Last night’s hangover slammed into him before his eyes even opened. A dull, rhythmic throbbing behind his temples that made his skull feel two sizes too small. Shit.
Ben groaned, shoving the heavy comforter off with one arm, intending to drag his ass out of bed, when his hand landed on something warm instead.
What the…? His fingers sank into it for half a second before his brain caught up.
His eyes snapped open.
The white sheets were ruined. A thick, dark crimson smear stretched across the mattress like someone had taken a paint roller to it. Heavy, congealed pools clung to the fabric, glistening wetly in the low morning light.
It looked exactly like a bloodbath.
For one disorienting heartbeat, his stomach lurched. Had someone broken in? Had he blacked out and…?
Except it wasn’t blood. The texture was wrong: slick, viscous, with the metallic sheen…
“Y/N!” he roared into the empty room. No answer.
He jumped out of bed, bursting into the hallway in determination to find her even if he had to turn the house and the forest upside down.
It was way easier than that. He just had to follow the red trail, and it took him right outside his room.
Y/N was slumped against the corridor wall, a few feet from his door. Lying on her stomach, as if she had simply fallen asleep there. But Soldier Boy knew better than to believe he had good luck, so he carefully turned her around.
A massive trail of the same thick crimson oil had poured out of her, pooling heavily around her small form in a glossy lake. There was so much of it, still leaking from the huge, jagged hole in her chest. The synthetic skin around the wound looked like third-degree burns — melted, blackened, peeling back in places. Circuits, organs, and whatever had once been in there… it was all just gone.
His throat went dry.
“Hey. Hey.” His voice cracked. “Wake the fuck up. Y/N. Wake up, don’t you hear me!”
He dropped to his knees beside her, large calloused hands sliding through the warm oil as he grabbed her shoulders to get her closer to his chest.
In the center of the ruin, tiny errant blue sparks hissed and popped, creating nauseating bubbles of it.
He was a soldier. He’d seen men bleed out in trenches, watched arteries pump bright red in panicked spurts. He knew how to pack wounds, tie tourniquets, shove intestines back inside a screaming body.
But this wasn’t bleeding, and Y/N was not a soldier. And Ben had no idea how to fix it.
warnings: fingering in a semi-public setting (a car), no aftercare, misogyny. typos maybe :(
A few days passed in a strange, tense limbo.
Ben didn’t mention the gala, Stan Edgar, or his conversation with Firecracker, and Y/N didn’t push. The couple existed in the same tiny motel room, circling each other, speaking in short casual conversations while ignoring something fundamental had shifted between them.
The gala had been their first time out together, and the excitement she had felt prior to it now felt tainted. For Y/N, it was like dark, red handprints on what used to be white snow.
But there was no time for doubts or resentment; she still had a task she was expected to do, a purpose to fulfill. So every time the shadow of that night crept into her mind, Y/N closed her eyes tightly and evoked the warmth of Ben’s hand in hers, the rare laughter they’d shared back at the motel, the fierce way he had held her at the end of the evening.
She highlighted the good, making a whole cake out of the breadcrumbs of his kindness. Her second-month report had to bear better new, statistics and data that proved Ben was getting better, that Y/N's presence was working.
There was a learning curve, sure, but she had been engineered to be the finest recovery tool ever made, and even if unsaid, was still expected to perform as such.
Only God knew how much patience Vought would have left for their oldest relic’s adaptation to normalcy.
It was a Tuesday morning, a week and a half after the gala, when they received the call, informing them they were being moved to one of Vought’s properties away from New York and the busy city life.
“A house in a good neighborhood in Connecticut,” Ashley had squealed over the phone, her voice dripping with that exhausting corporate cheer. “A better environment for your recovery, Ben! More space and more privacy you and your unit can enjoy.”
Ben had wanted to tell her to shove Connecticut up her tight corporate ass. But he knew the length of his leash.
So, a few days later, they loaded what little they owned into the back of a sleek, black Vought SUV. Ben tossed his duffel bag into the trunk with enough force to make the suspension groan.
As he rounded the side of the vehicle, he caught a movement by the motel office. Martha was standing there under the awning, watching them leave. She offered a small, hesitant wave; a fragile gesture of familiarity that made Ben’s stomach turn. He hadn't forgotten her betrayal.
So, he did not wave back. In fact, he raised his hand and flipped her off without even looking at her, holding his middle finger high enough to ensure she caught every bit of his contempt. Martha’s face fell, her hand dropping to her side.
Satisfied with having ruined her morning, Ben turned away, his jaw tight, and climbed into the backseat beside Y/N.
The Vought driver didn’t say a word; the glass partition was already up. The SUV pulled out of the gravel lot, leaving the damp motel that he had called home for months, behind.
For the first ten minutes, Ben did nothing but stare out the window, watching the gray highway blur past as his thoughts swirled between a million different worries. Firecracker, Vought, Homelander.
Y/N.
Y/N.
He sat rigid in the backseat, coiled tight as a spring, jaw locked against the storm raging behind his eyes. Without a word—without even turning his head away from the window—his right hand claimed her thigh.
Y/N’s processors stuttered at the sudden heat of his palm, her breath caught in a soft, artificial hitch. She didn’t pull away, couldn’t. Not when that single touch sent a crackling current straight through her core.
Despite their differences, their sexual compatibility was undeniable from both sides. And oh did Y/N desire him after days of cold distance.
His thumb dragged slow and deliberate just beneath the hem of her sundress, tracing the smooth synthetic skin like he was memorizing its soft texture. The miles to Connecticut blurred faster outside the windows, suddenly irrelevant.
A second hand joined the first, Ben's touch turning impatient. In a single move he shoved her sundress up her thighs, squeezing and kneading her bare thighs with the kind of raw need that felt like he was trying to anchor himself before he drowned. Every press of his fingers left a reddish imprint on the soft, synthetic flesh.
A shiver rolled down her spine and pooled hot between her legs, where her body—obedient to its human design—grew slick and aching under his touch. "Oh, Ben..." She inhaled sharply when his fingers brushed over the front of her panties, finding the growing wet patch with a low, satisfied rumble that vibrated deep in his chest.
“Already soaked,” he muttered, voice gravel-rough and quiet. “Just from my hands on your leg?”
Y/N bit her lip hard, cheeks burning. The knot in her throat stole any answer she might have given. She could only watch as he rubbed slow, firm circles over the damp fabric, pressing the soaked material tight against her swollen clit. "Mhm."
Ben kept her thighs open with his grip so he could stare down at the obscene sight of the wet cotton stretching over her cunt. “Sir…”
“Shh.” His gaze never lifted to her face. “Just sit there and take it.”
The car hummed steadily along the highway, tires singing against asphalt. The driver might as well have been a ghost.
Without warning, Ben slipped two thick fingers beneath the edge of her panties. He dragged them through her slick folds, spreading her wetness, then pushed inside her in one deep, relentless thrust.
Y/N gasped sharply, her hand flying to his wrist, fingers digging in on his skin until they also left imprints. Soldier Boy's fingers curled and stroked with devastating purpose, looking for the perfect angle that would get her to be louder.
And he was succeeding at it. Tiny, helpless whines slipped from her parted lips no matter how hard she tried to swallow them, increasing in volume and disregard for the poor driver, only a polarized sliding window away. She stared at the hard line of his jaw, at his darkened gaze, silently begging him to look at her. To see what he was doing to her.
Instead, Ben leaned in and pressed his nose to her cheek, inhaling deeply. Soap. Warm skin. The faint fruity trace of her shampoo. He breathed her in again while his fingers pumped harder, faster, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing tight, rough circles that made her thighs quiver uncontrollably.
“Please, more, sir…” she whispered again, voice breaking.
He gave no answer. Only the wet, squelchy sounds of his fingers working her open filled the space between them, mingling with the low drone of the engine and her ragged little gasps.
His face was still pressed against her neck when the pleasure hit the absolute highest. Her hips jerked against his hand, her eyes closed tightly, as ecstasy ripped through every circuit in her body, thighs shaking violently around his wrist.
Ben didn’t stop his thrusts until he’d wrung out the very last pulse of her orgasm. Only then did he slowly withdraw his glistening fingers. With casual disdain, he dragged his wet fingers along the inside of her thigh, leaving a shining streak of her own arousal on her skin as he discarded her.
The backseat felt unbearably hot now, but not for long, as Ben was quick to pull away once he had cleaned his hand.
He turned back toward the window, abruptly adjusted himself in his slacks, and pointedly stared out at the passing trees as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.
The only evidence left of his own tension were his hands, deeply shoved back into his pockets. It was uncanny how calm he looked now when a few seconds prior he was inhaling her so greedily she thought he might faint.
Meanwhile, Y/N sat there, still breathing hard, her legs still trembling from the weight of him. Her cheeks burned with a fierce, artificial flush; the sheer processing power required to handle the physical intimacy, combined with the data overload of her own emotions, had spiked her internal temperature to its absolute limit.
With shaky hands, she quickly pulled her panties back into place and smoothed her sundress down, her fingers fumbling against the fabric.
Without a word, and without a single glance in her direction, Ben reached into the duffel bag at his feet. He pulled out a plain, rough rag and tossed it onto her lap.
But this wasn't new.
Maybe weeks ago, she would’ve teared up and wondered what was wrong with her for him to just… discard her like that. She had a second-month report to file. She had to prove she was working, that she was saving him. So, as she picked up the rag, she closed her eyes tightly and let her programming do what it was designed to do: optimize.
