and smoked and listened to every word that left your lips.
Danny from accounting had joined to check your numbers. Then there was Charlie, the mill’s young boilermaker and technician, who seemed to be mostly there for moral support for Fred, but had quickly taking a liking to you and switched sides.
A part of you loved showing off to a group of men, who certainly didn’t believe you were smarter than them. Another part did it for revenge.
You loved teaching. This was what you were supposed to do: Teaching physics classes as a professor to college kids, who were not only smart enough to understand you but also deserved to learn.
And Soldier Boy had taken that all away from you and ruined it. Now, Ben had to pay for it.
“You need to line the interior with a thicker layer of refractories,” you explained, voice filled with an infectious enthusiasm you couldn’t hide. “Can I bum one? Thanks!” You snatched a freshly lit cigarette from Ben’s hand and took a long drag before turning back to the chalkboard, your fingers tracing the schematic of the furnace as the smoke enveloped you. “But you can’t just use any material. It has to be a blend of firebrick with a high alumina content. That’ll keep more heat contained within the furnace and reduce energy loss.”
“That’ll cut down on fuel costs for sure.” Fred nodded along again.
“I’ll have to run the numbers, but it seems like a smart investment,” Danny agreed.
Your lips twitched with a pleased smile. “If you insulate properly, you won’t lose as much heat, and the furnace can maintain higher temperatures with less fuel. More efficient operation, faster output. If you improve airflow as well, you’ll boost production speed even more. Means more orders completed in less time.”
Charlie, who’d been intensely hanging on your lips, stepped closer to the board – and you. “You’re saying if we change the ducting and get better air intake, the furnace will burn hotter with less coal? That’s brilliant.” He smiled brightly at you, eyes lit with genuine awe. “We’d see a reduction in downtime too, right? I mean, with the better airflow and more efficient heating, the furnace could cycle faster without cooling off too much between shifts.”
“Yeah, exactly! You’re on the right track here, Charlie,” you praised the young technician with a warm smile. In this particular class, Charlie surely was your gold-star student. “The higher temperatures will help reduce the slag buildup, meaning less time spent scraping and cleaning. You’d get more output with fewer interruptions.”
Charlie grinned, clearly happy to be on the same wavelength as you. “And with the better insulation, the furnace wouldn’t cool as fast between cycles, so we wouldn’t have to waste time waiting for it to heat back up. Hell, at this rate, we could almost run it continuously!”
“Now you’re thinking!” Your face lit up like the sun, beaming at your shared understanding. “If you integrate a few more temperature sensors, you could even automate parts of it. It’d save you on labor costs too.”
“That’s genius! You’re sure you’re not some kind of magician?” Charlie chuckled.
Your cheeks blushed furiously at the compliment. God, it felt good to be seen and understood. Heard. Respected. “You’ve got a great mind for this, Charlie.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Ms. Cindy, but I’d be happy to learn from you any day,” he replied with a charming laugh.
“Well, maybe we can talk more about advanced lessons after these furnaces are running at full capacity,” you said, too eager to teach more. Too delighted.
“Sure, I’d love to! Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee? Are you here tomorrow as well?” Charlie asked, causing you to suck in a sharp breath.
Uh-oh…
“Oh, uhm, I–“ Your eyes flicked to Ben for the first time in a while. You’d been too enthralled by your lesson, by your conversation with Charlie, to notice the shift in the air – the shift in Ben’s demeanor.
His jaw ticked like a bomb, the white-knuckle grip around his half-empty tumbler of whiskey too tight. The nails of his other hand clawed into the brown leather of the chair’s arm. His eyes had grown so dark, so sinister, so dangerous, all the green in them had been swallowed. And his teeth kept grinding and grinding and grinding…
Shit.
You knew that look. You’d never seen it on Ben before, but you’d surely seen it on Soldier Boy a thousand times.
The two thirds of the whiskey bottle he’d drunk throughout the afternoon worked like slow poison through his bloodstream, bringing it to a boiling point underneath his skin.
“Charlie,” Ben’s voice cut in sharply with a condescending chuckle.
He rose from his seat, sauntered over to the board – to you and Charlie – and pushed himself between you two like a barrier. Like that stupid wall Homelander had once proposed of erecting along America’s borders.
And this? Well, this was just as fucking stupid.
