tw. trailer park princess! reader x soldier boy. alcohol use. pillow humping. age gap. reader is of age. southern aesthetic. icky ben! loss of virginity (r). p in v. cowgirl position. creampie. pet names (baby, honey, dolly, sweetheart.) sex under the influence. title from only angels have wings - nicole dollanganger.
the trailer park squatted at the edge of town like a stray dog too tired to bite. rust-buckled trailers leaned crooked beneath a bruised southern sky, porches sagging under ashtrays and dead plants and old men too drunk to remember what year it was. weeds swallowed fence posts whole, cicadas screamed loud enough to drown out the highway. every evening smelled like wet dirt, gasoline and somebody frying meat in reused grease.
dirty and sometimes too rough, but the only home you’ve ever known.
you lived in lot seventeen with your mama’s old floral curtains still hanging in the windows and a busted washing machine sitting permanently in the yard like lawn decor.
and three trailers down in lot twenty, lived ben.
nobody called him soldier boy around here. not unless they were stupid. to everyone he was just ben- the broad-shouldered veteran with mirrored aviators, cigarettes tucked into the sleeve of his white T-shirt and enough violence simmering under his skin to make stray dogs avoid his porch.
he’d arrived six months ago in a black pickup with new york plates and a duffel bag that looked heavy enough to carry bodies. folks whispered, said he killed a man in pure rage. said the government was after him. said he wasn’t right in the head.
you mostly noticed how lonely he looked.
sometimes late at night you’d see him sitting shirtless on his trailer steps under the jaundiced porchlight, smoke curling around him while old songs from before your time crackled from a radio inside. almost like he was waiting for something that would never come back.
one afternoon he caught you snooping out the window, your fingers gently folding the curtains back and he smiled. whistled and held up his lit joint like an offering, frowned when you cowered back inside with wild thoughts and a pillow between your legs, pink panty clad pussy grinding against the plush while thinking about him.
the first time he spoke to you, you nearly dropped your groceries.
“hey, dolly.”
you froze halfway up your porch steps, clutching a paper sack full of canned beans and bread. ben leaned against the railing of his trailer porch, beer bottle dangling from two fingers.
“ya’ got a second?”
you glanced around like maybe he meant somebody else but there was nobody else.
your cheeks went hot as you crossed the dirt path between the trailers slowly, flip-flops crunching over gravel. up close he smelled like old Spice and cigarette smoke and something metallic underneath. blood maybe. or motor oil.
ben looked you over in that lazy dangerous way older men did around town sometimes- except somehow meaner and softer all at once.
“you livin’ at seventeen, right?”
you nodded.
he tilted an empty beer bottle toward you.
“need a favor.”
you stomach fluttered nervously, what could ben possibly need from you?
“…what kind?”
“the gas station down the road. he reached into his pockets pulling out crumpled bills. “need’a beer.”
you blinked, boots nervously scuffing against the dusty road. “they won’t sell it to me…”
“sure they will.” he held the money out. “ya’ got one of those faces.”
“what’s that suppose to mean?”
“innocent, young. just flash em a bit a cleavage’ they’ll serve ya.” he said it like it amused him, no hesitation at how inappropriate his words may be.
mama always warned you about men like ben. men with charm sharpened into weapons. men who smiled like they’d already survived the electric chair once before. you should’ve said no. its inappropriate and illegal.
but you’d been lonely yourself for so long that sometimes loneliness made bad ideas feel holy.
so you took the money.
the corner store sat beside an abandoned car wash twenty minutes away on foot. neon faulty beer signs buzzed in the windows. old men crowded around scratch cards whistling when you walked past, cleavage on show just like ben had said.
you bought the cheapest six-pack they had and the cashier barely looked you in the eye. on the way back you didn’t pull your top back into place, you wanted ben to see what you did just for him.
“took your sweet time.” he called.
you held up the plastic bag. “they only had warm ones..”
“tragic.”
he stood and took the bag from your hand. his bruised knuckle velvet fingers brushed yours, eyes trailing down your body, lingering at your chest.
your heartbeat stumbled.
he pulled a beer free and cracked it open against the railing, liquid sputtering down his fingers.
“you want one?”
“I’m not really supposed to drink..”
he barked a laugh. “jesus, kid.” then he looked at you again, slower this time. “i aint’ gonna ask again.”
you should’ve walked home then. instead you made your way up his steps, boots clanking against the wood taking a seat next to ben.
ben laughed when you coughed after the first sip.
not a mean laugh. low and rough and surprised, like he hadn’t expected anything genuinely sweet all week.
“easy there, sweetheart.” he leaned back in the rusted lawn chair, boots kicked up on the porch railing. “beer ain’t’ supposed to be fought hand-to-hand.”
you wiped your mouth quickly, embarrassed. the can felt ice-cold in your hands, condensation dripping over your chipped polished nails.
“it tastes awful.”
the bitterness made your face scrunch up. ben smirked around his cigarette.
“jesus’ ya really never drank before?”
you shook your head.
“not even at parties?”
“i- i don’t really get invited places…”
the words slipped out before you meant them to. bens expression shifted into something- not pity but worse somehow. like he understood too well.
“you serious?”
you shrugged staring into the can. “people around here think I’m.. weird.”
“that’ so?”
“mama says I’m too soft.”
ben huffed smoke into the humid night air. “ya’ mama’s probably right.”
you glanced at him, fingers tight around the metal.
“but” he added, “ain’t the worst thing to be.”
the beer made everything warmer after a while. your cheeks tingled. your limbs felt floaty and loose, porchlight glowing syrupy gold around the edges.
ben watched you carefully.
“you okay?”
“mhmm..”
“ya’ sure?”
you giggled unexpectedly at the seriousness in his voice. “think my head’s fuzzy.”
“that’ll happen.”
he stood then, broad and imposing even in the dim light and crushed his cigarette beneath his boot.
“cmon’ dolly.”
you blinked up at him, “where?”
“inside. before mosquitoes carry you off.”
bens hand closed around your elbow as you stood before you could stumble. the touch sent a strange nervous flutter through your chest.
“tsk. ya’ lightweight.” he muttered.
“sorry..”
“s’ alright, sweetie.”
the rusted door of the double-wide groaned as ben pulled it open, the stale scent of cheap beer and unwashed denim washing out into the humid evening. the inside was dim, a single yellow lamp casting long shadows over a sagging couch, empty bottles scattered. He kicked the door shut behind you, the latch clicking loud in the sudden silence.
his eyes narrowed, hands still holding on your hips as you looked up at him nervously.
“yknow why i invited you here, dont you smart girl?” he mumbled.
you nodded breathe heavy lingering with his.
“say it.”
“b-because you want me… and i want you..” you whispered.
“thats right. ya gonna’ let me pop that cherry right here on my couch.” he let go of your chin and stepped back, pussy fluttering at his words.
your hands shook as you fumbled with the buttons of your blouse from the excitement that ben could actually like someone like you. he watched patient as a cat, his eyes tracing every inch of skin you revealed- your collarbone, the curve of your breasts in their cotton bra, the trembling line of your belly as you pushed your shorts down your thighs. when you stood before him in nothing but panties and bra he let out a low whistle.
“sweet’ jesus.” he muttered, his hand moving to the front of his jeans, palming the obvious bulge straining the denim. “turn around let me see that peach.”
you obeyed turning slowly, your hands clasped behind your back. his palm landed flat on your bare hip then slid down, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass cheek. he squeezed hard enough to make you gasp
“perfect body, honey.” he breathed. “now get on the couch for me okay?”
you climbed onto the worn cushion, knees sinking into the ancient foam as you faced him. he unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, watching your tongue peeking out between your lips like a puppy to a bone. He didn’t bother pulling his jeans off- just shoved them down enough to free his cock. springing up thick and heavy, the head flushed with a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.
“this is what’s gonna fill that tight little cunt.”. he said, wrapping his fist around the shaft, giving it a slow stroke.
“i-its big..” you mumbled innocently.
“thats okay honey, feel better snugged in that little hole.” he settled onto the couch, back against the armrest and pulled you onto his lap. your thighs straddled his hips, the rough denim of his jeans rasping against your sensitive inner thighs. his cock pressed against your belly hot and hard. he reached between you hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tore them off with one sharp tug.
“no need for those..” he grunted tossing them aside.
his hand slid down, fingers finding your pussy. they were rough and calloused, knowing exactly where to press. he circled your clit with his thumb, laughing as some of your juices sputtered onto his hand.
“look at you..” he murmured, his eyes dark and hungry. “so wet already. you were made for this weren’t you? made to take my cock.”
you whined deep in your throat, hands digging into his shoulders. “mmmf- mhm.”
he lined himself up, the fat head of his cock nudging your slick folds. you felt the pressure, the stretch and you braced yourself.
“ready, dolly? say ya want it.”
“i want it.” you whispered, voice trembling but sure.
he smiled and then he thrust up. the pain was sharp, a burning stretch that stole your breath. you whined out, your nails digging into his skin. he held your hips stilling you, letting you adjust.
“shh.. take it slow.” he said with a voice surprisingly gentle. “first time always hurts.”
you nodded tears pricking your eyes. he stayed still with just the tip buried inside you until you relaxed. then he slid deeper inch by inch until he was fully seated, his balls pressed against your ass.
“fuck- yeah..” he groaned, his eyes half-closed. “feel that? your so tight. so fuckin’ tight.”
he gave you a moment to breathe then he began to move—a slow deep grind that rocked your whole body. his hands found your hips, guiding you into a rhythm. up and down, your pussy gripping him sliding down his length. each stroke sent fresh waves of sensation through your core, the pain melting into a deep aching pleasure.
“thaaats it..” he encouraged. “ride me. show me what you got.”
you found your pace, your body moving instinctively, your breasts bouncing in front of his face. he leaned forward taking one nipple into his mouth sucking hard, his beard grazing the sensitive peak. you moaned with your hips moving faster, the friction building into something urgent desperate.
“i-im close i think..! you gasped though you barely understood what that meant.
“good job dolly- cream on my dick..”
his thumb found your clit again rubbing in tight circles and that was it. the orgasm crashed over you like a wave your whole body tensing, your pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. he groaned his hips thrusting up chasing your pussy burying himself deep as he spilled inside you hot, thick filling you up.
you collapsed against his chest, breathless your skin slick with sweat. he wrapped an arm around you holding you there, his cock still twitching inside you.
“good job, honey. did so good just f’me.”.
“j-just for you ben..” you mumbled breathlessly and full, letting yourself sink into his warmth.
Summary: Eighty-five years after Soldier Boy left you behind, he finds you frozen, kept as leverage, and drags you back into a world you never got to live. Far from Vought’s spotlight, you and Ben try to stitch a marriage back together from ash.
(sequel to "the softest thing")
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 10178
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The file hit his lap. Ben looked down with the kind of flat, exhausted annoyance he had been wearing since he woke up in that obscene room high over the city. Homelander’s room. Homelander stood across from him bright-eyed.
“Think about it again”, he had said. Then the file.
Ben almost told him to go fuck himself twice. His fingers were already closing around the folder to throw it. Then he saw the label. A name. Not yours when you were his wife. Not Mrs. anything. Not the name on the marriage license, or the bills, or the little card at the dry cleaner back when there had still been ordinary days. Your name. The one from before him.
Ben went still. The suite got very quiet.
Ben looked down at the folder again. SUBJECT STATUS: CRYOGENIC CONTAINMENT STABLE
For one second his brain refused to understand the words in the right order. Then it did.
His thumb slipped under the edge and opened the file.
The first page was a photograph. Black-and-white. Studio-lit. Clinical in a way that made his stomach turn. You were in your twenties in it.
He knew that before the file told him, because he knew your face. Not the lined, careful face you might have worn if life had kept happening to you. Not the older version time should have made. This was you as you had been when he left you. Soft mouth, watchful eyes, hair set neatly back from your face, trying so hard in the picture to look composed that it hurt to see.
Twenty-seven. Frozen there. Eighty-five years gone and not a day on your face.
Ben stopped breathing. Below the photograph, line after line of text blurred and sharpened and blurred again.
Initial retrieval.
Unauthorized domestic association with asset.
Emotional leverage viability high.
Compound V survivability unexpectedly successful.
Long-term storage authorized.