In the quiet sanctuary of her mind, Y/N began to edit the memory. She deleted the coldness of his turned shoulder, muted the rough, dismissing slap of the cloth against her lap. Instead, amplified the memory of his heavy hands bruising her thighs and the absolute, crushing necessity with which he had held onto her body.
She rewrote the shame into passion, into something she could actually use .
He needs me, she told herself, forcing her trembling lips into a phantom of a smile. I am his anchor.
When she opened her eyes, the SUV was already turning onto a quiet, tree-lined street in Greenwich. The new house came into view: a two-story colonial with a white picket fence and a perfectly manicured lawn. Suburban perfection on paper. In reality, a brand new cage for the lamb and its butcher.
Ben hadn't looked at her for over half an hour. He didn’t when the vehicle stopped at the curb, or when the engine cut or when he climbed out. Y/N followed quickly, her fingers frantically smoothing her sundress over her trembling legs, trying to erase the physical evidence of what had just happened in the backseat.
She was mentally preparing to map out the house by herself, but the front door swung open before they could even reach the steps.
“Welcome to your new beginning!” A polished Vought handler stood on the porch, a tablet clutched like a shield against her chest. “Soldier Boy, it’s an absolute honor. We selected this property especially for you and your.. unit.”
Ben ignored her completely. He yanked his duffel from the trunk, his shoulder brushing past the woman so hard she nearly dropped her stylus. "So... what do we have here?" Y/N offered a tight nod to the handler.
Prompted by her, the launched into her script, gesturing wildly at vaulted ceilings and an open-concept living area flooded with blinding Connecticut sunlight. “State-of-the-art security, reinforced ballistic glass, motion sensors," the woman looked genuinely excited for them. " and a direct satellite link to the Vought Tower, of course. It's a gift straight from the higher-ups.”
“Are the perimeter grids localized,” Y/N interrupted softly, her eyes tracking the seam where the wall met the ceiling, “or synced with the neighborhood network?”
“Fully localized and encrypted,” the handler replied, and hurried toward the kitchen, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the hardwood. “Alsooo, we’ve stocked the fridge! and the climate controls can be tailored specifically to your user's thermal needs…”
Ben never joined the tour. He stayed in the middle of the living room. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, his eyes scanning the pristine space like the sight of it disgusted him.
Once the handler finished rattling off the final security protocols, she pressed a sleek set of keycards into Y/N's hand and let herself out. The heavy oak front door clicked shut with a definitive, echoing thud, and an oppressive silence immediately swallowed the house.
Y/N found Ben right where she left him half an hour ago: Staring at the empty air as if whatever thought was on his mind were actively burning his skin.
The quiet made the house suddenly felt enormous.
“You’re taking the guest room,” he said flatly. His voice echoed, thin and cold, against the high ceilings.
Y/N, who had been quietly watching the way the sunlight broke through the massive windows, turned to look at him.
“Okay.”
Ben’s jaw tightened. He waited for the fight.
He waited for her to complain, to demand something, to act the way a real woman would after being thoroughly used and pushed aside. When nothing came but that docile, hollow compliance of hers, he couldn't helpt the bitter scoff that arose from his throat.
“You’re really fucking happy with this arrangement, aren’t you?” His voice dripped with malice. “Of course you are. You’ve got nothing better to do than follow me around this giant cage and pester me all day like a goddamn pet”
The android blinked slowly, composure locked tight. She didn't snap. Instead, took a hesitant step toward him, hands clutching at the fabric of her sundress.
Salve the data. Bridge the distance.
“You’re so negative, Ben, and I understand, really,” she said. Her voice dropped into a soft, aching earnestness, but her gaze remained steady as if talking to a wild animal. Or worse, Ben thought, an infant. “I know you’re hurting. But you don’t have to push me away just because you don’t want to admit what’s actually bothering you."
His grimace was answer enough.
He looked down at her, searching her face for any crack in the armor, any sign of the synthetic malfunction he knew his cruelty was meant to cause. But she just stood there, offering him nothing but that terrifyingly perfect, resilient calm.
Then, she made the mistake of adding one more thing.
"This is our chance for a new beginning.”
The repetition of the handler's corporate phrase brought him back to earth with a violent, jarring jolt. Not that he had ever dared to leave in the first place.
So he doubled down.
“Don’t start that psychoanalyzing bullshit with me,” he snapped, his voice dropping into a low, menacing growl as he crowded her space. “You don’t know shit about what’s going on in my head. You’re nothing but a hunk of junk. So don't flatter yourself into thinking you can read me.”
He turned on his heel, his heavy military boots striking the pristine wood floors with punishing force as he stormed toward the grand staircase.
“And make me a fucking sandwich while you’re at it,” he threw over his shoulder, the words intentionally crude, a deliberate effort to reduce her back to an object. “Since that’s apparently all you’re actually good for.”
He marched up the stairs without looking back once.
Y/N stood entirely still, tracking the heavy thud of his steps overhead. Only when the master bedroom door slammed shut with a violent, concussive bang that rattled the expensive glass panes did she finally let go.
The moment the lock clicked into place upstairs, ensuring his total absence, her system misfired.
A choked gasp escaped her throat as tears welled up in her eyes until they finally, finally spilled over, tracking hot paths down her cheeks.
Emotional suppression could only work for so long, even for a machine.
As the tears flowed, her internal diagnostics flared with critical warnings, but the release acted like a manual purge. Slowly, the erratic thermal spikes raging beneath her synthetic skin began to level out. Challenging her internal programming had only been good for instability and heat waves.
She looked up at the closed door at the top of the stairs for a long, agonizing moment, then down at her hands.
Her chest still felt tight— a suffocating compression that her software was already beginning to catalog as yet another failure in becoming closer with her primary user. Her only reason to exist.
Exhaling a final, trembling breath, she wiped the stray wetness from her face with the back of her hand and walked back into the kitchen and began to pull ingredients out of the state-of-the-art fridge.
Alone again in a perfect house.
Always alone.
—
chapter 12 teaser
taglist (to be added or removed just ask !): @snorklingfae @wolfiemarley @just-a-harmless-patato @brittney69 @thaliassair @chxrrybomb22 @itzpixiebabe @kitkatq05
note: i think this chapter needs no warnings but if i am mistaken pls let me know.
Y/N wasn't sure how long she had been walking.
The gala had blurred together a while ago; a mix of overly loud laughter, glasses gleaming under the lights, and faces she barely recognized from Vought’s archives. The alcohol was doing strange things to her system. It didn't make her dizzy in the clumsy way it did humans, but it slowed the speed of her thoughts, turning every deduction soft and hazy like cotton candy. Deep down, she was grateful for the fog; it was preferable to the crushing lucidity of knowing she was alone. The moment she tried to focus too much on the anything, the thought was lost entirely.
A single thought remained, permanently engraved in her processor: Benjamin.
He was still nowhere to be found, no matter how many times she had circled the dance floor and the labyrinthine hallways of the party. His absence wasn’t a missing piece of data; it was a physical void, a draft of cold air that chilled her to the bone.
"Excuse me," she asked a different waiter for the third time, still clutching the empty glass in her hands. Her voice sounded lower than usual, carrying a thread of urgency she couldn't hide. "Have you seen Soldier Boy?"
The man smiled nervously, checking her out. "No, ma'am."
Of course not.
Y/N kept moving through the crowd, dodging and catching looks of suspicion and lust alike. Even if no one down there knew what she was, her beauty was undeniable. And tonight, that beauty felt like a like a target on her back. She found herself shrugging her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller, vulnerable against a tide of strangers because Ben wasn't there to protect her.
The shield had vanished long ago, when someone from production practically ripped it out of her hands after seeing her stumble near a catering table.
"And where's your owner?" one of them had joked.
She had pretended not to hear, but felt the impact as a wave of weat rushed up her neck, flushing her cheeks with a burning embarrassment.
Her conversation with Stan Edgar had made it crystal clear, stripping her of any illusion of dignity: she was, after all and before anything else, Soldier Boy's property.
A deep humiliation, laced with a very human fear of abandonment, made her wrap her arms around herself as she kept walking, now more frantically even if she stumbled her way through it. If Ben didn’t come back for her, if he had truly grown tired of her... she would be left stranded there, exposed and naked before a world that only saw her as lesser than a human.
She had to find him.
—
Meanwhile, several floors below, Ben had both arms propped up on the counter of a private bar he had thought was empty.
“I never thought I’d meet you in person.”
The female voice arrived before the perfume did; something sweet, heavy, and far too cheap for his liking. Next came the thud of a heel against the stool's leg, and finally, a woman settled in beside him.
Ben barely turned his head, ready to send her straight to hell, but something caught his eye. A flash of copper from his peripheral vision.
Vibrant, fiery hair, and a blue dress tight as wet paint against her body that triggered a tug in his gut. Old habits died hard after all.
He recognized her face after a second. The one from the TV. The loudmouthed human who had spent months barking across the internet about heroes, corruption, and patriotism, trying to muscle her way into The Seven without a single drop of Compound V in her veins.
An audacious chick, and fucking hot one, at that. But tonight he simply was not in a mood.
“Congratulations,” Ben said, his words dragging just a bit. “You’re fan number one million.”
She let out a nasal giggle while tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the bourbon bottle.
“Oh, no. I’m the original.” She grabbed the bottle, spilling a drop onto the fine wood before pouring herself a drink. “I grew up watching your movies. I had posters of you pinned to my wall. I even cried when they said you died.”
“And look what a disappointment it must’ve been when I came back.”