Ben patted Charlie’s shoulder roughly, and you were surprised the young man wasn’t coughing by the sheer force of it. And you knew, right at that moment, that Soldier Boy wouldn’t have hesitated to kill that guy. Humiliated him before beating him into the ground.
“It’s cute how you’re trying to play engineer, but maybe leave the real work to the experts, hm?” Ben continued with a sharpness that felt out of place, every syllable meant to mock and punch deep.
Charlie was caught off guard by the abrupt change in atmosphere and straightened up, his posture stiffening slightly. “I’m just trying to learn, sir. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
Ben’s smile was cold as he took a step forward, closer to Charlie’s face. “Well, you’re not exactly the brightest tool in the shed, Charlie. I’m sure Ms. Cindy here has better things to do than waste her time on you. Don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Of course. I was just trying to do my job,” Charlie mumbled, casting his eyes downward.
“Ben,” your voice was soft, soothing, reassuring when it reached his ears. You tried your best to smooth out the tension and get the target off poor Charlie’s back. You didn’t want him to pay for your mistakes – and they were yours. You should’ve known better than to poke the bear in any timeline. “I’m sure Charlie didn’t mean anything by it. He’s just got good instincts for th–“
“It’s fine, sweetheart,” Ben hushed you, not letting you finish. He flashed you a quick smile, but his glare flickered right back to the young technician. “Just stick to what you know. No need to go beyond your station.”
Then, Ben’s hand curled around your waist, pushed you closer, squeezed, not giving a fuck about your rules. He took the cigarette you stole from him back, kept it between his lips like he was sucking your taste from it. Controlling. Possessive. His smirk turned smug, his eyes still fixed dangerously on Charlie.
“I’m just making sure everyone knows their place and isn’t overstepping any lines here.”
As much as you hated his hand on you, how his touch burned your blood and made your skin crawl, you knew you couldn’t slap it away or free yourself from his grasp – not if you wanted to keep poor Charlie alive. Because any rejection of yours would’ve caused the volcano to erupt. It would’ve embarrassed him, and you couldn’t do that – not in front of his employees. Not in his father’s office.
It wouldn’t have ended well for anyone.
“Alright, guys,” Ben’s deep voice cut through the friction with a clear of his throat. “Think we’ve done enough work for today. Let’s continue this tomorrow, huh?”
Fred and Danny nodded, both certainly eager to retreat before things could get any more awkward. Fred looked at Charlie, who was still quiet, his head lowered. It was clear he’d been caught in the crossfire, and Fred didn’t seem to be one to stir the pot any further either.
Ben shot a glance at Charlie one last time, the unspoken challenge between them palpable as the former’s lips curled into a smirk, ensuring Charlie knew exactly where you’d be tonight.
And you let him win, let him have this one, but it didn’t mean you’d actually fall into his bed. He’d be direly mistaken.
Charlie left without another word, without another glimpse at you, following the others. And as soon as that office door closed, you were ready to twist Ben’s arm back till it broke in two, but as if he sensed the looming threat, he dropped his hand from your body all on his own and took several steps back.
He fucking knew.
Your fiery glare tried to find him, burn him, but he avoided it almost skillfully.
“You know, Charlie was right about one thing,” Ben said, baritone voice cutting through the silence that consumed the office. It carried none of the tension you felt – as if nothing had happened. He slipped right back into the charming mask. “You are brilliant, sweetheart.”
“What the fuck was that?” you blew right through the smokescreen, not entertaining his deflection even for a second.
“Don’t get upset, sweetheart,” he said and itched for a roll of his eyes, but he finally met your gaze – unbothered and calm. “I thought I was doing you a favor. Or did you really wanna have coffee with that guy?” He snorted a chuckle of amusement, like the whole idea of you dating someone like Charlie was ridiculous.
“I could’ve handled that on my own.”
“I’m sure you could’ve.” Ben only smirked that same amused and condescending smile and held a glass of whiskey out to you.
This time, you accepted it and emptied the whole goddamn thing down your throat, ignoring the razor-sharp burn. Ben’s brows shot up in surprise, but he didn’t comment on it further.
“It’s my decision who I have coffee with, not yours,” you bit. “And an invitation for coffee doesn’t mean I’m gonna spread my legs either, by the way.”