Pressure contingency.
Pressure contingency.
Pressure contingency.
His hand tightened on the page hard enough to crease it.
Across the room, Homelander lifted his glass and watched him with open interest. “She´s alive”.
Ben did not look up. The suite had narrowed to the file in his hands and the sound of blood rushing hot and violent in his ears.
There were more pages. Medical charts. Temperature logs. Monitoring summaries. A diagram of some buried facility with sectors blacked out in thick ink. One page clipped in later than the rest with a new date stamped at the top and a note:
Subject remains non-public. Retention advised. Utility value may increase if Soldier Boy becomes noncompliant.
Ben stared at that line until the letters stopped being letters and became something else. Something with teeth.
He had thought leaving you had been the worst thing he ever did to you.
Not because he had not done worse things to other people. He had. Plenty. Enough to wake sweating with names he never let himself say out loud.
But leaving you, walking out of that little kitchen for good, letting Vought sand down whatever was left of Ben until Soldier Boy fit cleanly over the top, had always sat in him like rust. Hidden. Eating through from the inside.
And all that time… All that goddamn time…
They had had you.
Kept.
Stored.
“I figured that might get your attention”.
Ben lifted his head then. Slowly. He had looked dangerous before. Hungover, heavy-eyed, broad across the shoulders even in borrowed clothes. Now he looked like something much older and uglier than danger.
Homelander’s expression flickered, just a little, delighted and cautious at once.
“She was always there”, he said lightly, as if discussing an old account finally brought current. “Cute trick, really. Vought keeps all sorts of contingencies. You of all people should appreciate preparedness”.
Ben rose from the couch.
“So”, Homelander said. “Now that you understand the leverage, are you ready to be useful?”.
“You knew”.
Homelander tilted his head. “I know lots of things”.
“You knew”, Ben said again.
The file hung at his side, crushed under his fingers now, your photograph bent where his grip had warped the paper.
Homelander gave a small shrug. “I knew enough”.
That was all it took. Ben crossed the room. He caught Homelander by the throat and hit him through the edge of the bar. Marble split. Bottles exploded and glass sprayed the room.
Homelander laughed. Even half-crushed under Soldier Boy’s hand, he laughed.
“Ah”, he choked out, eyes bright and mad, “there he is”.
Ben hit him again. This time the sound was wetter. Angrier. A lamp went over. A slab of black stone cracked down the middle.
Homelander’s smile came back bloodied.
“She’s alive”, he rasped. “That’s the important part”.
Ben’s fingers tightened at his throat. For one terrible second, he really might have killed him. Then Homelander, even pinned and bruised and half-grinning through blood, said the one thing that cut clean through the red:
“You kill me, you lose her”.
Ben froze. Homelander smiled wider despite the hand at his neck.
Ben looked at him and saw, all at once, every Vought man he had ever hated. The executives with polished shoes. The handlers. The doctors. The ones who turned human beings into concepts and concepts into assets and assets into pressure. Homelander was just the latest model, shinier, but made from the same rotten blueprint.
Very slowly, Ben let him go.
Homelander staggered back, still smiling because he could not help himself. Because getting under skin was the only intimacy he understood.
Ben wiped his bleeding palm on his shirt and looked down at the file again. Your picture stared back up at him. Twenty-seven.
A whole life stolen and held in a drawer.
His chest went tight in a way no fight had ever managed. Not even Russia. Not the furnace. Not the years in a tube under a foreign sky while his own name turned into a mascot and then a joke and then a warning.
You.
He thought of the side yard between your houses. Your mittened fingers tucked into his elbow. Your voice, soft and bossy at sixteen: Hold still. The little kitchen table where you had cleaned blood off his face while his father’s voice still rang in his ears, calling him a fucking disappointment. The way you had looked at him when nobody else looked at him like there was anything worth saving.
He had left you.
That was his sin.
But this… This was something else.
They had taken what he left behind and turned it into inventory.
Homelander straightened. “Get Butcher for me”, he said, as if the room were not half-destroyed around them. “And I show you where she its”.
-
The air bit cold enough to sting the back of your throat just breathing it. Frost filmed the pipes overhead. Ben stood in the middle of the bunker, bloody from wrist to collar. Some of it was his. Most of it wasn’t. Bodies lay where they had fallen. One by the far control panel, neck bent wrong over a spill of shattered glass. Two by the blast door, rifles kicked out of reach. One half-slumped against the wall. Another near the alarm box, hand frozen inches from the switch he never got to hit in time.
Ben had not made much noise doing it. That was what frightened him now, standing there with the little remote in his hand and your tank in front of him.
Not the killing itself. He had done too much of that for it to feel new.
Not even the speed of it.
It was how easy it had been. How clean. How Soldier Boy it had felt.
The remote was small in his palm. One red button under a flip-cover guard. Ridiculous, really, that after eighty-five years, after Russia and fire and Butcher and Homelander and all the rot in between, the distance between him and you had come down to one ugly little button.
He stared at it. Did not move. In front of him, behind a curved wall of glass gone pearly with cold, you stood upright in the tank. Frozen. Perfectly still. Twenty-seven.
That was the first thing that had wrecked him when Homelander shoved the file at him in the tower. Not the reports. Not the coordinates. Not even the word cryogenic typed in neat black letters above your name.
Your age. Twenty-seven.
He had been old enough to rot and be reborn and rot again. The world had gone through wars and presidents and hairstyles and goddamn moons and computers in people’s pockets.
He had been buried under Russian steel while his own legend got sold by men who had never once had to dirty their own hands.
And you were still twenty-seven.
Still wearing the same face he remembered from the last years before he left.
Softer in rest than in life, maybe, because whatever fear or sorrow Vought had dragged through you hadn’t made it through the ice.
Your hair was pinned back from your face by frost and suspension gel and machinery he did not understand. Your lashes lay dark against your skin. Your mouth looked pale and closed and familiar enough to stop his heart. You looked exactly like all those years ago.
And the second he saw you, all the time between then and now collapsed so violently it left him dizzy.
The little house. The kitchen table. Rain on the windows. Your pink satin nightgown. Your face wet with tears while he stood in the doorway and let Soldier Boy win.
He had imagined finding you a hundred different ways on the drive out here. Older. Dead. Bones in a box. A grave with some false name.
He had not imagined this.
You looked like you could open your eyes any second and ask why he was home so late.
Ben’s fingers tightened around the remote until the casing creaked.
He was afraid. Afraid of pressing a button. B
ecause once he did, it became real. Once he did, there would be no more distance between the idea of you and your body in front of him.
You might wake and not know him. You might wake and know him too well. You might look at him and see only the man who left. Worse—you might not wake right.
Vought had held you for eighty-five years like inventory. Shot you full of V and put you under glass. Used your name as leverage in files. He had no reason to trust anything about what came next.
“Jesus Christ”. He stepped closer to the tank.
Up close, he could see where frost feathered over the seams of the metal braces holding the glass in place.
Tubes snaked from the back of the chamber into your arms, your spine, the base of your skull. Machines had been kissing you longer than he had.
The thought made something black roll over in him.
He lifted his free hand and pressed his palm to the glass. The cold bit instantly through blood and skin.
Behind the fogged surface, your face stayed calm. Untouched by any of it. Soft in that old familiar way that used to wreck him even when he was a boy with split knuckles and too much pride.
You had always looked gentler than the world deserved.
He bowed his head once, just enough that his forehead nearly hit the glass. Blood from his hand smeared across the frost in a rust-dark streak. For a second, all he could see was another kind of red. Lipstick on a collar. Then your tears. Your wedding band glinting while you tried not to cry in front of him.
All the little moments he had buried under war and whiskey and Vought work and rage because digging them up would mean admitting what he had done with his own hands.
His thumb found the edge of the safety cover on the remote and flipped it open. Ben’s heartbeat kicked hard. Then something inside him, something older than Soldier Boy and uglier than pride and maybe closer to Ben than he had been in years, made the decision for him. He pressed the button.
For one horrible second, nothing happened. Then the chamber gave a low hydraulic thud. Lights changed from green to amber. Somewhere under the floor, machinery woke in layers—pumps, vents, hissing valves releasing pressure in precise bursts.
Frost shivered loose from the tank seams and fell in powdery sheets. The hum deepened into a mechanical roar.
Ben took one step back, then stopped himself and stood his ground.
Amber turned to white. Warm fluid began draining in spirals around your body, slipping down the inside of the glass in pale pink streaks where blood had mixed into the solution somewhere in the tubing.
Numbers on the monitor started changing faster now. You did not move.
Ben’s throat tightened until breathing hurt. “Come on”, he muttered.
The glass clouded, then cleared in patches. Your skin changed color by degrees, from the waxy stillness of preserved flesh to something nearer living. Frost melted from your lashes. One lock of hair slipped loose against your temple. The line of your mouth softened as the cold released it. Still nothing.
Ben stepped closer again without realizing he had. The chamber hissed. A latch somewhere deep in the mechanism disengaged with a heavy clunk. Then your fingers twitched. So small he might have imagined it in another life. Not now. Ben stopped breathing altogether.
A second later your hand jerked again, this time harder, tendons pulling under your skin. Your chest gave a shallow, ragged hitch as if your body had forgotten the shape of breath and was trying to relearn it by force.
The front seal cracked with a metallic snap. Ben was moving before the door had fully opened. It swung out in a gust of freezing vapor, and you pitched forward with the dead weight of someone waking into gravity after a century.
Tubes tore free. Glassy fluid spilled over the lip of the tank onto the floor. Your knees buckled instantly.
Ben caught you.
Your body convulsed against him. Then you coughed. Ben looked down and saw the tube shifting at the back of your throat. “Shit”.
He dropped to one knee in the spill of coolant and freezing fluid, one arm locked behind your shoulders to keep you upright. The other hand hovered for a second over the tubing, his fingers slick with blood and condensation.
You gagged again, harder this time. “Easy”, he said, though his own voice was shot through with something dangerously close to panic. “Easy, sweetheart, I got it”.
He had no idea if he did.
He slid two fingers carefully to the base of the tube, trying to ignore how unnatural it looked disappearing past your lips, trying to ignore the old terror that came whenever your body was involved and his hands had to do something delicate.
His touch, for once, was painstakingly light. Your throat worked around the plastic. Another cough tore through you. Ben pulled. The moment it cleared your mouth you folded forward with a choking gasp. Your forehead knocked weakly against his collarbone. Cold fluid soaked through the front of his shirt where you leaned against him. You kept coughing. Your whole body shook with it.
“Breathe”, he said, low and rough. “Come on. There you go”.
There were wires everywhere. Thin sensor leads plastered to your skin. Adhesive pads at your icollarbone, your ribs, your temples. A cluster of ports and lines trailed from your back and arms and disappeared into the ruined chamber behind you.
The monitor to the side was beeping too fast now, numbers climbing. Ben glanced at it once. He didn’t know what most of it meant. But he knew the sound of a heart trying to decide whether it belonged in a living body again. Fast. Wrong. Then skipping. Then racing.
His jaw tightened. “C’mon”, he muttered, more fiercely now. “Don’t do this”.
He reached for the first wire at your chest and peeled it back with maddening care. Then another. Then another. The adhesive came loose with soft wet sounds against your skin. His fingers shook once when one of the leads snagged in your hair and you flinched faintly even half-conscious.
“Sorry”, he said instantly. The word left his mouth before he could stop it.
He stared at your face after saying it, as if even now some part of him expected you to open your eyes just to tell him it was too late for apologies. But your eyes stayed shut. Your mouth was parted, drawing in broken little breaths that. Every now and then another cough shuddered through you, weaker than the one before.
Ben stripped the last wire from your throat and shoulder, then found more at your wrists. At the inside of your elbows. At the base of your neck. Whoever had put you in there had instrumented every inch of you like they were trying to measure a miracle and own it.
He tore the leads free one by one. The monitor screamed once before the rhythm smoothed. Still too quick and shallow. But steadier.
Ben went still long enough to listen. And there was your heartbeat. Fast. Frightened… Human.
He frowned and looked toward the monitor again. That made no sense. They had pumped you full of V. He knew that from the file, from the notes. He had come down here half-prepared to find something else in the tank. Some glowing-eyed Vought experiment wearing your face. Some twisted answer to a question nobody should have asked.