”Not at all.” Firecracker checked him out from head to toe with absolute shamelessness, leaning her body toward him in a way that left very little to the imagination. “You’ve preserved yourself pretty well for a man of... what? A hundred years old? Your presence in person is… something else, Soldier Boy. They just don't make men like you anymore.”
Ben snorted through his nose, though he felt the compliment settle pleasantly in his chest. Normally he would have cleared out by now but had been a while since someone had adulated him so openly.
Besides, there was something familiar about Firecracker that had nothing to do with his long history with redheads.
No, she felt transparent to him. She wasn't looking at him with suspicion, nor was she grading him in silence. In fact, her blue eyes reflected something much simpler to understand: pure carnal desire.
That already put her above half the room... until she opened her mouth again.”'And where's the little doll? The robot I saw you with earlier.”
Ben’s jaw tightened just a fraction. He slammed his glass down on the bar with a sharp thud.
“And how the fuck do you know about that?”
“Hey, relax.” Firecracker raised her hands, smiling as if it were nothing. “I have my sources inside Vought. But nothing gets out past these walls, don't freak out. Your relationship isn’t public domain yet.”
Ben narrowed his eyes, sizing her up, but she didn't back down.
On the contrary: Misty leaned a bit closer to him, just enough for her blue cleavage to fall right into his line of sight.
“I was just curious, because I heard Vought manufactured a wife for you and that she's... a technological miracle. That she’ll change the world.” She said so with a tone of sarcasm and disbelief that reminded Ben of himself three months ago, when Y/N was first given to him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
He averted his gaze back to his drink. “Yeah, well. Vought also manufactured Homelander, and look how he turned out.”
She let out a loud, inelegant, and completely unexpected laugh that triggered one of his own before he could stop himself. Firecracker noticed instantly. “There he is,” she murmured, looking at him as if she had just won a prize. “The real Soldier Boy.”
“And which one is that?”
“The one who says what he thinks and does whatever the hell he wants.”
He said nothing, but his eyes flicked down to her lips for a split second before returning to his glass and taking another long sip.
Soldier Boy was used to women who melted in the face of the danger he represented; it reminded him of the old days, before Russia, before the world became so goddamn fragile.
Firecracker reached out again, this time to brush the rim of Ben’s glass with her own red-painted nails, shattering the last barrier of distance between them.
“You should come on my podcast,” she said suddenly, “we’d make the internet blow up.”
“I don't know what the fuck a podcast is.”
“That makes it even better.” She brought her face closer to his. “Besides… I’ve always been curious to know if the legend was true.”
Ben arched an eyebrow.
“What legend?”
Firecracker smiled slowly. And then, in Ben's head, something clicked.
Upstairs, Edgar was still trying to keep him in line. Daisy, the rules, the uncomfortably domestic conversations… that whole hypocritical game of social rehabilitation. They wanted to make him docile. To make him manageable.
Daisy, as good as she was, played the biggest part. He needed to break the spell, remind himself who the fuck he was, and, while he was at it, flip a giant middle finger to the board of directors.
So when Firecracker finally leaned in to steal a kiss, Ben kissed her back without a second thought.
It was an aggressive kiss. Misty let out a small, satisfied moan against his mouth, clawing at the leather of his suit with hungry fingers as if afraid to let the moment go. For a split second, Ben could actually picture Homelander's face if he were to see them right at that moment. The sheer thought of stealing a toy from Vought’s spoiled brat almost made him enjoy it.
Almost.
When they pulled apart, Firecracker looked thrilled with herself, breathing heavily, her lipstick slightly smudged.
“Wow. I'm gonna brag about that until the day I die.”
Ben ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. The adrenaline of the sabotage burned out far too quickly, leaving him strangely cold. He stepped away from the bar, turning his back on her as an unprecedented pang of guilt tightened in his chest.
Ben’s expression hardened. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered gruffly. “Get in line.”
—
Ben took the marble steps three at a time, his jaw clenched and his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide his balled fists. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to find Y/N, drag her by the arm to the car, spit a few harsh truths about her precious programming, and make it clear that he wasn't about to let himself be tamed that easily.
He wanted to treat her badly, the way Soldier Boy treated the world when the world choked him.
But then he saw her, sitting three steps below the main landing, right where he had left her an hour ago.
With her hair slightly disheveled, an empty glass still held with a pitiful stiffness between her fingers and that pitiful pout, she looked all the way a broken doll already.
When she looked up at the sound of his heavy footsteps, her eyes—those deep brown eyes Vought had designed to be perfect—were misted over with thick, slow tears. The perfect woman who would change engineering forever looked now drunk, tired, but above all, terribly hurt.
And all he had to do was leave for an hour.
All the cruelty Ben had spent his walk from the bar weaponizing evaporated in a second, replaced by a rough knot in his throat.
“Look at you.” His rehearsed harshness did not come out as such, but rather as affection. “You’re a goddamn mess.”
Y/N blinked, and the sound of Ben’s voice triggered an immediate reaction in her chest. For her artificial systems, the harshness of his words should have registered a hostility alert; to her wounded mind, however, it was a lifeline. He is looking at me. It wasn't the lustful gaze of the executives upstairs, nor Edgar's cold condescension. It was Ben.
He was angry, he was annoyed, but his eyes were locked on her. If he was scolding her, it meant he still cared about the state she was in. It meant that, even as a defective piece of property, he was still claiming her.
“Ben….” she whispered his name, attempting to stand. Her legs, slowed by the alcohol, buckled instantly, and her body pitched forward, losing her balance at the edge of the step.
“Watch it! Goddammit.”
Ben’s movement was pure instinct, faster than any human could have processed. Before Y/N could even slip, his hand clamped firmly around her waist, catching her against his chest with enough force to almost knock the wind out of her. The empty glass hit the floor, rolling down the stairs with a clink neither of them heard.
Ben pressed her against his body, feeling the artificial warmth radiating from her skin and the way she immediately clung to the chest piece of his suit, burying her face in his neck like a child. He let out an annoyed huff, but he didn't let go.
“You can't even stand up,” he muttered into her hair, irritated by the sweet lavender scent that washed over him, soothing instead of bitter. “Let’s get out of here before you make a total spectacle of yourself.”
He scooped his arm beneath her knees and lifted her off her feet without the slightest effort. Y/N obeyed, burying her fingers into the fabric of his suit.
Ben’s warmth, his scent of gunpowder, bourbon, and tobacco, enveloped her like a shield; the one she’d craved all night to feel around her.
She had been humilliated, excluded and torn to pieces by high society, but as long as Ben's arms held her with that almost violent firmness, the pain became bearable. She was safe.
Y/N belonged to someone, yes. But that gave her a place in the world—a warm, secure spot to fall into.
Ben, for his part, could only focus on the weight of her against his side and the goddamn guilt eating him alive. He despised the docility with which she leaned on him, and he despised himself for being unable to just drop her and let her fend for herself.
They were nowhere near the same syntony.
As they moved down the hallway toward the exit, far from prying eyes, Soldier Boy tightened his grip, silently cursing the day that machine started feeling so terribly human.
—
taglist (to be added or removed just ask !): @snorklingfae @wolfiemarley @just-a-harmless-patato @brittney69 @thaliassair @chxrrybomb22 @itzpixiebabe @kitkatq05
note: i think this chapter needs no warnings but if i am mistaken pls let me know.
Y/N wasn't sure how long she had been walking.
The gala had blurred together a while ago; a mix of overly loud laughter, glasses gleaming under the lights, and faces she barely recognized from Vought’s archives. The alcohol was doing strange things to her system. It didn't make her dizzy in the clumsy way it did humans, but it slowed the speed of her thoughts, turning every deduction soft and hazy like cotton candy. Deep down, she was grateful for the fog; it was preferable to the crushing lucidity of knowing she was alone. The moment she tried to focus too much on the anything, the thought was lost entirely.
A single thought remained, permanently engraved in her processor: Benjamin.
He was still nowhere to be found, no matter how many times she had circled the dance floor and the labyrinthine hallways of the party. His absence wasn’t a missing piece of data; it was a physical void, a draft of cold air that chilled her to the bone.
"Excuse me," she asked a different waiter for the third time, still clutching the empty glass in her hands. Her voice sounded lower than usual, carrying a thread of urgency she couldn't hide. "Have you seen Soldier Boy?"
The man smiled nervously, checking her out. "No, ma'am."
Of course not.
Y/N kept moving through the crowd, dodging and catching looks of suspicion and lust alike. Even if no one down there knew what she was, her beauty was undeniable. And tonight, that beauty felt like a like a target on her back. She found herself shrugging her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller, vulnerable against a tide of strangers because Ben wasn't there to protect her.
The shield had vanished long ago, when someone from production practically ripped it out of her hands after seeing her stumble near a catering table.
"And where's your owner?" one of them had joked.
She had pretended not to hear, but felt the impact as a wave of weat rushed up her neck, flushing her cheeks with a burning embarrassment.
Her conversation with Stan Edgar had made it crystal clear, stripping her of any illusion of dignity: she was, after all and before anything else, Soldier Boy's property.
A deep humiliation, laced with a very human fear of abandonment, made her wrap her arms around herself as she kept walking, now more frantically even if she stumbled her way through it. If Ben didn’t come back for her, if he had truly grown tired of her... she would be left stranded there, exposed and naked before a world that only saw her as lesser than a human.
She had to find him.
—
Meanwhile, several floors below, Ben had both arms propped up on the counter of a private bar he had thought was empty.
“I never thought I’d meet you in person.”