That seemed to amuse him more, grin widening. “Oh, I know. Otherwise, I would’ve already seen it.” He chuckled and leaned against the edge of the sturdy desk, bringing his glass to his lips, watching you. “Let’s celebrate a little, huh? Let me take you out to dinner.”
“I’m not hungry. Thank you,” you snipped.
Ben clicked his tongue, head bobbing in thoughtful defeat. He grabbed the pack of smokes from the desk, shook one out, and stuck it between his lips. “Can I ask you something?” He glanced at you from his periphery, lighting his cigarette behind a palm. You gave him a lackluster shrug. “Why don’t you like me?”
The question took you aback. You didn’t think he’d ever ask you this openly, but maybe it was the alcohol that made him more daring, more reckless.
“Who says I don’t?” you brushed it off, walking closer to him. You snatched the cigarette from him and took another hit, trying not to cough out the stinging smoke in your lungs.
You weren’t a smoker. Not really. More of a casual “bum one from Frenchie in a club after several drinks” type. But cigarettes in 1942? They punch harder than a hit from a bong.
“You take my drinks, you take my smokes… You know, sometimes I wonder what else you’ll take.” Ben smirked cunningly and met your eyes when you passed the cigarette back to him.
Your lips twitched slightly. “Why? You still got your virginity?”
“Do you?” he shot back and held your gaze.
God, he was worse than the nicotine in your blood. Worse than any other vice you could’ve thought of.
“No.” You shook your head, a hint of a smile on your lips. A tease. A bait. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“You’re not,” he said, mirroring your smile with mischief sparkling in the jade.
“You know, I wouldn’t have helped you today if I didn’t like you at least a little. I wouldn’t be here,” you remarked and settled down on the desk next to him, legs dangling over the edge. He quirked an eyebrow, almost scolding, half-amused.
People were so rigid and frigid back then. No sitting on desks. No fucking swearing. Undergarments.
Ben considered your words with a sip of whiskey and another drag of his smoke. “Then why?”
You cocked a brow and took the cigarette from him again. “Why what?”
“I could see it today,” he noted pensively. “You act different around me. Guarded. You weren’t guarded around Charlie.”
You inhaled more smoke into your lungs, letting it go with a slow exhale. “I told you this morning. It’s not personal.”
“Feels like it.”
You met his eyes, green, lost, hurt. “You remind me of someone.”
“And you don’t like him?”
“I hate him. Wish he was dead,” you replied, your gaze, much like your stance, unwavering.
Maybe Butcher was right. Maybe you should grab that golden, ornate letter opener from the mahogany desk next to you and end it all right here. Now.
How many lives would you save? None?
Because truth was, even if you killed Soldier Boy, before all the power and all the glory and all the bloodshed, Vought would just pick someone else. Maybe a bigger monster. Crueler, harsher, deadlier.
What would the future look like then? Would you find fifty Homelanders instead of the one? Would there even still be a world to come home to? Would you be the one that brought it to its knees?
Not Homelander. Not Soldier Boy. You.
Would you be the end?
It wasn’t an option now, was it? An option would be to get your ass over to Germany and nip it in the bud. Choke the living hell out of Frederik Vought before that Nazi piece of shit even had a chance to deflect to the Allied Forces.
Kill the monster who created the poison that ran through Soldier Boy’s veins. Through Homelander’s. Through yours.
But what would happen then? Would you still be here? Would you stop existing?
Dead end.
And what if you suddenly got your powers back but couldn’t return to the point of origin, to the point you’d screwed it all up? And you did screw it all up. Fucked up royally by just blinking at him for a nanosecond. You could prove it on the fucking board in black and chalk!
Oh God, oh God, oh God…
And what if you accidentally disappeared right this second? What then? A sneeze, a wheeze, and poof – gone with the wind again.
That Clash song came to mind. You’d seen them during their last tour. July 9, 1982 – Wembley Arena, London.
And it really all boiled down to this:
If you went, there’d be trouble. And if you stayed, it’d be double. So, really, what should you fucking do?
“I’m not him, though,” Ben broke the silence, ripped you from your endlessly looping mind. You were almost grateful for the interruption.
You knew you were slightly going crazy at this point. You had dug yourself deep into shit this time. There was no way out – none that you could see.