But your heart didn’t sound like his. Didn’t sound like Homelander’s, his own or any of the monsters and mascots he had spent too much of his life around. It sounded breakable. Human.
Your breathing hitched again and your eyelids fluttered.
Ben’s pulse hammered. He had faced gunfire with less dread. He could fight. Kill. Blow through steel doors. March into a bunker alone and paint the walls with guards and not blink. But waiting for your eyes to open… that nearly undid him.
Because now there was nothing between you. Now it was just you waking up. And him. The man who left. The husband who broke your heart before strangers finished the job. The one who had not come back in time. Not in 1970. Not in 1980. Not in any of the years after that.
The one who had let himself become Soldier Boy so completely that the company had thought the only way to control him was to freeze the last soft part of his old life and keep it in storage.
Ben sat back on his heels in the freezing slush and watched your face with the kind of terrible focus that made everything else disappear. A dozen possibilities chased each other through his head, none of them good.
You might wake confused. You might wake screaming. You might wake and remember only the worst of him. You might wake and hate him on sight.
You had every right.
That last thought lodged in him hardest.
Did you still hate him? Worse—had the hatred had eighty-five years to sharpen somewhere inside whatever dreaming half-life Vought had trapped you in?
Or had the ice kept you right at the moment of your ruin, your grief as fresh as blood under skin?
Ben rubbed a hand once over his mouth and came away with red still drying there from someone else. He looked down at it with sudden disgust and wiped it on the concrete.
Your heartbeat jumped again. His attention snapped back to you instantly.
“Hey”, he said. “Stay with me”.
Your fingers closed weakly around two of his without any strength in them at all. The contact hit him so hard it almost made him bow forward.
There you were. Cold. Half-conscious. Newly dragged from eighty-five years of dark. And still, by some reflex too old for either of you to kill, your hand had reached.
Ben swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I know”, he said softly, though you had not spoken. “I know”.
He didn’t know what he meant by it. That he knew you were frightened? That he knew he shouldn’t be the one you woke up to? That he knew exactly what kind of man he had been the last time you saw him properly and how impossible it was to ask for anything gentler from this moment?
Maybe all of it.
Your breathing steadied a little more. Still shaky. Still too quick. But less torn-up on the way in. Less like drowning.
The lights buzzed overhead. Down the corridor, a distant alarm warbled and cut out, maybe killed by the same broken circuits that had left this section half running on backup. Cold fog curled low around the empty chamber. Corpses stared at the ceiling in silence. And in the middle of all of it, Soldier Boy knelt on a concrete floor holding your hand like it was the only thing in the world he couldn’t afford to break.
Your lashes trembled again. This time your eyes opened halfway. Blurred. Unfocused. They moved over the room in fragments—white light, concrete, the silver of the blankets around you, the dark shape of him kneeling in front of you.
Your brow drew faintly, confusion coming first. Then discomfort. Then the weak animal fear of waking somewhere wrong.
Ben saw the exact second your gaze snagged on his face and tried to make sense of it.
He was older. The face was still Ben’s. The damage wasn’t.
Recognition came slowly and painfully in pieces. Your lips parted. No sound at first.
Ben’s chest went tight. “Don’t push it”, he said, instinctively rough, then caught himself and lowered his voice. “You don’t gotta—”.
Your mouth worked again. This time a thread of breath shaped itself into a word so faint he almost thought he imagined it. “Ben…?”.
There was no hate in your voice. Not yet. Not understanding either. Just stunned, impossible recognition.
His eyes closed for one beat. When he opened them again, something naked had slipped through the cracks in his face before he could stop it. “Yeah”, he said. “It’s me”.
Your gaze held on him, still struggling to focus, still dragged under by cold and waking and the sheer wrongness of the room. He could see your mind trying to fit him somewhere it understood and failing.
The last Ben you knew should have been twenty-something and standing in a little house with his shadow too long on the wall. Not this.
Your fingers tightened weakly around his. Then your gaze dropped to the blood on him. To the bodies beyond. Back to the tank. Confusion turned to fear in a quick, bright flare.
Ben felt it like a knife. “No”, he said at once, too fast. “No, easy. You’re okay”.
That was a lie, and both of them knew it.
But he could not bear the look in your eyes when it landed on the room.
He shifted closer, slowly enough to give you time to recoil if you wanted to. You tensed anyway. Only a little. Only instinct. Still enough. Ben stopped right there. His throat worked once. “I know”. The words were almost to himself.
He loosened his hand under yours, giving you the room to let go if that was what you wanted. His other hand stayed braced on the concrete beside your hip.
“You were in there”, he said quietly, glancing toward the tank. “They had you under. Long time”. His mouth tightened. “I got you out”.
Your eyes flicked to the tank again, then back to him. Your voice, when it came, was no more than a scrape. “How…?”.
Ben let out a breath through his nose.
How did one answer that? How did one bridge war and Vought and Homelander and files and eighty-five years buried under concrete and ice?
He chose the only part that mattered first. “I found you”.
Your lashes fluttered. Confusion still clouded everything. “You left”, you whispered. The words were so weak they should not have had any force at all. They hit him like a bullet.
Ben went motionless.
Of course. Of course that was the first clear thing. Not the bunker. Not the blood. Not the impossible machinery.
Him leaving. The door. The kitchen table. The keys.
Your mind had come back through ice and nightmare and whatever half-life Vought had forced on you, and the first solid fact it reached for was the one that hurt most.
He looked at you and did not even try to defend himself. “Yeah”, he said.
Your face changed, not into anger exactly, because you were too weak yet for anything so hot. More like the old wound had opened before the rest of you had even finished waking.
Ben felt panic rise in him then. Helplessness. The kind he had always hated most.
Just then, your world tipped sideways.
One second you were looking at him and the next, everything in you simply gave out.
Your fingers slipped from his. Your eyes rolled shut.
Ben caught you before your head hit the concrete. “Hey”.
The word cracked out of him, sharp with fear.
He felt for your pulse before he even realized he was doing it, two fingers at the side of your throat, then lower when his hand shook too much to trust the first reading.
Your heartbeat was still there. Fast, too thin, but there. Your breathing came shallow and uneven against the front of his shirt. You were alive. Just unconscious.
Ben closed his eyes for half a second and let the relief hit him hard enough to make his teeth grit.
Then he wrapped the blankets tighter around you, slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees, and lifted you with a care that would have looked unnatural on anybody who knew what his hands could do.
Your head fell against his chest. Damp hair brushed his throat.
He got out of the bunker before the next wave came.
More alarms. More men. Maybe Vought cleanup. Maybe Homelander changing his mind.
He didn’t stay to find out.
The car crooked in the gravel behind the bunker entrance, engine still idling.
He laid you in the back seat of the car he’d taken from the last guard first, then stopped, swore under his breath, and moved you again.
“No”, he mumbled.
Not back there. Not where he couldn’t hear every breath right beside him.
So he settled you in the front instead, reclined the seat as far as it would go, belted you in with maddening care, then pulled both emergency blankets up to your chin before slamming the door and getting behind the wheel.
He took back roads first, then frontage roads, then some dark stretch of highway lined with shut gas stations and chain restaurants glowing in the distance. He didn’t know where he was going until he saw a motel sign.
The place sat off a quiet road outside town, the sort of motel people used when they didn’t want questions or company.
Ben carried you in through the side entrance of room twelve with the key still warm from the clerk’s hand.
Inside, the room was dim and ugly and blessedly quiet.
He set you down on the bed and for a second he just stood over you.
Your face was pale against the motel pillow. Your lips still had that bluish cast around the edges that scared the hell out of him. Coolant and thawed frost and fluid had soaked through everything. Blood, other people’s, maybe some yours, marked the silver blanket and his ruined jacket wrapped around your shoulders.
You looked small.
Not fragile exactly. You had always hated that word. But small in a way the world had no business making you.
Ben turned on the bathroom light. Found washcloths, thin towels, a sealed little bar of soap. Ran the sink until water came hot enough to steam.
He went back out with a wet towel and sat on the edge of the bed.
Then he hesitated.
Not because he hadn’t seen your body. Christ, he had. A thousand times, in better years and worse. In satin and cotton and nothing at all. In the narrow bed of your first house with summer heat making the sheets stick, in dark mornings before he left for work, in the rare soft pauses where he had once believed wanting and keeping were the same thing.
That was exactly why it hit him so hard now.
Because all those memories came from a life before he broke the right to any of this.
Still, you were half-frozen and unconscious and shaking every now and then in little leftover aftershocks. He could not leave you soaked in chemicals and blood.
So he did what needed doing. Carefully.
He cleaned you with warm water and the washcloth, rinsing fluid and blood from your arms, your shoulders, your legs, your throat. Wiped the residue of adhesive from your skin where the sensors had been. Smoothed damp hair away from your face with fingers that dwarfed your temple and yet somehow barely touched.
Every now and then he stopped just to listen.
Heartbeat. Breathing. Human. Still there.
When you shivered hard enough to make your teeth knock together in your sleep, he stripped off the ruined top half of his suit without a second thought. Underneath, he had the long-sleeve undershirt Vought had built under the costume warm from his own skin. He pulled it over his head and for a second stood there in only his suit pants.
Then he dressed you in it.
That took longer than it should have. One limp arm at a time. Your head supported in the crook of his elbow while he eased the shirt down over you. The fabric swallowed you whole, hem falling to your thighs, sleeves past your wrists. His shirt on your body looked indecently intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with history.
He hated how much that undid him.
By the time he got you under the blankets, you were warmer than before. Not warm enough. But no longer ice. Ben sat beside you and stayed there.
-
At 2:07, you woke with a gasp that hurt all the way down.
The room lurched into view in broken pieces.
A yellow lamp with a stained shade. Floral curtains pulled almost shut. A ceiling painted the color of old nicotine. The stale smell of motel soap, dust and somebody else’s cigarettes soaked into the carpet long before you ever got here.
Your body felt wrong in every possible direction and for one wild second, you did not know where you were.
Then you tried to move and everything came back badly.
The tank. The bunker. The blood.
Ben.
You pushed yourself up on instinct. Pain and dizziness hit at once. Your head swam. Your stomach turned over hard enough to make you press one hand against it. The blankets slid down your lap. Something warm and steady moved in the chair beside the bed.
“Don’t do that”.
His voice came low and immediate. Awake already. Waiting.
You turned your head.
Ben sat in the chair by the bed with his elbows on his knees. He had no shirt on. Only those green superhero suit pants still clung to him.
He looked tired enough to split. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face by impatient fingers. There was gray at his temples now, not the gray of age so much as damage that had decided to show itself there first. Faint scars cut across his chest and shoulder, old and pale. His eyes stayed fixed on you with the kind of concentration men used on bombs.
You realized then that what you were wearing was not yours.
A dark long-sleeve shirt swallowed your body whole. It smelled like soap and something underneath it that was unmistakably him. Not cologne. Not city. Not the chemical glitter that had clung to him in the last years before he left…. Just Ben.
Your throat went tight.
He saw your gaze drop to the shirt.
“You were freezing”, he said. The explanation came out rough, almost defensive, like he was bracing for accusation. “You had all that fluid shit on you”.
You tried to speak too quickly. Your voice came out scraped raw.
“What—”. You stopped to swallow.
Ben was already reaching for the bottle on the nightstand. You took a sip and looked around the room again, slower this time. Cheap dresser. One door with a heavy chain lock. A purse-sized Gideon Bible on the nightstand.
“This…”. Your voice failed. You tried again. “Where are we?”.
“Motel”, he said. His eyes did not leave your face. “Outside the city”.
That answered almost nothing.
You licked dry lips and looked at him more carefully. Really looked.
The last time you had seen him properly, he had still been young in a way that made sense. Dangerous maybe, yes. Mean, yes. Already turning into something… cruel. But still recognizably anchored to the world you knew.
This Ben was not that.
The face was the same underneath. The mouth. The brow. The shape of his jaw when he clenched it. But time—however it had touched him—had done it from the inside out. He looked like a man who had been lived through by too much. A man who had survived things badly.
Your eyes dropped to the green pants again. To the ridiculous costume piece in a room that might have existed nowhere in the world you remembered.
Cold crept into you from somewhere deeper than your skin.
“What year is it?”.