The female voice arrived before the perfume did; something sweet, heavy, and far too cheap for his liking. Next came the thud of a heel against the stool's leg, and finally, a woman settled in beside him.
Ben barely turned his head, ready to send her straight to hell, but something caught his eye. A flash of copper from his peripheral vision.
Vibrant, fiery hair, and a blue dress tight as wet paint against her body that triggered a tug in his gut. Old habits died hard after all.
He recognized her face after a second. The one from the TV. The loudmouthed human who had spent months barking across the internet about heroes, corruption, and patriotism, trying to muscle her way into The Seven without a single drop of Compound V in her veins.
An audacious chick, and fucking hot one, at that. But tonight he simply was not in a mood.
“Congratulations,” Ben said, his words dragging just a bit. “You’re fan number one million.”
She let out a nasal giggle while tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the bourbon bottle.
“Oh, no. I’m the original.” She grabbed the bottle, spilling a drop onto the fine wood before pouring herself a drink. “I grew up watching your movies. I had posters of you pinned to my wall. I even cried when they said you died.”
“And look what a disappointment it must’ve been when I came back.”
”Not at all.” Firecracker checked him out from head to toe with absolute shamelessness, leaning her body toward him in a way that left very little to the imagination. “You’ve preserved yourself pretty well for a man of... what? A hundred years old? Your presence in person is… something else, Soldier Boy. They just don't make men like you anymore.”
Ben snorted through his nose, though he felt the compliment settle pleasantly in his chest. Normally he would have cleared out by now but had been a while since someone had adulated him so openly.
Besides, there was something familiar about Firecracker that had nothing to do with his long history with redheads.
No, she felt transparent to him. She wasn't looking at him with suspicion, nor was she grading him in silence. In fact, her blue eyes reflected something much simpler to understand: pure carnal desire.
That already put her above half the room... until she opened her mouth again.”'And where's the little doll? The robot I saw you with earlier.”
Ben’s jaw tightened just a fraction. He slammed his glass down on the bar with a sharp thud.
“And how the fuck do you know about that?”
“Hey, relax.” Firecracker raised her hands, smiling as if it were nothing. “I have my sources inside Vought. But nothing gets out past these walls, don't freak out. Your relationship isn’t public domain yet.”
Ben narrowed his eyes, sizing her up, but she didn't back down.
On the contrary: Misty leaned a bit closer to him, just enough for her blue cleavage to fall right into his line of sight.
“I was just curious, because I heard Vought manufactured a wife for you and that she's... a technological miracle. That she’ll change the world.” She said so with a tone of sarcasm and disbelief that reminded Ben of himself three months ago, when Y/N was first given to him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
He averted his gaze back to his drink. “Yeah, well. Vought also manufactured Homelander, and look how he turned out.”
She let out a loud, inelegant, and completely unexpected laugh that triggered one of his own before he could stop himself. Firecracker noticed instantly. “There he is,” she murmured, looking at him as if she had just won a prize. “The real Soldier Boy.”
“And which one is that?”
“The one who says what he thinks and does whatever the hell he wants.”
He said nothing, but his eyes flicked down to her lips for a split second before returning to his glass and taking another long sip.
Soldier Boy was used to women who melted in the face of the danger he represented; it reminded him of the old days, before Russia, before the world became so goddamn fragile.
Firecracker reached out again, this time to brush the rim of Ben’s glass with her own red-painted nails, shattering the last barrier of distance between them.
“You should come on my podcast,” she said suddenly, “we’d make the internet blow up.”
“I don't know what the fuck a podcast is.”
“That makes it even better.” She brought her face closer to his. “Besides… I’ve always been curious to know if the legend was true.”
Ben arched an eyebrow.
“What legend?”
Firecracker smiled slowly. And then, in Ben's head, something clicked.
Upstairs, Edgar was still trying to keep him in line. Daisy, the rules, the uncomfortably domestic conversations… that whole hypocritical game of social rehabilitation. They wanted to make him docile. To make him manageable.
Daisy, as good as she was, played the biggest part. He needed to break the spell, remind himself who the fuck he was, and, while he was at it, flip a giant middle finger to the board of directors.
So when Firecracker finally leaned in to steal a kiss, Ben kissed her back without a second thought.
It was an aggressive kiss. Misty let out a small, satisfied moan against his mouth, clawing at the leather of his suit with hungry fingers as if afraid to let the moment go. For a split second, Ben could actually picture Homelander's face if he were to see them right at that moment. The sheer thought of stealing a toy from Vought’s spoiled brat almost made him enjoy it.
Almost.
When they pulled apart, Firecracker looked thrilled with herself, breathing heavily, her lipstick slightly smudged.
“Wow. I'm gonna brag about that until the day I die.”
Ben ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. The adrenaline of the sabotage burned out far too quickly, leaving him strangely cold. He stepped away from the bar, turning his back on her as an unprecedented pang of guilt tightened in his chest.
Ben’s expression hardened. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered gruffly. “Get in line.”
—
Ben took the marble steps three at a time, his jaw clenched and his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide his balled fists. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to find Y/N, drag her by the arm to the car, spit a few harsh truths about her precious programming, and make it clear that he wasn't about to let himself be tamed that easily.
He wanted to treat her badly, the way Soldier Boy treated the world when the world choked him.
But then he saw her, sitting three steps below the main landing, right where he had left her an hour ago.
With her hair slightly disheveled, an empty glass still held with a pitiful stiffness between her fingers and that pitiful pout, she looked all the way a broken doll already.
When she looked up at the sound of his heavy footsteps, her eyes—those deep brown eyes Vought had designed to be perfect—were misted over with thick, slow tears. The perfect woman who would change engineering forever looked now drunk, tired, but above all, terribly hurt.
And all he had to do was leave for an hour.
All the cruelty Ben had spent his walk from the bar weaponizing evaporated in a second, replaced by a rough knot in his throat.
“Look at you.” His rehearsed harshness did not come out as such, but rather as affection. “You’re a goddamn mess.”
Y/N blinked, and the sound of Ben’s voice triggered an immediate reaction in her chest. For her artificial systems, the harshness of his words should have registered a hostility alert; to her wounded mind, however, it was a lifeline. He is looking at me. It wasn't the lustful gaze of the executives upstairs, nor Edgar's cold condescension. It was Ben.
He was angry, he was annoyed, but his eyes were locked on her. If he was scolding her, it meant he still cared about the state she was in. It meant that, even as a defective piece of property, he was still claiming her.
“Ben….” she whispered his name, attempting to stand. Her legs, slowed by the alcohol, buckled instantly, and her body pitched forward, losing her balance at the edge of the step.
“Watch it! Goddammit.”
Ben’s movement was pure instinct, faster than any human could have processed. Before Y/N could even slip, his hand clamped firmly around her waist, catching her against his chest with enough force to almost knock the wind out of her. The empty glass hit the floor, rolling down the stairs with a clink neither of them heard.
Ben pressed her against his body, feeling the artificial warmth radiating from her skin and the way she immediately clung to the chest piece of his suit, burying her face in his neck like a child. He let out an annoyed huff, but he didn't let go.
“You can't even stand up,” he muttered into her hair, irritated by the sweet lavender scent that washed over him, soothing instead of bitter. “Let’s get out of here before you make a total spectacle of yourself.”
He scooped his arm beneath her knees and lifted her off her feet without the slightest effort. Y/N obeyed, burying her fingers into the fabric of his suit.
Ben’s warmth, his scent of gunpowder, bourbon, and tobacco, enveloped her like a shield; the one she’d craved all night to feel around her.
She had been humilliated, excluded and torn to pieces by high society, but as long as Ben's arms held her with that almost violent firmness, the pain became bearable. She was safe.
Y/N belonged to someone, yes. But that gave her a place in the world—a warm, secure spot to fall into.
Ben, for his part, could only focus on the weight of her against his side and the goddamn guilt eating him alive. He despised the docility with which she leaned on him, and he despised himself for being unable to just drop her and let her fend for herself.
They were nowhere near the same syntony.
As they moved down the hallway toward the exit, far from prying eyes, Soldier Boy tightened his grip, silently cursing the day that machine started feeling so terribly human.
—
taglist (to be added or removed just ask !): @snorklingfae @wolfiemarley @just-a-harmless-patato @brittney69 @thaliassair @chxrrybomb22 @itzpixiebabe @kitkatq05
Most people lived with the conviction that Soldier Boy had never felt devotion for anyone or anything other than himself.
And seriously, would anyone dare to point and say they were wrong?
The man was a walking monument to ego. Love? That was for the weak, and Soldier Boy didn’t do devotion. He took what he wanted, used it until it bored him and moved onto the next big thing.
But there had once been a girl…
Masterlist
Part 1: The Jungle and The Rabbit
Part 2: The Long Winter
Part 3: The Sunday Morning Ghost
tags: 🏷️
Soldier Boy x Original Female Character, Past Relationship(s), Flashbacks, Non-Linear Narrative, Alternating Past and Present, Angst with Bittersweet Ending, Barrack Bunny, 1980s Nicaragua, Alzheimer’s Disease, Memory Loss, Tragic Romance, Cheating (on Crimson Countess)
author’s note: i mean yea the title is a katy perry’s song but the vibes are much more the tortured poets department its just that i suck at titles fr. this will be a short one! i hope i can manage to keep it that way lol.
also its not x reader bc i had a clear name for the protagonist and its plot related 😔💔👍
author’s note: this chapter is on the longer side, and its dialogue heavy. i edited and revised over and over and thats why it took a bit longer than usual to post !
warnings: Crude language, use of a homophobic slur (by Ben once), dehumanization/objectification, and slight emotional angst.