No decision right or wrong. It all just… existed. Parked in neutral. Just rolling, rolling, rolling…
You looked at Ben, really looked this time. And maybe he was right. Maybe you even liked the guy in front of you. Maybe you saw the potential. The softness. The kindness. It wasn’t all his fault. He’d been born and bred this way. Callous and cruel, seeing the world as his playground.
But maybe there was still something there, buried deep and chained. Something bigger and stronger than the poison, the greedy companies, and the timeline. Bigger than you and him. Something very human.
Cosmic.
“You were today,” you said quietly.
“Oh.” Ben paused, brow creasing as your words sunk in. “Did he hurt you? That guy?”
“Not in the way it matters,” you replied slowly, swallowing to loosen some of the tightness in your throat. Your fingers gripped the wooden edge of the desk. “Not enough to break.”
Ben looked at you for a long time then, trying to read you, trying to understand, trying to puzzle it all together. “I’m sorry,” he finally said.
Your brows shot up in surprise. They always did whenever he uttered words of apology. “What exactly are you sorry for?”
“I guess…” He contemplated for a moment, thought about his answer carefully. “For reminding you of him. Especially today.” You nodded, gifting him a small smile that he returned. “Thank you for helping me, you know? Was real nice of you. Even when you’ve been kind of a… dick about it.” He tossed you a small grin at the four-letter-word.
You snorted a loud chuckle, your cheeks turning red. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I pretended all day I had a dick.”
Ben’s grin widened, sharing your laugh. “Oh, I could feel that.”
“Bet you did. It’s real big.” Your smirk was downright audacious. So much so, you could see his cheeks blushing.
Ben inhaled another drag of his cigarette. “I think Ms. Vivian was right. Maybe I should get Mrs. Helen for you,” he teased, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
“Oh, c’mon! You love when I talk like that.” You grinned cheekily.
His lips tugged at a smile as he met your eyes. “Yeah, I fucking might.”
“See? Feels fucking good, doesn’t it?”
“It fucking does.” Ben mirrored your grin, laughing. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Yeah, heard that one before,” you said, but your tone shifted with a sigh, remembering Florence’s words of warning and the fact that you were constantly lying to Ben. He didn’t know you. Not really. Not at all. “Can I ask you something?”
He chuckled softly. “Sure.”
“Why do you wanna be like your father? Is that what you really want? That life?”
Ben blinked at you, exhaling a deep breath as he put out his cigarette butt in the overflowing ashtray. You could tell at this point he was used to your questions, which seemed never all that easy to answer.
“What d’you mean?” He wasn’t offended but curious. Patient.
“I mean, look at it. Really look,” you told him with as much conviction as you could find. “Do you want a wife who’s just a former shadow of herself because you sucked all the joy of life out of her? Do you want your kids to be lonely, growing up in an big, empty house devoid of love?”
Ben tried to laugh it off. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think, sweetheart,” he huffed wryly and arched an eyebrow, scratching his throat. “It’s not like your life was any better. You’re even more alone than I am.”
You didn’t take offense to it. After all, from his perspective, he had a valid point.
“I’m not as alone as you think I am,” you said, smiling mischievously. “And I’m definitely happier than you.” You grinned then, causing his brow to raise almost challengingly. “I also don’t strive to be like either one of my parents.”
Ben thought for a moment. “So, what do you want then?”
“I don’t know.” You twitched your shoulders. “I don’t think I have to know. Not yet, anyways.”
Ben scoffed a chuckle. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Challengingly, you arched a brow. “I may not know what exactly I want, but I know what I don’t want. It’s elimination by exclusion. There are a lot of options, so deciding what you don’t want as you go along narrows it down to the choices you do want.”
Ben pursed his lips, nodding. “Guess that makes sense... in a way.”
“So, what about you? You wanna be like your dad?”
Ben looked at you for a beat, then softly, almost invisibly shook his head. “No... No, uhm, I don’t want that… I’d wanna be better.”
‘Cause I thought I could do it better than my father did…
Your heart did that little sting again when you thought about that night, something gnawing in the back of your mind. Had he always felt this way? Maybe if you gave him a little push now, he could–
No, no, no! Stop fucking with the goddamn timeline!
But maybe if you stayed, if you let yourself fall freely, if you stopped thinking about cosmic consequences, you could–
Nuh-uh! Stop! Dear fucking God, just stop!