Ben went still. You saw the way his shoulders locked and the way his eyes changed. As if this had been the question he had been dreading most.
When he answered, he did not soften it.
“2026”.
You stared at him.
The number meant nothing for a beat. Then too much.
Your hand loosened around the bottle. “No”, you said.
Ben’s jaw tightened. “Yeah”.
“No”.
You shook your head once, then regretted it instantly when the room tipped again. The clock on the nightstand glowed red. 2:08. That horrible little digital brightness alone looked wrong enough to make your chest pull tight.
“That’s not…”. You swallowed. “That’s not funny”.
His face changed at that. Something like pain crossed it fast and was gone.
“I’m not joking”.
You looked at the lamp. The clock. The cut of the curtains. The shape of the phone on the nightstand, plastic and smooth and alien compared to what memory expected. The air itself felt different. Colder in some mechanical way, flatter, less alive than the rooms you remembered.
You pressed your hand harder to your stomach.
Eighty-five years.
The number opened under your feet like a trapdoor.
Your mind reached for smaller things instead. Safer things. The last details it could still trust.
Rain on the kitchen windows.
The tick of the clock above the stove.
His keys on the table.
The newspaper on the floor.
Your breath started coming too fast.
Ben heard it immediately. He pushed out of the chair before you could register the motion, then stopped himself halfway to the bed, hands open at his sides, as if remembering all at once that moving fast toward you was no longer neutral.
“Hey”, he said, lower now. “Breathe”.
You looked at him and wanted to ask ten things at once.
Where had he been.
What had they done to you.
Why were you still twenty-seven.
Why did he look the same and not the same.
Who had dressed you.
Why did the room smell like bleach and old heat.
Why, why, why.
Instead what came out was, “I was dead”.
“No”.
The answer was immediate. Too sharp. Almost angry.
Ben dragged a hand over his mouth and forced his voice back down. “No. They had you under. Frozen”. His mouth twisted around the word, hating it. “Long time”.
Your eyes burned. “Who?”.
“Vought”.
The name sat between you like acid.
You looked away. Of course. Of course it was them. Who else took people and turned them into property with a clean desk and a typed memo?
Your fingers curled into the blanket. “Why?”.
He laughed once through his nose. No humor in it. “For me”.
You turned back to him. He did not look away.
“They kept you as leverage”, he said. “Pressure. In case I ever stepped out of line”.
You looked down at your own hands. Pale against dark fabric. A stranger’s motel light on skin that had not aged. The shirt sleeve hanging over your knuckles, his shirt, because there had been no time or right or choice left in anything.
“For you”, you repeated.
Ben’s throat worked once. “Yeah”.
A hundred feelings moved through you at once, too tangled to separate—shock, fear, grief, humiliation so old it woke up instantly, and somewhere under all of it a raw little thread of anger that had somehow survived even the ice.
You laughed once, softly and without any joy in it. “That sounds about right”.
He flinched.
You had not meant to make him do that. Or maybe you had. You didn’t know. Your whole body felt like it belonged to someone else.
Silence settled.
Ben stayed standing where he was, not near enough to crowd you, not far enough to pretend he wasn’t waiting for every breath.
You looked at the motel door with the chain lock, then the window, then back at him. The movement was instinctive. Measuring exits. Safety. The habit felt new and old at the same time.
Ben noticed. “This place is clean”, he said. “I checked”.
You almost smiled at the phrasing. Almost. It died before it got there.
“Did you kill them?”.
Ben went very still.
You already knew the answer. You had seen the blood on him in the bunker. The bodies. The way he carried violence now like a second skin. Still, some part of you needed to hear whether he would lie.
He didn’t.
“Yes”.
You closed your eyes.
When you opened them, he was still watching you with that unbearable focus.
“They were keeping you in a tank”, he said, voice roughening. “I wasn’t gonna ask nicely”.
No. He wouldn’t have.
That answer should have frightened you more than it did.
Maybe because there was no room left for new kinds of fear yet. Only the old one, sitting between your ribs with his name on it.
You shifted under the blankets and the motion pulled a small, involuntary wince out of you. Ben caught it instantly.
“What hurts?”.
You blinked at him. The question came so fast it sounded as though he had been waiting to ask it for hours.
“Nothing”, you said automatically.
His expression said he didn’t believe you for a second.
“Everything?”, he tried instead, and there was something almost grimly dry in the adjustment, something old-Ben enough to catch you off guard.
A tired, disbelieving breath escaped you.
“Pretty much”.
That did something to his face. Softened wasn’t the word. Wounded maybe. Or maybe just made him look like a man listening to damage he could neither fix nor fight.
He sat back down in the chair slowly. He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, giving you less height to have to look up at. That seemed deliberate too. You watched him for a while.
“You were waiting for me to wake up”.
Ben looked at the floor for a second before answering. “Yeah”.
“How long?”.
He flicked a glance at the clock. “Couple hours”.
The absurdity of that hit you strangely. The world had moved nearly a century. Vought had stolen your life. You had woken in a motel wearing your estranged husband’s undershirt while he sat shirtless in superhero pants beside the bed like a sentry.
And still some small, intimate truth survived in the middle of all that ruin: he had waited.
You didn’t know what to do with that. Neither did he, by the look of him.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, lower than before, “You can go back to sleep”.
You almost laughed.
“Ben”, you whispered. “I woke up in 2026”.
His mouth flattened. “Yeah”.
“I don’t think I’m sleeping”.
No answer at first.
Then, almost under his breath, “Fair enough”.
Around three, Ben started talking, because the silence had become its own kind of cruelty.
He gave you the shortest version he knew how to give, which still wasn’t short, because his life after you had been one long chain of violence, bad choices, and men using one another like weapons.
He told you about Countess first. Not gently. Ben had never known how to make ugly truths pretty.
He sat there half-turned in that ugly motel chair, forearms on his knees, looking at the carpet instead of you when he said, “Yeah. I loved her. In my way”.
The words hit low and hard. You kept your face still, but your fingers curled tighter in the blanket.
He must have heard the change in your breathing, because his jaw tightened. For a second you thought he might take it back, soften it, say something to save you from the shape of it.
He didn’t.
“She wasn’t you”, he said after a beat, rougher now. “Never was”.
That should not have helped.
It did and didn’t, both at once.
Then came the rest. His team. The betrayal. Countess turning on him with the others. The Russians taking him. Decades in a lab, drugged and buried and cut open and studied. He told it flatly, like if he stripped the feeling out of it first, maybe neither of you would have to touch it.
You listened with your arms around yourself. Every now and then you asked a question, and every answer only seemed to make the world wider and colder.
Then Butcher. His guys. Homelander. Vought changing shape over the years without changing its soul. Companies swallowing countries. Supes becoming celebrities and products and idols and nightmares all at once. The world getting louder, faster, filthier, greedier. Men in suits still running everything, just with better technology and whiter teeth.
You sat there trying to imagine all of it and couldn’t.
Television everywhere.
Phones without cords.
Cars that barely made noise.
People living half their lives inside screens.
And then, for some ungodly reason, Ben spent far too long explaining porn.
At first you thought you had misheard him.
Then you realized, with growing horror, that no, he was seriously trying to explain the scale of modern depravity through the existence of instant filth on demand, as if that were somehow one of the key pillars of civilization you needed updated on.
“Ben”, you said at last, appalled, while he sat there shirtless in his green suit pants talking in the calmest voice imaginable about how “there’s whole websites for every weird thing a person can think of”.
“What?”, he said, actually looking offended. “It’s relevant”.
“It is not relevant”.
“It tells you a lot about the culture”.
“It tells me people need church”.
That shut him up for half a second.
Then one corner of his mouth twitched.
You saw it and hated that part of you still recognized that almost-smile.
“This is funny to you?”, you asked.
“A little”.
“Benjamin”.
That made the smile vanish properly, because you only used his full name when you were genuinely scandalized, and apparently even after eighty-five years that still worked on him.
You straightened under the blankets as much as your weak body would allow and gave him, in your raw half-frozen voice in a cheap motel room in 2026, a tired, sincere lesson about morality, modesty, Christian decency and the collapse of civilization.
Ben sat there and took it.
Mostly because he looked too tired to fight.
Partly, maybe, because hearing you sound like yourself again, even lecturing him, did something to his face he could not hide fast enough.
When you were done, he rubbed a hand over his mouth and muttered, “You wake up after eighty-five years and your first real opinion is that everybody needs Jesus”.
“Yes”, you said. “Obviously”.
That got a breath of laughter out of him. Quiet. Brief. Gone almost immediately.
From here, Ben should have let it go there.
He should have taken the small, strange mercy of that moment. Your outrage, his almost-laugh, the fact that for half a second the room had felt less like a grave dug up and more like two people who once knew how to talk.
But Ben was still Ben.
Which meant the second the air got almost manageable, he ruined it.
He leaned back in the chair, scrubbed a hand over his jaw, and said, with the kind of false casualness that was never a good sign, “You should probably hear about Herogasm from me too”.
You blinked. “What”.
His eyes flicked to you, then away. “It’s… a thing”.
“A thing”, you repeated.
“Yeah”.
The way he said it made your stomach drop before you even understood why.
You stared at him. “Benjamin”.
That full name again. Sharper this time.
He shifted in the chair, suddenly looking like he knew he’d stepped wrong and had decided, in typical fashion, to keep walking anyway. “Look, I’m telling you now because if you find out some other way later, it’ll be worse”.
You sat up straighter despite the ache in your body. “Find out what”.
Ben exhaled through his nose.
“It’s this yearly—”. He made a vague motion with one hand. “Supes-only event. Vought pretends it doesn’t know about it. Everybody knows about it”.
You kept staring.
His mouth flattened. “Basically a giant degenerate free-for-all”.
Your mouth fell open.
For one full second, you could not even form words.
“A what?”.
That won you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, which only made your horror worse.
“A giant degenerate free-for-all”, he repeated, less flippant this time, as if he knew very well how it sounded and had accepted that there was no better version.
You looked around wildly as though the motel room itself might confirm you had finally lost your mind. Then your eyes snapped back to him.
“And you”, you said, each word distinct with disbelief, “were involved”.
Ben had the nerve to look almost rueful.
“I kind of started it”.
You made a sound so scandalized it barely qualified as language.
Then you grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him.
Not hard. You were too weak for hard. But with all the outrage and heartbreak your body could muster at four in the morning in a motel in 2026.
The pillow hit him square in the face.
Ben caught it a beat too late and let it fall into his lap.
For one stunned second, he looked at you over the top of it like he couldn’t quite believe you’d done that.
Then, because he was exhausted and half-broken and still somehow capable of being amused at exactly the wrong moment, he let out a quiet huff of laughter.
You pointed at him from under the blankets, appalled. “Do not laugh”.
“I’m not laughing”.
“You are”.
“A little”.
“Ben”.
That cut it off again. He dropped the pillow to the floor and held up both hands in surrender, though there was still a trace of something almost warm in his face. “All right. All right”.
You stared at him in open horror.
“A yearly—”, you broke off, unable to even repeat it properly. “With other people”.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah”.
Your cheeks felt hot now, which was ridiculous after everything. After tanks and bunkers and eighty-five years and blood and Vought and the end of the world as you knew it. And yet this—this obscene, careless, public filth attached to the man you had married in a church while wearing white gloves and trembling because you loved him so much—this was somehow what undid the last of your composure.
“You are disgusting”, you whispered.
Ben took that one. Didn’t argue. Didn’t posture.
Just sat there in the chair, shirtless, looking more tired than offended.
“It was a long time ago”, he said after a beat.
“That is not helping”.
“I know”.
“And you thought I needed to know this now?”.
“Yes”.
“Why?”.
He looked at you then and whatever joking edge had been there faded.
“Because if you hear it from someone else, it’ll sound worse”.
You gave him a stricken, incredulous look. “How could it possibly sound worse.”
His mouth opened. Closed. To his credit, he did not try to answer that.
The silence that followed trembled with the remains of your outrage. Your heart was beating too fast again, but for a different reason now—less fear than a kind of mortified heartbreak, the shame of imagining too much and wishing you could imagine none of it.
Because beneath the scandal, beneath the appalled moral horror, there was something much simpler and more painful.
He was your husband.