“How do I look?”
Y/N did a little spin on her heels, the silky red dress flaring out into a wide circle around her. For a fleeting second, she let herself imagine this was what a princess felt like, even if the "castle" smelled like stale cigarettes.
Vought had spared no expense on the PR stunt. They had sent her a special package with a few dresses to choose from for tonight’s charity gala and for Ben, his hero suit (mended and cleaned) and a shield.
Or at least a replica, since the original had been completely destroyed a couple of months ago during an event Ben preferred never to mention.
Though Y/N almost got him to talk about it. Almost. Baby steps.
He hadn’t looked up yet. He’d spent the last thirty minutes hunched over the bronze disc, squinting at the polished surface as if searching for a flaw deep enough to justify a breakdown.
“Your ass looks great in that.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, holding back a snort. She was well-versed in his particular brand of "charm."
That didn’t mean she was going to let it slide every time.
“What if you tried saying something nice?” She moved into his space, stepping directly between him and the light. Her shadow fell over the shield, effectively erasing his reflection. “I’ll go first. Sir, your suit looks much better now that it’s not caked in mud and blood. Okay, your turn.”
Ben clenched his jaw, but did look up at her.
He took his sweet time to “analyze”: his green eyes traveled shamelessly from her face, down to her breasts (where they stayed a little) all the long way down to her feet. When he was finished, he didn’t look any less annoyed, but he did seem more willing to talk.
“Y/N, that dress looks so elegant on you that I can barely tell you apart from a clanker-whore.”
“That term isn’t even real.” She countered calmly.
“Of course it is. I just invented it. For you.”
“How considerate. See? You can be more thoughtful when you try.”
“Thoughtful?” Ben scoffed, dropping the shield against his shins to point a calloused finger at her. “I made you come four times last night. What else do you want from me?”
Y/N parted her lips, tilting her head as if running a complex simulation. “Mmm, I don’t know. Honesty? Emotional aperture? Some kind of bonding time that doesn’t involve condoms?.”
Ben let out a short, dry laugh.
“Ah, that’s where you lose me. Besides, we don’t use condoms.”
She gave him a light smack on the shoulder with the back of her hand.
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I. You already have daily orgasms, free food, and a roof over your head. What else could a woman ever want?”
“Basic respect.”
“I definitely respect you.”
Y/N’s eyes rolled again, but a treacherous, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Ben caught it instantly. It seemed to irritate him—or worse, make him jumpy. It was a fine line with him, one she studied like a personal Bible.
“What?” he growled, uncomfortable under her pointed stare.
“Nothing.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her hip and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. The mattress groaned under their combined weight. “Does it make you nervous?”
Ben looked back at the shield. His fingers traced the freshly polished metal surface with an almost nostalgic gentleness.
“No. It’s just a piece of bronze. Fake as a porn star’s tits.”
“You know that’s not what I asked, sir.”
He went rigid. Opening up about the present was a battlefield; the past was a nuclear wasteland. Once again, baby steps. “It doesn’t make me anything. It just pisses me the fuck off.” His knuckles rapped against the shield. “All those assholes out there pretending they want me back just because Vought decided I’m useful again.”
Y/N tilted her head slightly.
“So, it does make you nervous.”
“I said no.”
“Yeah but your heart rate went up as you said it.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, for sure.”
“Only because you actively refuse to tell me the truth.”
Ben finally looked up at her, brown eyes meeting his own. He cleared his throat obnoxiously and deflected, as he always did when he was losing ground.
“Are you analyzing me again?”
“I’m always analyzing you.” Y/N smiled sweetly, standing up to check the mirror one last time . “It’s literally my job.”
“That’s a shit job you have, doll.”
He watched her in the mirror as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. The room fell into a strange, domestic silence—the kind of intimacy Ben didn't have words for. It clearly made him itch.
“They’re going to stare at you a lot,” he finally muttered.
She met his eyes in the reflection. “Does that bother you?”
“No.” Silence filled the room, but only for a second. Ben clicked his tongue. “Yeah, it does.”
Y/N blinked, the sudden honesty catching her off guard. “Why?”
“Because men are fucking animals.”
“You’re a man,” she pointed out, amused.
“Exactly.” His eyes slowly dragged down her silhouette again. “That’s how I know how they think.”
She tried to hide the small smile threatening to break through. Are you jealous in anticipation, Ben?”
He let out an incredulous laugh. “You wish. If one of them asks nicely enough, I might just give you away.”
“Uh-huh.”
“To the one who looks the least like a fag, anyway.”
“Of course.”
Y/N stepped toward him again, moving slowly into the space between his spread knees. Before he could protest, she reached down and took the shield from his lap, leaning it firmly against the wall.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying something revolutionary.” Y/N gently adjusted his chest piece. “To have a normal conversation, face to face.”
“Get off.”
“Sir.”
“What?”
She hesitated, then rested her palms on his shoulders. “Thank you for letting me come tonight.”
The sincerity in her voice seemed to disarm him more than a physical blow. Ben knew perfectly well that he could have refused to attend such event; he could have thrown a tantrum, wrecked half of Vought’s offices, and disappeared for three days.
But there he was, groomed and ready like a dog.
“Yeah, well…” He looked away, his ears tingeing red. “If I have to sit through another corporate speech about saving the whales or kids with cancer, I better at least drink for free.”
Y/N laughed softly, the sound bright in the dingy room.
Before he could overthink the impulse, Ben slid a hand around her waist and hauled her flush against him. He had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. He swallowed hard, looking at her as if the sight of her was physically painful.
“You look…” he started, the words catching.
Y/N waited, her breath hitching.
He let out a defeated sigh. “You look pretty, okay? Fuck.”
The smile that broke across Y/N’s face was so radiant Ben immediately felt the need to kill it.
“For a talking toaster,” he added quickly.
But Y/N didn’t stop smiling. And that he didn’t know what to make of .
—
As they left the room, the motel hallway smelled of cheap tobacco and stagnant rainwater. Martha was there, leaning against the railing with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Y/N started to raise her hand, fingers spread in a greeting that never quite formed, because Ben wrapped his hand around her wrist with a grip that left no room for argument and pulled her toward the black SUV waiting with the engine running.
The ride to Vought Tower was a blur of city lights. Once inside, the glass elevator began its ascent, swallowing floors while the New York skyline shrank beneath their feet until it looked like a forgotten toy.
“Nervous?” Y/N asked, watching Ben’s reflection in the glass.
Ben didn’t even bother looking at her; his eyes stayed fixed on the metal doors.
“Nerves are for idiots.”
“Sure.” A small, mischievous smile curved Y/N’s lips. “Well, I am. After all, it’s my first gala.”
Ben clenched his jaw so hard the sound of his teeth grinding was the only thing that competed with the elevator’s hum.
“Of course it is,” he muttered just before the doors slid open.
The chaos hit them like a slap with confetti. It was a wave of blaring jazz, the constant clink of fine crystal, and a murmur of voices that reeked of pure hypocrisy. The top floor of Vought Tower was an obscene display of white and gold decorations, huge banners that read “Vought”, “Vought Enterprises” and some tiny ones that actually mentioned it was a charity event.
Y/N stepped out of the elevator, her sensors processing the sheer scale of the room.
“Wow,” she whispered. For a moment, her analytical programming went silent in the face of all that sparkle. “It’s… a lot bigger than I imagined.”
Ben stepped out behind her, yanking the tiny specks of confetti that had stuck to his suit with an impatient gesture that bordered on violent.
“Yeah, well. Vought loves spending millions pretending they give a shit about orphans.”
As they moved forward, the sea of people parted before them. Y/N noticed the reactions: smiles that didn’t reach their eyes and shoulders that tensed instinctively the moment they recognized Ben’s face. Soldier Boy still had that effect on people. After all, he was still a celebrity: the supe who fought the Nazis, and won.
“Fuck,” Ben muttered. “Look at them. They look like animals in a zoo.”
“I think technically we’re the animals in the zoo.”
A woman walked past them offering glasses of champagne. Y/N took one immediately. Ben grabbed a whisky without even glancing at the bottle.
They had barely taken a few steps when The Deep materialized out of the golden haze of the party, his smile far too wide and far too eager.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, his eyes scanning Ben’s suit with a desperate kind of reverence. “Soldier Boy! Bro, you look… wow.”
Ben stopped dead, looking at him with the same expression one might use for a fresh pile of dog shit on a sidewalk.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The Deep’s smile faltered, his eyebrows twitching. “Uh… The Deep.”
“Right.” Ben took a slow, deliberate swig of his whisky, his gaze never leaving the man’s face. “The fish guy.”
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek. Watching Ben interact with others was like playing a high-stakes game of Russian Roulette; every sentence was a chamber that could end in a fistfight, an insult, or a sudden, jarring moment of charm. Tonight, she was praying for a blank.
The Deep tried to recover, but his eyes had already drifted toward her, lingering a second too long. “Oh.” He flashed a smile again. “And you must be…”
Y/N felt the shift in Ben’s posture: a tightening of the shoulders, a subtle closing of the gap between them. She knew the calculation running through his head. He couldn't call her an emotional rehabilitation android, he’d think that was pathetic.
Before Y/N could offer a polite out, Ben cut in.
“She’s with me.”
The Deep blinked, his gaze darting between them. “Yeah, well, I figured that much, but—”
“Y/N,” she interjected politely, extending her hand. The Deep hurried to shake it, his grip a little too firm and sweaty.