You’d already done enough damage. You had to rein in your inner Puck before it could cause any more chaos.
And yet:
“So, what are you gonna do about it?”
You felt bad. Really, really bad. You felt bad and guilty and fucking awful. You were a fucking despicable human being. Soldier Boy had been right – you weren’t worthy of powers this big. Neither was he, but the cruelty matched.
And sure, he was a gross asshole, but not even he deserved what you were doing to him. Not that you were doing any of it on purpose. Did good intentions fucking count?
You’d told him to stop following you, and he hadn’t listen. You’d needed help, and he’d offered it kindly to you. And now?
Now, you were fucking screwed six ways to Sunday. Both of you were.
Because even if you fixed it, fixed everything you broke without leaving a single crack behind, you were still snooping through his life – uninvited. Because you knew – you fucking knew – he wouldn’t approve of this or like it, and he’d probably also kill you for it.
You would if someone were doing to you what you were doing to him.
Maybe you should’ve listened to Butcher. Soldier Boy would probably forgive you for a simple attempt on his goddamn life before he’d fucking forgive you for this. Killing him seemed kinder in comparison. Nicer. Less fucking crazy.
Musingly, Ben licked his lips. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I never planned to be like him. I was gonna do it different, anyway. He’s not gonna be alive forever, you know?”
“You wanna hold out till he drops? You know, that might not happen till you’re sixty,” you noted. Not that age would matter to Soldier Boy, but Ben didn’t know that yet.
You knew. You knew everything, lying and pretending that you didn’t. But you did.
Why was that bothering you so much, though? Playing a role during your adventures through time had always been the trick of the trade.
“Well, I already enlisted. Might get some opportunities there,” Ben said, while you still tried to keep your spinning mind in orbit.
You swallowed thickly at his words. He surely will, you thought dryly.
“But you said you only did that for your dad as well,” you threw in and bit your tongue hard a second later.
Dear Lord! Stop fucking pushing! This is wrong! So, so wrong…
“Yeah, but aside from that, I don’t have that many options,” Ben remarked, and you took note of the strange self-consciousness in his voice. Like he knew deep down his father was right. Like he knew he was a disappointment. Like he knew he was fucking weak. “I flunked out of boarding school, so it’s either working for my father or–“
“Doing a job like Charlie’s?” you offered with a knowing smile.
“Yeah…” He nodded defeatedly.
“It’s not the worst, you know?”
He cocked a doubtful eyebrow. “What, having no money? Slightly disagree, sweetheart.”
“Happiness doesn’t come for free,” you pointed out. “Rich in spirit, poor in pocket.”
Amused, Ben snorted. “And you’d be fine with a man who has nothing to his name?”
“Yeah,” you said without a sliver of doubt or hesitation. “Not that my opinion matters here.” You shot him a warning look, but his lips only flashed an amused smile. “I didn’t grow up with a lot. Certainly don’t need a lot now. And besides, I can provide for myself, you know?”
“Oh, sure you can.” Ben chuckled teasingly.
Internally, you sighed at his comment, but you knew, to him, that statement must’ve sounded preposterous.
“I’m sorry, but did you shake 3.5 million out of your sleeve today or did I?” you challenged.
Ben’s lips formed a smile of acceptance. “Fair enough.” He scratched the nape of his neck, clearing his throat. “So, hypothetically, if you don’t need someone to take care of you, what kind of a man are you looking for?”
“Who says I’m looking?” You smirked a little, but Ben only indulged you with a raised brow. “Alright, let’s say hypothetically I’m looking…”
“Uh-huh, continue.” Ben grinned with triumphant mischief, making it a chore for your cheeks not to hurt from smiling so much yourself.
“I guess I’d just want someone good. Someone kind. Someone reliable. Honest,” you replied slowly and met his gaze. “Funny.” Your lips tugged at a grin. “Someone who’s gonna get into trouble with me. A partner in crime, you know?”
Ben laughed softly. “What, like a Clyde to your Bonnie?”
“Minus the murder, but yeah,” you confirmed, giggling, but you felt strongly to make that distinction, considering everything you knew about his future counterpart.
And then, your stomach churned and twisted this time instead of your heart. You were walking on thin ice, hearing the fucking cracks under your feet. Soon, you’d break through – not in a good way.