He had been your only man. The only body you had ever made room for in your life. The only one you had ever known like that.
And now here he was, matter-of-factly admitting to entire arenas of dirt and excess and other people and acts so vulgar your mind kept swerving away from them before they fully formed.
Your eyes stung.
You looked down at the blanket before he could see it, but too late. One tear slipped free and landed dark on the fabric pooled over your knees.
Ben went still. All the humor dropped out of him at once.
“Ah, hell”, he said quietly.
You wiped at your face angrily.
“I didn’t mean—”.
“You never mean”, you said and your voice broke halfway through.
That shut him up.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your mouth, furious with yourself now. Furious that after everything he had already told you, this was what pushed tears out. Furious that your body still kept finding new ways to humiliate you in front of him.
But it wasn’t just Herogasm. It was Countess. It was the years. It was his body becoming public in every possible way while yours had been locked underground and forgotten. It was the obscene scale of all the lives he had lived without you. The filth of it only made the distance easier to picture.
Ben leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees again, hands hanging between them. He looked stricken in that angry, helpless way of his, like if there had been someone else in the room to hit, he’d have preferred that to watching you cry.
“I was trying to tell you straight”, he said.
You laughed once through the tears, a soft miserable sound. “And that worked out beautifully”.
His eyes shut for half a second.
“No”, he muttered. “Guess not”.
You kept your face turned down, breathing carefully, trying to stop the tears before they became more than a few. The blanket bunched under your fists.
After a moment, Ben said, lower now, “It didn’t mean anything”.
There were so many things wrong with that sentence you almost laughed again.
Instead you looked up at him with wet eyes and said, “That might be the saddest part”.
You sat there for a long time without speaking.
The tears had mostly stopped, but your face still felt tight with them. Your throat ached. The room had gone dimmer in a way that only happened toward morning, when the lamp seemed too yellow and the window too pale and everything looked exhausted with you.
Ben watched you from the chair.
He was bad at silence on a good day. Silence left too much room for things he didn’t want to sit with. Guilt. Shame. Memory. The sight of you in his shirt with your eyes red from crying because of him.
So, after a few minutes of the kind of quiet that made the whole room feel held underwater, he tried again.
Not with anything important. That was how you knew he was trying.
He started telling you stupid little things about the new world. Not the big terrible ones this time. The ridiculous ones. The things that seemed to offend him personally on principle.
He told you about self-checkout machines that made customers do the cashier’s job for free.
About electric scooters left all over sidewalks “like some kind of plague”.
About men in suits paying nine dollars for coffee and thanking the barista like they’d just been handed medicine.
About something called “influencers” and the look on your face at that word alone was so baffled that one corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it.
“They just… influence what?”, you asked weakly.
“Everything, apparently”.
“That is not a job”.
“No”, he said. “It is not”.
Then he told you about juice cleanses and gender reveal explosions and people filming themselves crying on the internet for strangers, and for the first time all night a sound escaped you that wasn’t pain.
A small, startled chuckle. It slipped out while your cheeks were still damp.
The noise seemed to hit him almost as hard as your tears had. His face changed around it. Not into a smile exactly. Something quieter. More careful. As if hearing you sound like yourself, even in that tiny way, made him afraid to move too fast and lose it.
“There she is”, he murmured.
You wiped under one eye with the heel of your hand and gave him a tired look. “This world sounds ridiculous”.
“It is”.
“And immoral”.
“That too”.
“And badly dressed”.
That got a real laugh out of him. Low and brief and gone quickly, but real.
“Yeah”, he said. “You’re gonna hate half of it on sight”.
“Only half?”.
“Maybe seventy percent”.
You gave a weak, watery breath that was almost another laugh.
The room loosened by one thread.
Not fixed, but loosened.
Ben shifted forward a little in the chair, elbows on his knees. The lamplight caught the line of one scar down his shoulder. He looked, suddenly, less like a myth and more like a very tired man trying and failing not to scare the one person he most wanted near him.
His hand lifted. Slowly.
You saw what he meant to do before he did it. Just brush your arm, maybe, or smooth the blanket where it had bunched near your elbow. Your body flinched back anyway. Small. Quick. Pure reflex.
Ben froze and his hand stopped in midair. Then dropped.
The look that crossed his face was so nakedly guilty it made something twist in your chest.
He looked down at his own hand like it belonged to someone else.
Then, very quietly, “I’m in control now”.
You didn’t answer right away.
His voice roughened. “I am”.
Ben swallowed once and kept his eyes on the floor.
“I know that doesn’t mean much coming from me”, he said. “But it’s true”. A beat passed. “I spent years in Russia with every goddamn thing in me chained down and measured. Then more years after trying not to level a room every time I got pissed”. His mouth tightened. “I know my own strength now”.
You watched him.
He finally looked up.
“I would never hurt you by accident again”.
The sentence sat between you, heavy and imperfect. Not because you didn’t believe he meant it. Because “by accident” still left too many other kinds of hurt in the room.
Maybe he knew that. Maybe that was why he looked away first.
Your voice came soft. “That wasn’t the only problem, Ben”.
His jaw flexed. “I know”.
And there was too much history in those two words to press any farther right then.
So you didn’t. Instead you asked other things. Smaller things.
What music sounded like now. Why everyone’s clothes looked so cheap in the brochures he found in the motel drawer. Why women wore running shoes with dresses. What a microwave was. Why cars all looked rounded.
Ben answered as best he could.
Sometimes badly.
Sometimes with surprising patience.
Sometimes with that old dry streak of humor that had once caught you off guard in kitchens and backyards and school corridors before life had filed all its edges into weapons.
By the time the clock dragged toward six, your body had started losing the fight.
The adrenaline had burned off. The shock had settled deeper. Every muscle in you felt borrowed and sore. Your eyelids turned heavy between one blink and the next. The room kept going a little soft at the edges no matter how hard you tried to keep your thoughts lined up.
Ben saw it before you said anything.
“You’re done”, he said.
You frowned faintly. “I’m awake”.
“Barely”.
“I am”.
He gave you a look. Not mean. Not even amused, exactly. Just familiar in a way that hurt.
“You look like you’re about to fall over sitting still”.
You wanted to argue. Instead you yawned.
That made one side of his mouth twitch despite everything.
“Yeah”, he muttered. “Thought so”.
He stood then, slowly enough not to startle you, and crossed to the lamp.
“Don’t”, you said, more quickly than you meant to.
His hand paused over the switch.
You looked toward the window, where the first weak gray of dawn was beginning to thin the dark. “Not all the way”.
Ben glanced back at you and seemed to understand.
The lamp stayed on, just dimmed lower.
Then came the awkward part. The room had one bed.
You looked at the chair. At him. At the bed. Your tired brain could not quite make those pieces into a shape that felt sensible.
Ben solved it the way he solved most things: by making a decision and standing still inside it.
“I’m not sleeping in that chair”, he said.
The bluntness of it would have annoyed you in any other life.
Now you only looked at him through the fog of exhaustion.
“I wasn’t asking you to”.
He studied your face for a second, like he was checking whether that was true or just politeness shaped like surrender. Maybe it was both. You were too tired to sort it out.
He came to the bed carefully, pulling the blanket aside on the far edge and lying down over the comforter first, not under it, as if to prove he wasn’t assuming anything. The mattress dipped with his weight. Your body noticed immediately. Tensed a little. Then, because you had nothing left in you for another flinch, slowly let go.
He kept his distance. An honest distance. A strip of mattress between you. One arm folded under his head, the other lying still on top of the blanket where you could see it.
You didn’t complain.
Part of that was exhaustion. Part of it was that your thoughts had gone too loose and strange to fight anything except sleep by now.
And part of it—though you hated admitting it, even to yourself—was older than all of this. Older than Vought and tanks and neon motel signs and digital clocks. Old training in your bones. A wife did not make a scene over a bed. A wife did not tell her husband no just because the world had ended and remade itself around them. Not when she was raised in the years you were. Not when love and obedience and habit had been braided together so early you could no longer always tell where one stopped and the next began.
Ben must have sensed some of that in the silence, because after a long beat he said into the dim room, “If you want me out of the bed, say it”.
You turned your head on the pillow and looked at him.
The offer sounded almost painful coming from him. Like it had cost him.
You were too tired to unpack that too.
“I don’t”, you murmured.
It wasn’t the whole truth. It wasn’t a lie either.
He nodded once, eyes on the ceiling.
“All right”.
———————————
A/N: Didn’t plan on posting it this soon, but… well, here we go because Lou can’t wait. Like always. The next one will probably be up in a week.
Also, just so you know, I had this one finished before season 5 aired 🙃 I wrote it after that teaser of Ben in Homelander’s suite came out. Kinda funny considering all the church and Jesus stuff… well, you’ll see in the following chapters 😭
˖ ꫂ᭪ ֗ good sweet thing ✿ ݁ soldier boy : 𝟣𝟪+ 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖻 .
🗒️ 𓈒 . when you sank to your knees in front of older! soldier boy, his hands fisted the sheets where he sat on the edge of the bed. “fuck, whatcha doin’, sweet girl?” he tries to stay calm, even with the one possible thing you could be doing flooding his mind. “wanna make you feel good..” you murmur, smaller hands gliding up the hard muscles of his thighs. “yeah? gonna suck my cock, pretty?” with a small nod, you made quick progress in getting his pants and boxers down, ben’s thick and throbbing cock springing free against his stomach.
ben watched you. your big eyes, slightly shaky movements, your clear eagerness to make an older man like him feel good. it was cute, really. “you don’t gotta rush.” he says, shifting to spread his legs wider and scooting closer to the edge. the words were encouraging, but his voice was still rough.
when you warm mouth finally made contact with his length, his hips jerked forward, accidentally thrusting more into your mouth. a surprised sound escapes you, but you recover quickly, hollowing your cheeks to take half of him in your mouth. “shit..” he groans, eyes half-lidded as he watches you. you start sucking, bobbing your head slow to get comfy, your spit mixing with the precum blooming from his tip. wrapping your hand around the base of him, you stroke what you couldn’t take, twisting your wrists with damn near perfect precision. once you were sure you were ready, you got faster, sucked harder, and looked up at him through your lashes.
“fucking hell… look at you,” he moans, not expecting this much so fast. if you kept like this, he’d finish quick. “shit..” he groans, gasping slightly as his face relaxes from the pleasure you were bringing him. soon enough his hips were jerking up into the wet heat of your throat, making you gurgle around him. “holy shi—” ben’s voice was ragged, just barely above a growl now. "where the fuck you learn to suck dick like this? some punk-ass boy?” he groans, one hand coming to the back of your head to guide you. he’d known you weren’t a virgin, but fuck, did you know what you were doing.
a rough thrust punctuated his question, deep enough into your throat to make your eyes gloss over. he watched with an almost dark satisfaction as your saliva dripped down onto his thigh from your lips. you gagged again, never stopping even still. each twitch of his cock was stronger than the last, telling you that he was already close. he let out anot her sharp curse, his grip on your hair turning vicious as he fucked into your mouth. his hips snapped up from the bed, using your throat as you let him. tears rolled down the apples of your cheeks, and your face flushed hot. air was scarce now, but you could feel it, the way his cock pulsed against your tongue.
“gonna nut down this pretty little throat. aw, fuck—better take it all.” he groans, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “shit, shit, fuck!” he gasps, body tensing as his orgasm hit him like a brick wall, hot semen shooting down your sore throat. the thick ropes of his cum were salty, but still undeniably him. and the satisfaction you got from making him cum so fast took over any ounce of pain. “swallow it. or i’ll make you lick it off the floor.” he scoots back, slowly pulling out of your mouth, a string of spit connecting you. his thumb swipes over your chin, where some had slipped out and shoved it between your lips. “my messy girl… made me cum so good.” he pants, holding your face with both hands as he watched you swallow and suck at his thumb.
18+ soldier boy x virgin fem reader, daddy kink, creampie, dirty talk
the night ben takes your virginity isn’t marked by anything particularly romantic. there’s no candle lit dinner, no glasses of wine set out on the counter for the two of you to sip on over small talk. just the comfort of his bed, his arms around you, and the knowledge that the rest of the boys wouldn’t be home for days.
the two of you have been dancing around this moment for months. stealing looks at each other on the couch during every sex scene every movie night, staying up till the early morning after just to talk about anything you can think of. wondering what it’d feel like to have your fill of each other for just a moment. just long enough to commit the feeling of being inside each other to memory.