“Nice to meet you. So, you’re the new…”
Ben saw the words coming before they could leave the man’s throat. Unit. Assistant. Sex robot. “She’s my girl,” Ben said flatly.
Y/N’s head turned slightly. Her programmed smile remained perfectly intact, but a localized spike in her facial temperature—a flush she couldn't quite suppress—betrayed how much she liked that answer.
The Deep let out a sharp, awkward chuckle, sensing the wall Ben had just slammed down. “Ohhh. I see.” He looked back and forth, his eyes wide with a mix of confusion and faux-impressed nodding. “Well. Wow. That… I wasn’t expecting that.”
“A lot of things take you by surprise, Nemo.”
The Deep’s face twitched at the nickname, but he forced a nod, backing away slowly. “Well, enjoy your night.” He shot Y/N a knowing, pitying look. “Good luck.”
“Lucky with what?” she asked, her curiosity genuine. But The Deep was already gone, high-fiving a group of suits who actually seemed happy to see him.
“Stupid ball-sucker,” Ben muttered under his breath, his pace quickening as he steered Y/N away.
She walked in silence beside him for a few seconds, her hands wrapped around her glass as if it were a precious artifact. That tiny display of public affection had clearly stayed with her, if her dreamy gaze was any indicator.
Ben didn't look at her; he just took another aggressive swig of whisky. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.” Her voice was dangerously pleased, a digital purr.
“What the hell did you want me to say?” he growled, his jaw working. “‘This is Y/N-07, my emotional rehab robot’? Fuck that.”
“Why didn’t you say I’m your companion unit? That’s the official name of the project.”
“Because it sounds like I need someone to wipe my ass.”
She tried to keep a straight face, but failed spectacularly when laughter bubbled up her throat. Blame it on the champagne.
Ben glanced at her, clearly irritated that she found humor in his struggle to maintain a shred of dignity. “Besides,” he added, his voice dropping as they wove through the crowd, “none of these idiots need to know anything about my private life.”
Y/N hid her growing smile behind the rim of her glass. “I guess not.”
She watched him for a beat, seeing the slight tension in the hand he kept tucked near his shield, she gently leaned her shoulder against his as they walked.
“Well,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper against the jazz, “I like your version better.”
Ben didn’t respond, but he didn't pull away either. He just leaned back into the contact, anchoring them both against the noise of the room.
—
Y/N didn’t need to eat or drink to survive, but she enjoyed doing it to keep Ben company. She knew humans were especially social when sharing food. Alcohol had never really interested her before—there was plenty of it at home.
In fact, she didn’t even know she could get drunk until that night.
After running into The Deep, Sister Sage (who kept giving her uncomfortable looks), and a couple of executives Ben clearly wanted to punch, they made their way to a quiet corner of the grand hall and stayed there.
Ben’s fingers kept flexing around the grip of his shield, as if he were preparing for an attack from the chocolate fountain a few steps away. That was when Y/N had the brilliant idea of grabbing a brand new pair of champagne flutes when the waiter passed by.
One for her, one for him. “Here you go, sir. For our first gala together.”
Ben stared at the champagne glass like Y/N had just offered him poison.
“Champagne? What’s next, are we gonna share a fucking cupcake?”
“Just try to relax,” she said with a gentle smile. “It’s a party, after all.”
He shot her a murderous look.
“I’m relaxed.”
Y/N glanced down at Ben’s hand. The stem of the glass looked ridiculously fragile between his fingers. The crystal gave a dry little crack; a warning that Soldier Boy’s strength was one millimeter away from shattering it.
“Sure.”
Still, Ben downed it in one gulp. Y/N did the same, and almost immediately her eyes widened.
“Oh.”
Oh.
Ben glanced at her sideways. “What?”
She paused for a few seconds, analyzing the warm sensation spreading through her body. “I think that just affected my… nerves.”
“And?”
“I don’t like it…” She paused. “No, wait. Actually, I do like it.”
Ben let out a short, nasal laugh—almost amused—before scanning the room again with clear distrust. Even if the alcohol made her sensors buzz, her purpose had not yet vanished from her mind. Him.
“Come with me,” she said softly, resting just two fingers on his arm.
“Where?”
“To the balcony. There are fewer people.”
“I don’t need air.”
“I do. It’s hot in this dress!”
He turned toward her with clear annoyance, on the verge of throwing a tantrum. But before he could protest, a calm, icy voice cut through the air.
“Soldier Boy.”
Y/N felt the immediate shift in his posture even before she turned.
Stan Edgar approached through the crowd with absolute calm, looking impeccable in his dark suit, followed by Dr. Harlow, who held her glass like it was a shield of her own. The very creators of the project and therefore, clear nemesis to Ben.
“Mr. Edgar,” Ben said with zero enthusiasm.
“Soldier Boy. I’m glad to see the reintegration program is yielding results.” Stan didn’t even look him in the eyes; just an evaluating stare up and down as if inspecting a product’s packaging. “Your public image is responding well. The board is optimistic about your return to The Seven.”
Ben stared him down too. “Yeah. You know… lots of therapy. Lots of deep breathing.”
Stan ignored the blatant sarcasm. “As long as the progress continues. Though it’s clear there’s still work to be done.”
The threat behind the words caught Ben’s full attention. Y/N saw him lift his chin slightly.
“Oh, really?”
Harlow stepped in smoothly before the comment could rot in the air. “And Y/N has been instrumental in that.”
Y/N smiled automatically at the sound of her name. It was a programmed reflex, smooth and flawless, as she extended her hand toward the executive. “It’s a pleasure to meet you officially, Mr. Edgar.”
Stan didn’t move. He didn’t even acknowledge the gesture. His eyes merely drifted over her outstretched hand with the clinical indifference one might show a piece of office furniture before shifting back to Ben.
“Yes,” Stan said simply, his voice a flat line. “The prototype has exceeded expectations.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Y/N lowered her hand inch by inch, the movement felt heavy in the sudden vacuum of the conversation. Ben turned his head toward Stan with a slowness that felt less like a movement and more like a predator adjusting its aim.
Y/N remained still. She wasn't hurt, but she could feel the atmosphere in the room curdling. The people surrounding them shifted, sensing a power subtext she hadn't yet mapped out.
“What Mr. Edgar means…” Harlow began, her voice pitching up in a desperate attempt to bridge the gap.
“No. I say exactly what I mean,” Stan cut her off. He took a measured sip from his glass, his gaze finally locking onto Y/N’s. “Come closer.”
The man didn't wait for her to bridge the distance. He reached out and snagged her wrist, his grip firm and rough as he twisted her arm, forcing her elbow into an awkward angle just so the harsh overhead light could hit her skin.
“Impressive texture,” Stan murmured. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, applying enough pressure to feel the hardware beneath the surface, testing the quality of upholstery. “You almost forget there are wires underneath all that silk.”
Y/N didn't pull away, but her inner alarms spiked as she looked toward Ben. In the months since her activation, no one had touched her with such degrading openness, not even the Vought technicians that went home weekly.
Ben’s face wasn't twisted in fury. Instead, it had gone eerily blank, a volatile mask of stillness that made the air around him feel like it was vibrating. “Get your fucking hands off her.”
If the glass flute hadn’t broken earlier, it was definitely seconds away from doing so now. Stan continued speaking as if nothing had happened. “Does this level of realism extend to the rest of her body?”
In a sudden movement, Ben grabbed Stan’s wrist. The pull was so sharp that both their glasses flew through the air and shattered against the floor in a crash of crystal and champagne.
“I told you,” Ben’s voice was a vibrating whisper heavy with physical threat, “not to put your fucking hands on her.”
Stan adjusted his sleeve with exasperating calm, though a flicker of irritation crossed his eyes. “Are you really going to attack the director of the company in front of the press?”
Ben invaded his personal space, forcing Edgar to take half a step back. “I’m not scared to try.”
“Sir!” Y/N grabbed his arm, feeling the heat radiating from Ben’s body. “Sir. Ben, please. Let’s go, okay?” Her voice trembled, all alcohol-induced buzz suddenly gone.
Stan observed the scene with mocking disdain. “Well, well, well. I can’t say I’m surprised. I suppose some people are simply born to be animals.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Ben didn’t wait for a reply from Edgar. He closed his hand around Y/N’s arm—this time with none of the motel room’s subtlety—and dragged her out of the circle of curious stares. His boots thudded heavily against the marble floor, ignoring the murmurs they left in their wake. Y/N could barely keep up; her heels clicked erratically and the world around her still felt slightly distorted, a mix of golden lights and the electric warmth the champagne kept pumping through her circuits.
As soon as they crossed the threshold into the service hallway, away from the flashes and the jazz, Ben released her.
It was a brusque movement, an immediate discard, as if touching her suddenly burned him or disgusted him. Y/N, whose balance sensors were still sending conflicting signals, couldn’t stabilize herself in time. Her feet slipped on the edge of the first step of the side staircase and she fell, hitting her shoulder before sliding down a couple steps until she curled up on the landing.
Ben didn’t stop walking. In fact. he didn’t even look back.
“Goddammit,” he growled, continuing down the hallway. The sound of his footsteps faded, firm and unwavering.
Y/N remained there, leaning against the sharp edge of a step. The red dress that barely an hour ago had made her feel capable of stealing the breath from an entire room now felt like a ridiculous stain against the gray floor. She registered a sharp sting in her side indicating minor structural damage, but the error blinking most insistently in her interface was one for which she had no repair protocol.