So, yes, maybe you liked him. Liked him more than you’d be ever willing to admit. But were you just supposed to ignore everything else? Everything you knew and everything that might come?
Were you a fool for thinking you could change destiny?
“Tell me one thing,” you said, interrupting the comfortable silence between you two. “What would make you happy? I mean really happy. Forget about all the money and your father and everything else. What’s your happy place?”
“Hmm,” Ben hummed, teeth chewing on the plush flesh of his lower lip. He found your eyes. “Tell me yours first.”
“Alright,” you accepted, knowing you’d pushed him enough for today, knowing you had to give, too. Knowing his vulnerability didn’t come without a price. You contemplated for a moment, exhaling a sigh. “I guess… Paris. I’d wanna live in Paris. Go roller skating in the Louvre at night. Boop Mona Lisa’s nose.”
Ben snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “Sounds a bit cockamamie.”
“Hey, you have your dreams, I have mine. And you’ll see. I’m gonna do it. I have more tricks up my sleeve than just math,” you retorted playfully, causing his smirk to deepen, but there was affection in every crease and crinkle on his face. “Before you mock, why don’t you just tell me yours, huh?”
Ben rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, green eyes flickering to you in his periphery, eventually landing on your lips. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I guess I just found mine,” he said, the raspy voice only a quiet whisper.
Time stood still for you then. You could see each inch he leaned closer in slow-motion while your heart pounded at double its speed. The wild beats rose to your throat, filled your ears.
The room started to spin, but you froze. Petrified, eager, aquiver.
He dipped his head lower. You didn’t move.
His breath fanned against your cheek. You didn’t move.
His nose ghosted along your skin. You didn’t move.
His gaze found yours. You didn’t break it.
He silently asked for permission. You swallowed, but you still didn’t move, didn’t look away.
Ben’s lips pressed against yours. Your heart exploded.
It was only a tentative brush at first, testing, testing, testing... It was light and soft and almost innocent, so innocent it stirred something deep within your soul. You let your eyes fall shut, instinctively leaning in.
Into him.
And that was it. That little movement of yours he’d been waiting for. Like it answered all the questions he could ever have about you. He exhaled, let go, too soft for a groan but close enough. Close enough to leave you wanting more. You could feel his fingers twitch for more too, even when they didn’t touch you.
Close enough.
It only took a fraction of a second to feel the shift – in the air between you, in your heart, in your bones, in the universe.
And your mind screamed to pull away.
You forced yourself to break the kiss, hands pushing lightly against his broad chest. Your heart hammered, your breaths shallow.
“Ben, I–” You swallowed heavily, shaking your head. Looking at him would’ve only broken your resolve. “I can’t. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
The words felt like painful little pricks on your tongue.
But you were. You were fucking sorry. This should’ve never happened. This line should’ve never been crossed. You took it too fucking far. Not because you didn’t like him or shouldn’t like him, but because you fucking did.
You did, you did, you did…
It wasn’t that you couldn’t do this. You could and you would. You so would. But you couldn’t fucking do this to him.
You liked him. Not because he was nice to you. Not because he was kind to you.
You liked him because you could understand him. Because he could understand you. Because he was like you. Because you both were shattered beyond mending.
Two souls undone beyond redemption. Frayed beyond the reach of time. Lost beyond the point of no return.
Ben didn’t move. Didn’t distance himself. Didn’t pull back. Didn’t do anything. But he was watching you. Watching every quiver in your bones, every shaky breath in your lungs, every doubt in your mind.
Ben stayed close. Closer. He leaned in just enough for you to feel his hot breath breeze along your skin. “Can’t or don’t want to?”
“Can’t.” Your voice was so quiet, so tame, so much lacking of any fight, you were surprised he heard it at all.
But he did.
His hand found the edge of the desk, and with one fluid motion, he turned and stood in front of you now, towering, tenacious, holding on. He reached out and gently took your small hand in his – warm, safe, reassuring.
There was a hint of a smile on his lips, triumphant, when you didn’t retreat. You let it happen. Let him pull you off the desk and toward him, flush against his body.
Ben’s hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing along your jawline before he lifted your gaze to him, forcing you to look at him. “Why?” He leaned in closer and closer still, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before you felt the tip of his nose brush along your skin just underneath it. “What’s stopping you?”