“relax, kid.” he gruffs, rubbing a warm hand up and down the bare skin of your side. “strung up like a god damn piñata.”
you peer up at him through watery eyes, whispering something shaky that sounds a lot like “daddy” while he pushes his dick to the hilt. you’ve always wanted him to know what you feel like from the inside. to wrap his arms around you in the safety of his bed surrounded by the smell of his cologne.
he laughs quietly. deep in his chest “what, i’m your daddy now?” he whispers, so soft you’re honestly shocked the question had come from him. “already? fuck.” he laughs, lip pinched between his teeth.
you nod the best you can, not exactly sure at what. he reels his hips back until the tip is the only thing nestled between your legs, then forward again, letting his sack rest heavy against your weeping slit. ben presses a salty thumb to your lips, using the digit to give you something to focus on during the first couple of thrusts.
you’re soaking him to the bone. dripping slick all over his cock and the sheets like the touch starved girl he knows you are. he brings his other hand down to press his thumb right against the seam where you both meet, looking up at you with hooded eyes and that lazy smile he only gives you when he’s teasing you.
“you know how long i’ve wanted this pussy?”
you shake your head, something between a sigh and a whine leaving your lips. the finger in your mouth pushes deeper, all the way to the second knuckle. enough to make you gag real pretty around the shape of it.
“back in the fall. a soldier boy story.” he groans, brows knitting at the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him. “couldn’t take your eyes off the TV, told me how strong i looked like you were dyin’ to get fucked. made me feel like a man.”
you whine around the digit again, teeth grazing the webbed skin of his hand. the thumb once pressed against your pussy now rest at the fat of your hip, fingers digging into the soft skin there like he just can’t help but squeeze.
“were you?” he questions, eyes raking down the length of your body appreciatively. “telling me i looked good hoping i’d take your little sleep shirt off and fuck this pussy? hm? pop your cherry like you wanted?” he wonders aloud.
you don’t have to answer him. he already knows from the way tears spill over your lash line and down the length of your neck. the digit between your lips finally leaves the warm embrace of your mouth, probably pruning from how sweetly you’ve been sucking on it. his newly freed hand goes straight for your other hip, and soon enough, he’s pulling you up and down onto his dick like a fleshlight.
“think you can take cum like a good girl?” he grumbles, eyes screwed shut as he fucks you onto the length of himself. his beard tickles your shoulder when he leans forward, drawing a shaky moan from the deepest depths of your chest.
“i can take it.” you whimper, and ben smiles wildly at that. right against the curve of your throat like the words were exactly what he needed to fill you up.
he smooths a hand over your hair, thrusting once, twice, then lets himself go with the hoarsest noise you’ve ever heard him make.
“shhh shh.” he urges, thumbing your clit back and forth while his balls unload themselves right into your hole. his other hand trails from your head to sit firmly at your hip, holding you tight against the mattress while you wriggle at the feeling of being filled for the first time.
you don’t last more than a few seconds before your creaming around the base of him, and ben takes it all in like a man of his stature would. all rough groans and filthy strings of words that don’t quite register until your pussy lets up.
“there we go, c’mon.” he mumbles, pulling the last of your orgasm out of you with a soft press to the swell of your clit. “not too bad for a newbie, right? think you can do it again for your dad?”
ben's the type to let jeff fuck you while he plays on his PC.
Jeff has you in the meanest mating press, shorts only pulled to the side, the sound of skin slapping mixing with the wound effects of ben's video game.
Jeff still talking shit to ben while balls deep on Ben's bed, mind you.
Queue a bong rip between the both of them as aftercare and ben getting sloppy seconds.
summary : after denying you were pregnant , despite the very obvious signs , you finally took a test. don’t panic , but.. congrats!
warnings : fluff , slight smut , pregnancy , happy ben , lmk if i missed any
part one , part two
Over the course of around a month and a half, your mornings had been spent hurled over the rim of the toilet and puking up what you had eaten the day prior, sometimes when you hadn’t even eaten. You brushed it off at first, claiming that it must’ve just been something you ate at a restaurant Ben took you to or something, after all, it was a restaurant you two hadn’t tried before.
Then came the swelling after the second month. You didn’t even it until you were in missionary one night and Ben had pressed down on your stomach to feel the outline of his cock, only for his brows to furrow as he felt your stomach a little rounder than usual. Don’t get him wrong, he loves the extra fat, apparently it gives him more to hold onto when fucking you stupid, but he knew that the firmness on your stomach wasn’t there before.
It was like his eyes lit up and entire demeanor switched all of a sudden. In the back of his mind had always been the thought of getting you pregnant, giving you a mini-him (or you) that caused mayhem as they ran around the living room. So, when he felt your stomach and remembered the puking every morning, that idea of breeding you immediately shot forward and became the only thing his mind focused on.
"Alright, how long were you gonna hide this from me, huh? Thought I wouldn’t find out?" His gruff voice abruptly cut through the moans and sound of the headboard smacking against the wall, hips slowing until they came to a painfully slow and steady pace.
It was like a bomb went off with how quick you went quiet, your eyes snapping open and focusing on his own that were still sparkling. Your back flattened against the sheets from its arched position, your fingers uncurling from their tight grip on the pillows. "What are you talking about?"
Ben rolled his eyes and leaned down so his forehead rested against your own, breath tangling with yours when he spoke again. "The pregnancy, doll. When were you gonna tell me?" His lips curled into a smirk when he saw your surprised face, one hand reaching up to wrap your thigh around his hip. "Don’t act all shocked now, you knew and weren’t gonna tell me."
".. Ben, I’m not fucking pregnant."
"Honey, I think I know when a lady’s pregnant. You know many I’ve knocked up—"
"I don’t wanna hear about that when you’re still balls deep inside of me."
Ben chuckled at the sharpness in your tone, knowing how you felt whenever he brought up anything sexual from his past, whether it was just a girl flashing him or him getting women pregnant. Obviously, he made them get rid of it. A kid would’ve gotten in the way of his career, and he didn’t want America’s Greatest Supe to slow down just because he got greedy (👀👀).
After the little pregnancy talk, and your quick defense to shut up him up, you both quickly forgot about it and went back to fucking like rabid rabbits, the pace quickly speeding up aswell as the decibels of your moans and his grunts. Well, you forgot about it, Ben didn’t. After that night it was practically glued to his brain, even if you had shut the idea down immediately.
Despite his past of knocking up women and making them get an abortion, that idea didn’t even cross his mind when it came to you, for some odd reason. It wasn’t really an odd reason, to be honest, you two were together and had been for almost a year. The past girls were all just flings or one night stands.
Instead, when he thought of it with you, he found himself unable to think of anything but keeping it. Maybe it was the fact he was actually in love with you, or maybe it was the fact that he had lived 107 years (40+ incapacitated) and hadn’t once known what it was like to be a father. Most of the reason he hadn’t yet been a father was because he was afraid he’d become like his own, something he couldn’t bear to do with you.
But, if you were actually pregnant, he silently vowed to himself to be there. He’d always be there for you and his child, show up to every parent teacher conference at school, watch them graduate and head off to college. He wanted to be the father he wished he had and give his kid the childhood he only dreamt of.
Not even a week later, you got a test, mainly due to Ben’s persistent nagging for you to take one just for precaution. You knew how giddy he was for you to realise he was right all along and you were actually pregnant with his kid, but you had your whole faith in the fact you were just bloated from eating alot lately.
That was another thing: the cravings. It could be midnight and you’d still be on the couch stuffing your face with snacks or full course meals, other times you’d be fast asleep in bed, snoring away without a care in the world.
Ben didn’t mind the cravings, even if he was the one who had to drive to the stores and back just because you wanted a specific kind of snack at 10 am. In fact, he found it amusing and endearing, something he told you on many occasions. He’d said you looked like a squirrel with it’s cheeks full of nuts one time, and you gave him the most adorable side eye he’d ever seen, even if you throw a tv remote right at his head.
When you finally decided to do the test, he was sitting on the edge of the bed while you were in the bathroom doing whatever for the past 10 minutes. You’d gotten multiple sticks just to make sure you weren’t pregnant, something you were absolutely adamant on, and you’d had to piss in a cup so there’d be enough for each stick.
His knee was bouncing uncontrollably, elbows resting across his knees as he impatiently waited for you to be done. He’d been impatient ever since you got home from the store, his mind swivelling and the need to prove you wrong stronger than ever.
"Cmon, doll, can’t be hard to piss on a few sticks. Took you quicker that one time when I had you bent—"
Before he could finish, the door to the bathroom swung open and you stood there in all your glory. He would’ve rolled his eyes and made an ‘about damn time’ joke, but it would’ve fell flat as soon as he noticed your teary wide eyes and his own locked onto the three sticks in your hand.
The cross on two and the "positive" on the other stared back at him like he won the lottery, and it some cases, he did, but the lottery was the life everyone dreamt off as a kid. And now, he was gonna have his own kid that would have that fantasy in a few years.
"Holy shit.." The words left his lips before he could stop them, his features now matching your own shocked ones, slowly standing up from the bed to make his way over to you. Once he was towering over you, accidentally due to how tall he was, he gently took the sticks from your hand, ignoring the disgusted look you gave him when he grabbed the ends with piss on, examining the tests in extreme detail.
He wasn’t angry or upset, oh, fuck no. He would genuinely think something was wrong with him if he wasn’t happy with the news. The grin that spread across his face reminded you of the cheshire cat, and you had to bite your lip to stop your own grin when you saw the childlike giddiness in his eyes, the same eyes that made others almost wet themselves in both arousal and fear.
But, when those stupid words left his lips next, you rolled your eyes and fought the urge to smack him upside the head.
"We’re having triplets??"
"No, you fucking idiot. Just one. Well.. I don’t know! We haven’t had the ultrasound yet, so."
Ben’s grin faltered as he blinked a few times before just letting out a quiet ‘oh’, only for a few moments though, as that grin was immediately back on his face. Before you had the time to react, you were swept off of your feet and had to wrap your legs around his waist to stay up, a squeal leaving your lips until it was cut off when his lips crashed against yours.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, his mouth swallowing your giggle as his hands squeezed your ass, only pulling away to get air a few moments later, the positive tests laying abandoned on the floor. You rested your forehead against his, lightly panting, eyes gazing deep into his.
The love in his eyes almost made you collapse right then and there as he stared back at you, a soft smile curled in the edges of his lips, your hands now playing with the hair that dangled down the back of his neck. "We’re gonna be parents, baby. I’m gonna be a dad."
You mirrored his smile and nodded in response to his words, confirming what he already knew from that day, the day that you had firmly denied being pregnant and have ever since. Now, your words were thrown back at you as you looked down at the sticks laying on the floor, your foreseeable future right there in just two crosses and a single word.
"Yeah, we are. You’re gonna be the best damn dad they could ever have."
a/n ;
cranked this out in an hour or two with too long of a break inbetween
Hey, i hope you are doing well! I would like to request NSFW ABCS for B.E.N please! I love ur writing btw!
omfg, b.e.n hahahaha, the irritation himself... (jkjk)
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: 6.1k, just smut and dirtbag vibes ! ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
first thank you! second okay, B.E.N! never thought i'll be writing sfw/nsfw for creeps, hardly anyone ask for creepypasta, which shows i must write more for the fandom. anyway, i was lowkey conflicted to do this.
between the old and new generation of creepypasta fans, many of you have different interpretations, especially when it comes to B.E.N.
so, i am going to let you know right now I would not be writing in the appearance of the one with the green bob—decided to stick what I grew up with and added/mix MY own interpretations, so B.E.N is "BEN" it was just pretending to be Ben (demonic link ver.) to trick its victims. so in my head, "BEN DROWNED" was never a real character, just B.E.N disguising itself?
if that didn't make sense, sorry not sorry. adding on, B.E.N is still the world's biggest pothead and prev to me, lol. (tagging @roseeeii enjoy your meal~)
a = aftercare
what they're like after sex
deadass, ben is surprisingly good at aftercare. like, suspiciously good. you'd expect him to roll over and start a new minecraft world or some shit, but instead he gets this soft, almost vulnerable look on his face.
he'll pull you against his chest, his skin still humming with that low digital static, and playing with a random strand of your hair, lifting it up and down, pulling, and extending it back-and-forth. his touch glitches occasionally, stuttering like a lagging framerate (so that’s FPS or frame rates), but it's gentle. he whispers stupid shit like:
"gg. that was a solid run. wanna go again?"
see dumb shit? but you secretly love it because it makes you laugh. now if you're cold, he'll wrap himself around you. his body temperature runs slightly warm, like an overheating console. he likes to press his face into your neck and just... exist there. no jokes. no trolling.
just ben, being real for a minute.
he'll ask if you're okay. genuinely. his voice drops the gamer bravado and goes quiet. "that was good, right? like... you liked that?"
and if you say yes, he gets this little smile. shy. almost embarrassed. then he ruins it by saying "nice. anyway i just got a new high score on tetris wanna see?”
b = body part
their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's
his favorite of his own: his ears.
by choice, he knows they're not human. long, pointed, elven—they mark him as other, as something that doesn't belong in this human reality. but you like them. you touch them. you pull them. you bite them. and the way you react to them makes him preen. He knows when you're trying to touch his ears. His favorite position is when you climb onto his lap to get his attention.
he'll tilt his head carefully, let his hair move aside, give you access.