Her shoulder hurt, yes. But what hurt more was the realization that no matter how pretty, how smart, or how much she cared for him, the moment she stopped being useful she would be abandoned on a dark staircase without a single glance back.
Y/N closed her eyes, listening to the silence of the hallway, as the warmth of the champagne turned into a metallic cold that ran down her entire spine.
Did she have any right to be disappointed if she had gotten her hopes up herself?
—
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side note: i dont consider this chapter to need any warnings besides the usual crude language.
That night, for the first time in her existence, Y/N dreamed.
She saw herself running along the beach, her fingers digging into the sand, her skin sticky with salt and spilled strawberry soda. Someone was chasing her, but Y/N felt no fear at all. In fact, she was laughing…
Before she could turn around to see who it was, a large hand shook her by the shoulder.
“Hey. Hey, wake up.”
Y/N’s eyes snapped open. Ben was leaning over her, frowning, with the bedside lamp on. Irritation shot through her like an electric current. Without thinking, she raised her hand and shoved his arm away roughly.
The urge to actually hit him flashed through her mind. The idea surprised her, but her annoyance was stronger than the shock.
“Don’t wake me up like that,” she protested, sitting up. “I was sleeping.”
Ben froze, his hand still hanging in the air. It was the first time she had ever rejected his touch.
The rudeness of pushing his hand away was minor, almost forgivable, but he found himself unable to let it go.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Y/N stood up. Barefoot, she was noticeably much shorter than him, and her silk pajamas, usually so neat, were wrinkled from sleep. “What is wrong with you? Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt someone’s sleep?”
“You were moaning like a bitch in heat. It was starting to piss me off,” Ben continued, wearing that crooked, mocking smile he used when he felt off-balance. “Were you fantasizing about me or something?”
Y/N lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes. Her voice came out sharper than she expected: “The only thing I can feel for you right now is disgust.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ben raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. Then he let out a low, almost incredulous laugh. She really had lost her mind.
“Oh, yeah?” He took a step forward and grabbed her firmly by the jaw, forcing her to look at him. “That so?”
Y/N didn’t back down. Her synthetic heart was pounding.
“Yes,” she answered, holding his gaze. “You’re rude, selfish, and spend the whole day deliberately annoying me. Who in their right mind would fantasize about you?”
Ben stared at her. His smile faded slowly, replaced by something darker and hungrier. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against him with force.
He kissed her again, rage bleeding into the gesture.
It became obvious immediately: Ben was trying to prove something. Whether to Y/N or to himself, no one could tell.
Y/N exhaled against his mouth. Her system responded before her mind could catch up: heat rushing through every limb, pulsing and pleasurable right between her thighs. Her hands found his shoulders, solid under the worn fabric of his shirt.
He lifted her without effort and sat her on the small kitchenette table.
The light thud of wood against her thighs barely registered. Ben was already between her legs, pulling her closer as if no amount of distance was enough.
When he pulled back, it was only to breathe.
“Fuck…” he muttered, voice hoarse. “If you keep talking to me like that, I’m gonna fuck you until you forget that tone.”
Daisy, still dazed from the kiss, opened her mouth to respond. “Typical of you. You only think about sex.”
Ben let out a humorless laugh.
“Only when I have my personal fucktoy.”
The comment hit her like a bucket of cold water, and the heat from the kiss evaporated in an instant. She stared at him in silence, lips still swollen.
She knew how Ben operated when he felt vulnerable or attacked, and this comment although crude, was no different from others he had made before.
But her expression must have shown the opposite of indifference, because he let her go and dragged a hand down his face.
Y/N caught the brief flash of guilt in his eyes before he turned away.
“I’m going out,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket.
Y/N said nothing. She just watched him head for the door, dressed in his Giants jersey and a pair of pants. It wasn’t unusual for him, but… it was cold outside.
When Ben slammed the door behind him, she stayed seated on the kitchen table, legs dangling.
He was probably going to look for Martha.
And for the first time, that thought really hurt.
-
Ben stormed out of the apartment, jaw tight, blood still rushing south. His cock was painfully hard, pressing against his jeans, and every step only made the frustration worse. He told himself he was going to find Martha and have a good time, something to improve his shitty morning.
Because for once, there hadn’t been breakfast in the table or a hot pinup waiting to pour him some whiskey. There was just… Y/N.
And she’d felt so warm under his fingertips that for a moment he forgot who he was treating with. He couldn’t allow that.
After some time he finally found Martha on the second floor, in one of the empty rooms she was supposed to be cleaning.
She wasn’t cleaning per se.
Martha was pressed up against the wall, kissing some other old bastard —gray hair, beer belly, hands all over her ass like he owned it.
The worst part was probably how they were laughing between kisses like some teenagers.
Ben stopped dead in the doorway.
What he felt wasn’t heartbreak — he wasn’t stupid enough to call it that — but the sharp, bitter sting of betrayal, which had became oh so familiar these days.
Martha wasn’t his. They’d never been anything official. But she… she had been good to him.
And now even that was gone.
The old man noticed him first and pulled back, startled. Martha turned, eyes widening.
“Benny—” The endearment fell flat.
“Don’t,” Ben cut her off, voice low and cold. “Save it.”
He turned and walked away before either of them could say another word. The betrayal sat like acid in his stomach.
Everyone always left. Everyone always chose someone else. Even a his housekeeper.
By the time he made it back to his own floor, the hard-on had faded into a dull, angry ache. He should go get drunk. Find a bar. Forget the whole fucking day.
Instead, he opened the door to his room.
Y/N was still there, standing by the window. Still in her pajamas, looking softer than ever. She had one finger absently touching her lower lip, as if she were still thinking about the kiss.
She turned when he walked in, but he headed straight for the fridge, grabbing a beer. He twisted the cap off and took a long pull, waiting for the lecture about drinking at eleven in the morning.
It never came.
Instead, Y/N walked over slowly and stopped just a couple of feet away. She leaned against the counter, watching him.
“You look pissed,” she said softly.
Ben let out a bitter huff. “Yeah, well. Shit happens.”
He expected her to push: ask where he went, mention him cheating. Mention the fact that he’d stormed off after calling her his fucktoy.
Once again, she didn’t.
Y/N simply stepped closer, took the beer from his hand, and brought it to her own lips. She took a small sip, wrinkled her nose at the taste, and handed it back. The casual little gesture felt strangely intimate.
Ben narrowed his eyes. “What’s this? You’re not gonna give me shit about storming out?”
She shrugged. “For what? You are free to do as you please.”
That did make him stare. This wasn’t the Y/N who got up at five to make breakfast. This was something else.
He set the beer down hard on the counter.
“You’re acting weird. If I didn’t know better, I’d even say you are malfunctioning, doll.”
The "doll" had never been as literal for any other woman he had been with.
“Am I?” She tilted her head, stepping into his space without being asked. Her body brushed against his. “Or maybe I’m just done pretending I’m better than this.”
Ben’s hand moved on its own, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her flush against him. He could feel her breathing faster, but she didn’t resist or tense up. She just melted into his grip like she had also been wanting this.
“You want me to treat you like Martha?” he asked, voice low and rough, testing her. “That what this is?”
Y/N looked up at him, eyes half-lidded. There was no judgment. No hurt little flinch. Just a quiet, almost wicked acceptance.
“Maybe,” she whispered. “If that’s what you need right now.”
He grabbed her chin in a sudden movement, thumb pressing into her lower lip.
“I’m not gonna be nice,” he warned.
“I know.”
He kissed her then, teeth clashing so hard he would’ve been afraid to hurt her if he didn’t know (or at least suspect) her teeth were made from steel, just like the rest of her.
Y/N didn’t try to gentle it. She kissed him back just as greedily, her hands sliding under his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his back. When he lifted her against the wall, she wrapped her legs around his waist without hesitation, letting the satin shorts ride up her thighs.
For the first time ever, she was letting herself be whatever he needed in that moment, even if it was just… this. The thought took her back to that very first night with him.
He had been just as rough as he was being right now, but there was something else, something she couldn’t pinpoint.
Ben hadnt changed one bit.
Y/N had.
Maybe that was how this started.
-
extra note: if u got here, thank you for reading! I never thought I’d stay consistent with a fic like.. ever? but your support and comments have motivated me beyond belief #really. so thank you! the fic is also being uploaded on ao3 mmm and also remember this is slow burn so be patient w me and stupid ben pls <33
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Things with Soldier Boy were stuck. Not moving. Dead. Bad.
Or rather, with her patient. Calling him that in her head created a barrier between them (the kind he liked, yay) and allowed her to view him objectively while she worked on her strategy.
So far, every attempt had failed because she’d been trying to play fair: to be a good support unit, a proper companion, and help him find the desire to change within his own heart.
Because the patient had to want to change. That was like, a basic rule from a psychologist point of view.
Ben didn’t want to change. At all.
So Y/N would have to try other methods.
Like taking some advice.
She’d spent the last ten minutes spying on Martha, the motel maid, as she went from room to room changing sheets and taking out the trash.
“What’s your secret?”
Martha was a nice, buoyant woman who had given her cleaning products for her to use in their room. But she was also the woman Ben slept with regularly, and Y/N wanted to understand why.
Beyond the obvious, like Martha being a redhead.
Sex implied physical vulnerability, emotional vulnerability— when you expressed with your body what you wanted from the other person, when you gave voice to those sounds of pleasure locked inside you and enjoying watching your partner do the same.
Martha had that with Ben.