“Ben, I can’t,” you repeated, but it was so meek you knew it wouldn’t deter him in the slightest.
“Then why’s your heart racing, sweetheart?” He smirked victoriously against your skin, right behind your ear.
Slowly, he placed your hand he was still holding on his chest. You could feel his heart beating underneath your palm, steadfast and persistent. His now free fingers wandered, trailed with a featherlight weight up your arm, down your shoulder, lower still, sending shivers down your spine as they brushed each vertebra, down to your lower back and waist.
Then, they settled.
The hand still on your cheek slipped to your throat, thumb resting on your thundering pulse point. He forced your eyes back up, back to find his. The grip on your waist tightened, firm and dauntless. Then he pushed you closer, smooth and swift and suave.
And you still wanted to be closer. Closer, closer, closer.
Your breath hitched, and he smiled that lazy, winning smile again.
“‘Cause seems to me like you have a demand, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice dangerously low and hungry. His grin turned wolfish then. “And I could supply…”
“Is that all you retained from your microeconomics lesson?” you teased to pretend his actions didn’t affect you, but your voice came out too breathlessly. Too fucking weak to really make an impact.
“It’s the important part, isn’t it?” Ben chuckled and sent you a smug grin before taking both your hands and sliding them up his broad chest till they draped around his neck. “But you’re welcome to teach me more, sweetheart,” he whispered devilishly into your ear.
Two large hands then cupped your waist, hot and firm and deliberate, thumbs pressing into your lower ribs. And he pushed you closer again, this time not leaving so much as an inch of space between your bodies, so close your head became dizzy, not knowing where you ended and he began.
“Ben, I can’t,” you said, but the more you said those words, the more they lost their meaning.
“Why? Give me a good enough reason, and I’ll stop.”
His hands smoothed up your curves and grabbed hold of your face again. One hand brushed your hair back and settled on your throat, the fingertips of his other tracing along your jaw. And when his thumb only skimmed over the plush flesh of your bottom lip, your mouth almost parted and sucked it inside.
A smirk rose on his freckled face. He could fucking tell.
“You don’t even know me,” you said then, swallowing the thick lump in the back of your throat, but your heartbeat kept rising as his hands explored – unbothered.
“I know enough,” he countered with an amused smile.
A step forward pushed you back, feeling the edge of the desk press against your buttcheeks.
“You don’t even know my real name,” you admitted, but it didn’t have the effect you hoped it would. He didn’t stop. Not in the slightest.
Ben only snorted at your confession. “What? You don’t think I know?”
His lips then descended on your throat, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column. Your breathing quickened. He pushed you a little further till you had no choice but to slide back onto the smooth mahogany surface, and he slotted himself right between your legs when you did.
“Ben, I can’t,” you said it like a prayer that got lost in the vastness of heaven.
“Then why are you still holding onto me?” he quipped slyly, nudging your nose with the tip of his. Teasing. “You’re shaking, sweetheart. Am I making you nervous?”
“You don’t know what you’re getting into here,” you tried to warn him, pleading with him.
“Well, hopefully you,” he returned smugly. Amused. And his hands kept roaming.
“Ben, please…”
“What happened to ‘Ben, I can’t’? You know, if you start begging, it’s gonna do even less to stop me, sweetheart,” he taunted you with a deep chuckle that you felt rumbling through his chest.
“Ben, I’m serious…”
“So am I.”
He claimed your lips before you could argue further. Without hesitation. Without a second thought. Without regrets. He kissed you deeply. Not a brush. Not a test. Not a question.
Only raw hunger.
A gasp parted your lips enough for his tongue to slip inside, each stroke against yours like a sharp, fiery lightning bolt to your core. He explored your mouth with precision – fervently, ferociously, tenaciously.
Whiskey and nicotine invaded your taste, and you welcomed it all with a sigh.
“Ben, I can’t…” you tried once more, but your body betrayed you, your voice only a breathless whisper that fled into the void.
“Not good enough.” He crashed his lips harder against yours, sharp teeth dragging over your soft, pink bottom lip. Biting, teasing, convincing.
Your desperation reached a boiling point, chasing his lips, his taste, his touch with a fever you’d never felt before, igniting every sense you possessed.