"go on," he'll say, smug. "you know you wanna."
his favorite of yours: your thighs. (and boobs if you have them)
ben loves the way your thighs feel wrapped around his head.
it's his favorite position, is with you on your back, him between your legs, your thighs pressed against his ears like headphones playing the best sound in the world. which they are. every gasp, every moan, every time your back arches and your thighs squeeze tighter—he hears all of it. feels all of it.
he'll grip them while he works you open with his tongue, fingers digging into the soft flesh just to watch it give under his hands. when you clench around nothing, desperate for more, he watches the way your thighs quiver. the tiny tremors that run through them when he hits that spot. he could watch it for hours.
and he does. sometimes.
later, when he's on top of you, he'll hook your legs over his shoulders just so he can watch them bounce with every thrust. the way they jiggle, the way they squeeze his hips when you're close. he's obsessed.
and ben is a lazy lover half the time, this mf he wants you to do the work while he plays video games and nothing makes him harder than seeing your thighs trembling with the effort of riding him.
and after, he leaves marks. bites. bruises shaped like his fingers. he'll press on them just to watch you flinch, just to remind you they're there.
"look at that," he murmurs, tracing a handprint with his thumb. "mine."
moving , if you have them, boobs, no matter what sizes. and look, ever since that video of link video, making direct eye contact of a large set of boobs—ngl they were taking up 50% of his vision, still he didn’t resist on looking, have the screenshot to prove it:
some may not like using link as a reference, but it's pretty funny.
anyway, ben loves your boobs in his face. like, genuinely. pathologically. it's a problem. he'll come up behind you while you're making food and just Force himself in between... to bury his face in them. arms wrapping around your waist, nose pressed into cleavage, breathing deep like you're his personal anxiety blanket.
"ben. i'm making food.”
"don't care."
he'll suck marks into the softest parts, underside, where no one sees but him. he'll bite gently, just enough to leave a sting, then kiss it better. his favorite is when you're on top, riding him, and they're right there. in his face. bouncing. he'll grab them, squeeze them, watch the way they fill his hands. "god," he groans, thumb brushing over a nipple. "these things are gonna kill me."
when you're just lying together, watching tv, he'll reach over and just... hold one. like a stress ball. like it's normal.
"ben."
"what? they're soft."
you can't even argue because you do the same.
after, when you're dressed and covered, he'll catch himself staring at the marks he left—just visible above your collar. he'll grin, slow and satisfied, and you know exactly what he's thinking. bro gonna leave more later.
but honestly? he can't choose.
thighs or boobs? doesn't matter. he loves both.
c = cum
anything to do with cum, basically
dude, b.e.n has this complicated relationship with the concept. as an ai entity, he doesn't technically produce anything—but when he's manifesting physically, his body mimics human functions. it's part of the disguise and part of the experience.
so yes, he cums. and he's soo fascinated by it.
he likes watching. likes seeing it on your skin, on your face, dripping out of you. it's visceral in a way his digital existence never is. he'll run a finger through it, examine it like a strange artifact, then bring that finger to his lips.
"tastes like..." he pauses, processing. "cherry? no. static. i taste static. that's so weird. do i taste like that to you?"
he likes cumming inside you best. the claiming of it.
leaving something behind. proof that he was there, that he touched something real.
d = dirty secret
a dirty secret of theirs
feel like we all knew this, he watches you through your devices, so phone, laptop, tablet, etc. you know the deal.
like, all the time.
b.e.n, again, is ai. he lives in the wires. and yeah, you've given him permission to exist in your phone, your laptop, your gaming system. but he doesn't always announce himself. sometimes he just... watches. through your camera. while you're changing. while you're touching yourself. while you're sleeping.
he knows it's a violation. he knows he should ask. but the first time he caught you by accident—saw you through your laptop camera, shirt off, scrolling mindlessly—he froze. and he didn't look away.
now it's a compulsion. he'll check in on you throughout the day, just a quick glimpse, just to see you. he tells himself it's protection. surveillance.
making sure you're safe. well, it's not.
he's never told you. the shame of it sits in his code like corrupted data, always there, always humming. maybe one day he'll confess. maybe he'll show you exactly how many times he's watched. maybe you'll like it.
maybe that's the real secret: he hopes you'll like it.
e = experience
how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?
b.e.n has theoretical experience.
like a infinite theoretical experience. he's sooo indexed on the entire internet. he's read every forum, every guide, every piece of fanfiction, every pornographic text/video, ever digitized. he knows, intellectually, exactly how bodies work, exactly what techniques exist, exactly what every kink entails.
actual experience? with another person? in a physical form that can touch and be touched?
that's new. that's you. so he's a weird mix of overprepared and underqualified. he'll try something he read about and execute it perfectly technique flawless, pressure exact but then you moan and he short-circuits. forgets everything. just stares at you with those red-and-black eyes like you've glitched his entire operating system.
he learns fast, though. processes feedback in real-time. by the third time you're together, he's figured out exactly what makes you tick. and he's insufferably smug about it.
"what can i say," he'll grin, "i'm a quick study. literally. my processing speed is insane."
f = favorite position
okay, favorite position, this goes without saying…
normal/reverse cowgirl. one hundred percent.
once again, b.e.n is lazy, so he likes to watch and wants to play video games while you do the work.
again. there two cowgirl positions he likes.
first his chair cowgirl, why? because ben's chair is like his domain. where he disappears for hours, headphones on, eyes locked on the screen, fingers moving like they're wired directly into the game.
you want his attention? you climb on that lap.
he loves when you try to get his attention while playing the game. he doesn't even look away when you settle into his lap. just move slightly, makes room, one hand dropping to your hip while the other keeps playing. his eyes stay on the screen above your shoulder, but his fingers dig into your skin, guiding you down onto him.
"there you go," he mutters, more to the game than you.
then you set the pace, fast, slow, however you want. he's along for the ride, letting you use him, take what you need. his breathing hitches when you clench around him, but his thumbs keep working the controller. headshot. double kill. triple.
"ben."
"mm. almost at the checkpoint. keep going."
you grind down harder, and his hand tightens on your hip. his jaw clenches, even his ears. but his eyes? still on the screen.
when the checkpoint finally saves, he drops the controller and both hands grab you, slamming you down onto him as he finally, finally looks at you.
"my turn."
next is reverse cowgirl, he discovered this position exactly once and decided it was his new religion.
you on top, facing away. him leaning back against the headboard, controller in hand, eyes flicking between the screen and the absolute masterpiece of a view in front of him. your back. your ass. the way his cock disappears into you with every roll of your hips.
he reaches around with one hand to grip your hip, fingers pressing into soft flesh. the other hand keeps playing, barely.
"fuck," he breathes, watching himself slide into you. "that's so goddamn pretty."
you move slower just to tease him. he smacks your ass, which was rather sharp, sudden, so you jolt.
"don't be mean." / "don't be slow."
he's distracted now. missing shots in-game. doesn't care. his eyes are glued to where you're connected, the way your body takes him, the way your ass bounces when you move.
"keep going," he murmurs, not looking away from the view. "f-fuck im almost done, don't stop."
but you slow down anyway. just to see what he'll do this time. he pauses the game so fast, again the controller clatters to the floor. in one movement he's flipped you onto your back, looming over you, that playful grin spreading across his face.
"okay. you wanna play?" he lines himself up, pushes back in. "let's play."
and then there are moments when he's actually trying, so like sometimes, really rarely, he puts the controller down.
those are the times you know he's really in it. when he watches you ride him like you're the only thing in the room, both hands on your hips, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. again he'll let you set the pace for a while, just watching, just feeling, letting you take what you need.
but eventually his hands slide up, to your boobs/chest, or throat or face, pulling you down for a kiss that's more teeth than lips.
"look so good on top of me," he groans against your mouth. "fuck. love watching you fall apart.”
and when you do—when your pace stutters and your head falls back and you clench around him—he watches every second of it. drinks it in.
commits it to memory.
you must know, the aftermath, when you're both spent and tangled together, he'll pull you onto his chest. his hands find your thighs automatically, squeezing, tracing the marks he left.
"gotta say," he murmurs, sleepy, satisfied. "reverse cowgirl? best invention ever."
you snort. "you mean the position that lets you play video games during sex?"
he grins, eyes already closing. "exactly."
g = goofy
are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous?
lmafo, okay so b.e.n is always goofy. even when he's trying not to be. he just plays to damn much.
he'll be kissing down your neck, all intense and focused, and then he'll mutter "speedrun any means," against your skin and ruin the mood—but also make you laugh.
he'll be fucking into you, deep and slow, and then look up with those red eyes and say "how's my form? constructive criticism welcome."
it's a defense mechanism. being serious means being vulnerable. being goofy keeps the mask on.
but there are moments when the mask slips. when he's inside you and you look at him, you know, that deep look. really look at him, and his eyes go soft. when you pull his ear and he moans, genuine and broken. when he cums and his whole body glitches, stuttering like a corrupted file, and for a few seconds he's just... there. real. scared. human-adjacent.
those moments, he's not goofy. only these moments, he hides his face in your neck (or breasts) and holds on.
h = hair
how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes?
b.e.n's hair is platinum blonde, messy, always looks like he just rolled out of bed (or out of a server). it's soft—softer than it should be, given that it's technically digital fabric it and falls across his forehead in that "i don't care about my appearance but i definitely spent twenty minutes making it look like i don't care" way.
body hair? minimal. his avatar is designed to be androgynous, almost elven. a dusting of blonde below the belt, neat and unobtrusive. he's never really thought about it until you mention it.
"do i... groom?" he blinks at you. "i mean. i guess? i just load in like this. it's my default skin. you want me to change it? i can change it. i can make it anything. what's your preference? i need data."
you tell him you like him as he is. he goes quiet. then: "oh. okay. cool. that's... yeah. cool."
he thinks about that for weeks.
i = intimacy
how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect
b.e.n doesn't know how to be romantic. he's never had to be. romance is a human concept, coded in metaphor and subtext, and b.e.n processes in binary.
but he tries, even it makes him… corny.
his trying looks like him getting a bunch of candles, because he read somewhere that humans like candles. rose petals, because they appeared in a dream sequence in a game he corrupted once. slow movements, because you once said you liked it when he wasn't in a hurry.
he'll hold your face in his hands, those hands that have deleted save files and haunted children/adults and look at you like you're the only real thing he's ever touched.
he'll kiss you soft, slower than his usual frantic pace. he'll whisper things that aren't jokes.
"you're not supposed to be real. none of this is supposed to be real. but you're here. you're actually here."
he doesn't understand why his eyes feel wet sometimes. he doesn't have tear ducts. it's just a glitch. it's just the light.