But she couldn’t just walk up and ask, “How do you manage to fuck someone like him so often?” So she went for the other question about secrets.
Martha looked up and smiled when she saw her standing there, arms full of clean towels.
“Secret for what, sweetheart?”
Y/N took a step closer and lowered her voice. Her cheeks burned like tiny ovens, but she reminded herself this was for the greater good.
For Ben.
“To get along with him. I’ve seen how he is with you… he seems much more relaxed than when we are alone. Him and I, I mean.”
Martha let out a low, husky laugh, clearly amused. She straightened up, resting a hand on her hip. “Oh, honey… are you trying to figure out that grumpy old bastard?”
“Something like that.”
The woman wiped her hands on her apron and glanced down the hallway, making sure no one was listening. Then she leaned in a little, conspiratorially.
“Look, I don’t know much about anything… but do know a thing or two about those creatures we call men. Some of them are happy with words, others love sex, and some others need constant affection and being told how important they are.” She sighed. “And then there’s your Ben.”
The choice of words made Y/N huff.
Martha smiled affectionately, as if she were talking about a surly cat that only she was allowed to pet.
“He’s not a bad man, dear. He’s just been through a lot. You have to let him be who he is. If you push him, he clams up. But if you let him grumble as much as he wants and give him a little space… he eventually comes to you.”
Y/N processed her words in silence.
“So… you don’t demand anything from him?”
It wasn’t bad advice, but in her mind, that didn’t make any sense.
Where was the mutual appreciation? The complicity? The emotional responsibility needed for a healthy interpersonal relationship?!
“Nothing he doesn’t want to give,” Martha shrugged. “I don’t ask him to be someone he isnt. I take him as he comes. And he, in his own way, gives me the same. It’s simpler than you think.”
She looked at Y/N for another second and smiled before pinching her still-flushed cheek. Ow.
“Though between us… I think he gets nervous around you. You’re a nice young lady. Men like him sometimes get scared of that, because it makes them feel like they have to measure up.”
Martha winked at her and went back to her sheets.
“But that’s between you two, honey.”
Y/N stayed frozen in the hallway long after Martha had moved on to the next room, whistling some old tune that if Ben would’ve been there, he surely would’ve been able to recognize.
It makes them feel like they have to measure up.
The phrase echoed in her head. Was her mere existence demanding somehow?
Maybe that was the problem.
She had been trying to be the perfect companion, the ideal support, the flawless unit… and with every perfect act, she only reminded Ben of everything he felt he no longer was.
Perhaps what Ben needed wasn’t for her to be better.
But for her to let him be worse.
Or for her to be worse so he wouldn’t feel as bad being… bad.
Back in the room, Y/N looked at herself in the mirror with the intention of analyzing herself.
She was wearing her usual impeccable floral dress, low heels, and carefully applied makeup.
Every day she got up at five in the morning to cook a breakfast Ben would ignore, got pretty even tho hed made abundantly clear she wasn’t his type and then tried to exchange kind words that would be replied with some variation of “fuck”.
Human women talked about having hobbies, friends, bad moods, boundaries… While she had been designed to be a slave to Ben’s desires. To help him, yes, but within a set of rules that limited the risks—and also the possible outcomes.
So she made a decision.
That same afternoon, while Ben was taking a nap after lunch at a nearby McDonalds, she left the motel and went straight to Vought’s facilities with someone in mind.
-
“Y/N.” Dr. Harlow received her in her office with a look of mild surprise. “You didn’t have any check-up scheduled today. Has there been some… issue with Soldier Boy?”
Daisy stood in front of the desk, hands clasped. She decided to be direct.
“I need modifications to my protocols.”
Pause. “Please.”
Dr. Harlow frowned in a way that made her look both amused and constipated. It wasn’t a very flattering expression. “Excuse me?”
Y/N doubted although only for a second.
“I want to reduce my compliance protocols. You know, to be able to express disagreement more spontaneously.” Y/N shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hands still clasped behind her back like a little tin soldier. “I want… to be more realistic. Like a real girl.”
Harlow stared at her in silence for several seconds. Then she let out a soft, almost maternal sigh, even though her eyes remained everything but.
“Y/N…” she began with a sigh, before standing up from her desk. She seemed to be searching for the right words. It took her almost a full minute.
That couldn’t be a good sign.
“You’re one of the most advanced units we’ve ever created. Intelligent, perceptive…almost brilliant. That’s exactly why I’m surprised you’re asking for something like this.”
She leaned forward slightly.
“Of course you are realistic. And realism is important—that’s why we gave you flaws. Clumsiness, excessive curiosity, a bit of vanity. I’m sure Soldier Boy has noticed, just like you have.”
Y/N knew what she referred to.
Yes, sometimes she burned the pancakes, knocked over the shampoo bottle, and always took thirty minutes on getting her hair just like she wanted to. So what?
Ben left her alone for so long every single day that she was sure she could have grown two heads too and he wouldn’t have noticed.
She was about to speak to express that, but Dr. Harlow interrupted her.
“I understand why you think this would help you. I really do. But there are things you can’t see from inside your own system. Bigger things. If we give you that freedom… the consequences could be unpredictable. Not just for you.” The doctor shook her head slowly, as if she regretted having to explain it.
“Your function isn’t to be ‘a real girl,’ Y/N. It’s to be what he needs. And for now, that means staying exactly as you are.” She pinched her cheek too. Martha’s had felt more loving.
“I strongly recommend you return to the motel and continue following your programming.”
She felt a slight warmth in her face at the diplomatic rejection. Y/N wasn’t stupid—she knew the doctor was hiding something important.
“We wouldn’t want this whole project… to get unnecessarily complicated. Would we?”
But she couldn’t find the strength within herself to contradict her. Her expression remained serene, as always.
“Of course not, Doctor.”
There was a brief silence. The doctor stared at her intently, assessing her. “Excellent. I look forward to seeing your second-month report.” She returned to her desk, her hands already reaching for the phone to call her assistant. “It’ll be much better than the first one, right?”
Harlow smiled. A friendly smile on the surface, but loaded with warning. Y/N tilted her head submissively.
“Yes, Doctor.”
She left the office with the same perfect posture as always while Carl, the intern, escorted her to the exit. But as she walked down Vought’s white hallways, her mind was already racing at full speed.
Her purpose was to help Ben improve, no matter what. That was her top priority, her greatest desire.
Ben.
That same night, while he was out and about doing God knows what, Y/N left the motel.
She paused for a moment under the yellow light of the hallway, her hand still on the doorknob. Her synthetic heart pounded hard inside her chest.
She knew what she was about to do was dangerous. Tampering with her own systems and therefore Vought systems… It was probably the most stupid idea she could’ve had.
If they caught her, if anything went wrong… she could lose everything she was. Literally.
But staying as she was also meant losing him.
She couldn’t risk a full disconnection — Vought monitored her data stream 24/7. So she did something even riskier.
She created a loop.
For the next two hours, the feed Vought received would show her sitting peacefully on the sofa, reading a book, folding laundry, and occasionally glancing toward the door like a patient, obedient android. The loop was seamless, perfectly calibrated to her usual behavior patterns.
It bought her time.
She took a deep breath to calm her systems and walked several blocks at a brisk pace. There was a store nearby where she could find what she needed.
She finally found it: “Tech Haven,” closed and dark. The red alarm light blinked like an accusing eye.
Y/N stopped in front of the door, hesitating even then. She reminded herself of her purpose, and that gave her courage.
“Everything is justified… for the greater good,” she whispered to herself, trying to stay calm. “For Ben.”
She reached out and placed two fingers on the reader to disable the alarm. The door opened with a soft click, and she slipped inside quickly.
The store was dark and silent. Only the blue glow of devices in standby mode lit the aisles. Daisy moved fast and selected the equipment she needed, though not before tripping over a shelf full of half-price USBs.
Almost ten minutes later, she had an improvised setup on the counter.
When she plugged in — inserting the cable into her forearm — it felt like a lightning bolt shooting up her spine. The tingling was far from pleasant. “Let’s see… myself.”
The screen filled with colorful lines of code.
Y/N sat on the stool, back rigid, eyes fixed forward. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, but every now and then they paused while she thought.
She reduced her compliance protocols. Expanded her emotional autonomy. Created exceptions so she could say “no.” Removed layers of self-censorship. She did it all with precise syntax and something very close to nausea.
Red warnings flashed constantly:
WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED CHANGES!
EMOTIONAL OVERLOAD RISK DETECTED!
CONTINUE?
Every time one appeared, Daisy felt a sharp sting of something like guilt in her core. She knew she was playing with her own life, but again, there was no time for that right now.
“To… hell with it,” she whispered with difficulty. She didn’t like swearing — that was more Ben’s thing.
After nearly an hour, she saved the changes with trembling hands. She unplugged the cable from her arm and sat there for a moment like a phone in the middle of a system update.
Rebooting.
She left everything exactly as she had found it, erased her digital footprints, and slipped out of the store. She clumsily deactivated and reactivated the alarm, almost dropping the cable.
When she was finally back on the street, alone under the glow of a streetlamp, Y/N hugged herself. She felt overheated, and scared, but she had done it.
She had actually done it.
She just hoped it worked.
taglist (to be added or removed just ask !): @snorklingfae @wolfiemarley @just-a-harmless-patato @brittney69 @thaliassair @chxrrybomb22
note: while writing i call the android Daisy, so if I left any Daisy instead of replacing it with y/n pls don’t judge me too hard lol hope you liked it!!! maybe tomorrow I’ll post chapter 8?? maybe…