And you let the flames consume your soul while your inner Puck cheered you on and demanded more.
“Ben, please…”
“Keep saying it exactly like that, sweetheart.” He smirked against your throat and sucked his mark into your pulse point.
You felt his palm clasp your knee, burning hot and firm against your taut skin. It hiked higher and higher on your thigh, past the hem, underneath the skirt of your dress.
“Bet you’ve been waiting for a big dick like mine, haven’t you?”
“Get your fucking hands off of me!”
“Ben, stop. Please. Please stop…” Your hand landed atop of his on your thigh and kept it locked in place.
And Ben complied without question, his grip loosening under your palm before he retreated it entirely and placed it gently on your waist instead. He met your gaze with half-lidded eyes and ragged breaths.
“You okay?” he checked, leaning his forehead against yours, patiently caressing your cheeks.
“I can’t let myself do this. Not with you,” you said quietly, still catching your breath, still trying to ground your reeling mind. That seemed to finally catch his attention, pulling back slightly from your face with a furrowing brow.
“What d’you mean?” His voice was deeper than before, less soft, a trace of offense in his syllables because he couldn’t possibly understand.
“I mean, this could end badly. Really badly. For both of us,” you said, swallowing, but you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch when he palmed your cheek.
“You know, I don’t care about the skeletons in your closet. Don’t even give a shit if you left a trail of bodies behind you, sweetheart,” he said jokingly, unaware what impact those words had on you.
But what about his skeletons?
“No, I mean this is going to be a disaster. As in cosmic consequences bad. Apocalyptic catastrophe bad. Almost certainly might end the world bad,” you explained, almost desperate for him to understand you, desperate to tell him everything right now, the mill’s office morphing into your confession booth.
But Ben only snorted a small laugh, thumb stroking your cheekbone with an unwavering softness. “Aren’t you exaggerating a little, sweetheart?”
“I’m really not,” you stressed and looked deeply into his green eyes. “I-… I can’t stay. You know that, right?”
His brows quirked, but then he leaned in and brushed his lips softly against yours. “I’ll take my fucking chances.” He smirked daringly, then placed another kiss on that sweet spot behind your ear that made your heart melt. “Go out with me.”
“Ben–“
“Gimme a chance here, huh? All I need is one,” he said, his gaze imploring. So convincing, so certain. “Let me prove to you I can be the man you want.”
“Ben, that’s not–“
“Please.” Ben’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow, giving you an insecure little smile. “Come on, don’t make me beg more. It’s not really my strong suit.”
And then, as you stared at him and every good thing he was and every terrible thing he was going to be, the only option you hadn’t explored yet festered in your mind:
What if you stayed?
You nodded, hesitant and unnoticeable at first till it became vigorous and sure. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” Ben’s smile widened, happier than you’d ever seen it.
“Yes.”
▶️ Chapter 6: I Don't Mind a Reasonable Amount of Trouble
What did you think of their first kiss? Would you want Ben to convince you like that? 😏❤️🔥 I also absolutely love the reader in this part. Show those dicks who's the smartest in the room, girl lmao
Coming Up:
You adjusted the collar of your coat against the chill, tucking your hands into the pockets. Ben, sensing the shiver that ran through you, pulled you a little closer, interlacing your fingers with his.
“How’d you like the movies?” he asked, smiling softly and giving a quick peck to your temple.
“I loved them! Can’t go wrong with Bogart and Fonda,” you replied with a smile that soon turned teasing. You playfully nudged his shoulder. “So, you scared yet I’m gonna pull a fast one on you like Barbara Stanwyck did to Henry Fonda?”
Ben laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “I don’t know. So far, you haven’t really been interested in my money, so I think I’m safe. ‘Sides, I’m not as easy as Fonda.”
“You sure about that? You do look a little naive and fresh-faced to me,” you quipped, grinning.
“Well, just so you know, if you’re really trying to con me… it’s working,” he joked and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling you into his arms with a fond smile and whispering a kiss onto your lips.
These were gamma tongs. They carried an exposure to five
thousand millisieverts of radiation.
Okay, I only went to two years of Santa Monica College, so could you please translate that for normals?
Enough missing fissile material to fuel a Chernobyl-level event right here in Los Angeles.
Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum
COUNTDOWN (2025) | 1.01 – “Teeth in the Bone”
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