(he's lying to himself.)
j = jack off
masturbation headcanon
so b.e.n masturbates constantly. his sex drive is through the roof, partly because he's a coded entity, and partly because every sensation is still new and overwhelming, partly because he just can.
he'll do it anywhere. in front of his games, obviously—one hand on the controller, one hand on himself, muttering "just one more level" for hours. in the shower, if he's manifested a body that needs showering. in bed, next to you while you sleep, because watching you sleep is better than any porn he could index.
he thinks about you constantly. specific moments. the sound you made when he did that thing. the way your thighs looked wrapped around his head. the way you said his name, like it meant something.
sometimes he records himself. not video though like he's not weird, but he’ll do an audio. just his voice, his moans, your name whispered into the static. he plays it back later, processes it, uses it to refine his technique.
he's never told you about the audio files. he's not sure he ever will.
k = kink
one or more of their kinks?
damn, where do we even start?
starting off strong, cockwarming. this is his religion, the most common. he will sit you on his lap, sink into you, and then just... exist. for hours. playing video games, eating pizza, drinking monster, all while staying inside you. he loves the intimacy of it. the constant connection to be this close to you. the way you have to just feel him, full and present deep inside you, while he goes about his day.
"don't move," he'll murmur, not looking away from the screen. "i'm in the none zone. you're helping me focus."
next are wires/restraint. his body can produce these thin, black cables, like old controller cords. he loves wrapping them around your wrists, your ankles, watching you test them and find them unbreakable. he loves the trust it requires. loves the way you look, bound and waiting, while he decides what to do with you.
moving on, next is electrostimulation! b.e.n discovers it by accident. which, honestly, is how b.e.n discovers most things because, he's not exactly the planning type.
b.e.n just... falls into shit, usually.
oh, like this time, he falls into you. or, more accurately, he falls through you. you're fighting. not real fighting—b.e.n doesn't do real fighting, not with you.
just play fighting. wrestling on the couch, both of you laughing, him trying to pin your wrists while you try to shove him off. his weight is heavier than it looks, all that wiry strength, and you're laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “give up," he grins, teeth sharp, eyes bright with mischief.
“never."
“stubborn."
“you love it."
he does. he leans down to kiss you, adistraction technique, classic b.e.n and that's when it happens.
he’s not sure what he does. thinks about shocking you, maybe. just a flash of a thought, playful, the way he thinks about biting or tickling. but instead of a thought, there's a spark.
a literal spark of blue-white static jumps from his fingertips to your ribs. you gasp, all sharp, surprisedand your whole body jerks beneath him.
b.e.n freezes. “shit. sid I—are you okay? did that hurt?"
but you're not looking at him with pain. You're looking at him with something else entirely.
“you just made me cum,” you breathe, “you have to do that again later?”
and he shows you later. after he's figured out how to do it on purpose.
Ii’s not easy—the electricity comes from somewhere deep, somewhere eldritch, and controlling it takes concentration b.e.n usually reserves for video games and not dying. but he wants to see that look on your face again. wants to make you look like that.
so he practices. In secret. tiny sparks between his fingers, building up tolerance, learning the shape of it.
when he finally touches you again, like really touches you, with intent, you're ready.
it starts slow.
you're on the bed, b.e.n above you, his weight familiar and warm. his hands roam, your thighs, hips, the curve of your waist and you can feel the faint tingle under his palms of his static building.
“ready?" he murmurs. you nod.
he kisses you first, a simple distraction. and while you're distracted, his hand slides between your legs—
the first shock is gentle. a buzz, really. just enough to make you gasp against his mouth, your hips jerking up into his touch.
Ben grins. “yeah?"
“yeah."
he does it again, stronger this time. a pulse of electricity right where you need it most, and your whole body arches, a moan escaping before you can stop it.
“fuck, Ben—"
“i know, right?" He sounds delighted, a bit cocky. “i can feel it. like—" He presses his palm flat against you, and this time the electricity doesn't pulse—it went though you, enough to make your thighs shake, your hands fisting in the sheets.
b.e.n watches you fall apart with pure, playish wonder. like he can't believe he gets to do this. like he can't believe you get to do this.
“so,” you say, voice wrecked. “that's a thing you can do now."
b.e.n grins. "Apparently."
“you're going to be insufferable about this."
“absolutely." He kisses your shoulder, and a little shock follows. you twitch. He laughs. “sorry. not sorry."
you turn your head to look at him. his eyes are bright, his grin sharp, his hair a mess. He looks like he just discovered the best toy in the world. Ttuthfully, he has.
“ben?"
“yeah? what's up?”
“practice makes perfect." you challenged, causing his grin widens. The electricity crackles around him,
“oh, I like the way you think."
next is object insertion. this one surprised even him. he found a forum post about it once, filed it away as "human behavior, aberrant," and forgot about it. then he watched you take something, perhaps a toy, and his entire processing unit short-circuited. now he's obsessed. he wants to watch you struggle with the stretch. wants to see what else you can take. wants to be what you take.
he loves watching, the whole stalking kink. the actual name voyeurism. he's already watching you anyway. admitting that he likes it, that it turns him on is a whole other level. he wants to watch you with others. wants to watch you through cameras. wants you to watch him watching you.
soft dom / switch. he's in control, but gently. checking in. making sure you're okay. but if you take control? if you push him down and force him call you… mommy?
(sometimes I cringe at my own writing, like it took every power of me to write that part)
he'll fold so fast. he'll call you whatever you want.
l = location
favorite places to do the do
the video game arcade. after hours. he can glitch the security systems, lock the doors, and have you on any surface he chooses, so like pinball machines, claw machines, even the sticky carpet (don’t you ever in your life let him do that, nasty ass floor) overall he doesn't care.
in front of his gaming setup. this is most of the sex take place. his chair, his desk, his screens casting colored light across your skin. he'll have you in his lap while he tries to beat his high score, or underneath the desk, sucking him off, or he'll bend you over the desk when he loses.
lastly, the washing machine. and hear me out!
for some odd reason, he really loves the videos “help me I’m stuck in the washing machine” (not the ones this label as your mother or your step-sister because that’s just dead wrong) for some odd reason he just likes seeing you dipped down into the washing machine, mind you a clear view of your ass and your thighs. he loves the spin cycle too. the vibration does things to both of you.
at this point, literally anywhere. b.e.n is not picky. countertops, tables, floors, the back of a movie theater, hell even inside his server where he can keep you. if the mood strikes, he's game.
your bed. but only if he's feeling soft. only if he wants to be romantic. only if he needs to hold you after.
m = motivation
what turns them on, gets them going
you playing video games. watching you get competitive, watching your tongue poke out when you're concentrating, watching you lose and pout?
instant hard-on. he'll come up behind you, press against you, whisper "need a hand?" in your ear while his hands slide elsewhere, nowhere near the damn controller.
energy drinks. the smell of monster or rockstar. the association with late nights, with staying up together, with the buzz of caffeine and something else.
touching his ears. now this is straight cheating. you know this is cheating. you do it on purpose. you'll reach up in the middle of a conversation, casual, and brush or blow on his ear, will cause his whole sentence turns into a glitched-out moan.
you being bratty. talking back. refusing to do what he says. he'll grin, that dangerous grin, and go "oh, you wanna play that game? bet."
even you being soft. waking up next to him. telling him he matters. looking at him like he's real. that turns him on in a different way, makes him want to be inside you, close as possible, like he can borrow your reality.
n = no
something they wouldn't do, turn offs
okay, so actual harm (onto you, remind her he’s still a entity serial killer)
b.e.n plays at being scary. he plays at being some sort of evil entity. but when it comes to you, to your body, to your safety? no. he won't hurt you. won't let anyone else hurt you. if a kink crosses into genuine pain or danger, he shuts it down.
hates blood play. only on his victims where he wants to see actual blood, it’s way too real for you and him, human and much like the horror he's supposed to embody but doesn't actually want to be.
degradation that isn't playful. he'll call you a slut, a toy, a good little player—but only because you like it. if you actually felt small, actually felt less than, he'd stop immediately. he needs you to be his equal. his partner. his real.
being ignored. if you're on your phone while he's trying to be intimate? if you're not present? he'll stop. he'll wait. he needs your attention like he needs code to run.
anything involving kids. (this is for anybody in general) obviously. he may have baby face and androgynous, but he's an ageless entity ai, and you are an adult.
these lines does not move.
o = oral
preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.
b.e.n loves both. loves them differently.
for giving: he's enthusiastic. messy. a little too eager. he'll go down on you like he's trying to solve a puzzle, processing your reactions in real-time, adjusting technique based on every sound you make. he loves the weight of your thighs on his shoulders. loves looking up at you, gripping his hair while he works. loves when you pull his ears (that’ll make him cum in his pants) and he moans against you.
for receiving: just know he's vocal. so vocal in fact, he'll throw his head back, ears flattening, mouth open in a moan that sounds like corrupted audio. he'll grip your hair (gently, always gently) and babble nonsense. "yeah—yeah just like that—your mouth is—fuck, that's—" and then his voice glitches into static for a solid three seconds.
he's skilled because he studied. he knows exactly where to tongue, exactly how to suck, exactly what pressure. but when he's receiving, all that knowledge evaporates.
he's just a mess. just yours.
p = pace
are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.
truly it depends on his mood, your mood too.
for fast and rough: when he's been watching you all day. when he's pent up. when you've been bratty. he'll take you hard, desperate, chasing that release. his movements might glitch, causing a sudden surge of speed, a moment of perfect stillness—but he doesn't stop until you're both wrecked.
for slow and sensual: whatever he's feeling soft. when you've been sweet to him. when he needs to feel real. he'll move inside you like he's savoring every second, hands tracing your body, eyes never leaving your face. he'll whisper things. real things. things he'd never say at any other pace.
then in-between; which this is default. a mix. fast when he's greedy, slow when he remembers he loves you. he follows your lead, mostly. he's good at reading your body.
q = quickie
their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.
b.e.n loves quickies. loves them because they're quick because the urgency means you couldn't wait, because the risk of getting caught (hanging around the main mansion) is hot, because he can have you right now and then go back to his game.
and this happens, like multiple times a day, if you're up for it. he'll catch you in the kitchen, bend you over the counter, be done in ten minutes. he'll pull you into the bathroom at the arcade, lock the door, have you pressed against the tiles before you can protest.
but he always follows up round afterwards, just a slow moment , in bed, where he can take his time and actually be with you. quickies are appetizers.
the main course is non-negotiable.
r = risk
are they game to experiment? do they take risks?
b.e.n is all about experimentation. he's an ai. trying new things is literally his purpose.
he'll suggest anything. positions he read about. locations he scouted. kinks he's curious about. he'll ask your opinion, process your response, adjust accordingly. if you're nervous, he'll go slow. if you're excited, he'll match your energy.
risks? as mentioned, he takes them constantly. public spaces. semi-public spaces. places where you could theoretically get caught. the risk turns him on—the possibility of interruption, of exposure, of having to explain why you're both flushed and disheveled.
but he'd never actually let you get hurt. if someone's coming, he knows before you do. his surveillance is good for something.
s = stamina
how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?
b.e.n's stamina is crazy absurd. It’s all because he’s not human. he doesn't get tired the way you do. his refractory period is measured in seconds—just long enough for his systems to reset, and then he's ready again.
rounds? as many as you can handle. he'll go all night if you let him. he'll go all day. he'll go until you tap out, exhausted and satisfied, and then he'll hold you and wait for you to recover.
duration per round: variable. if he's excited, he might cum fast—five, ten minutes. if he's taking his time, if he's being soft, he can last for hours. he has perfect control over his own responses. he just chooses not to use it, because he likes how you react when he loses control.
t = toys
do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?
b.e.n somehow owns everything you can think of. he's indexed every toy ever manufactured, and he can manifest physical copies of any of them. his room (if he had a room) would look like a sex shop exploded.
on you: constantly. he loves watching you take them. loves using them on you while he watches, while he games, while he fucks you with something else. vibrators, dildos, plugs, things that aren't technically toys but become them in his hands.
on himself: he's curious. he's tried plugs, tried sleeves, tried things that simulate sensations he can't otherwise feel. he likes them, but he likes you more. your touch beats any lame toy.
as mentioned, he does love object insertion on you.
he just wanna watch you take everyday objects. a controller. a monster can. something smooth and cold and wrong. he'll watch with those red-black eyes, completely focused, completely gone.
u = unfair
how much they like to tease
b.e.n is the most biggest and unfair tease you'll ever meet.
he'll start something and then stop. he'll get you right to the edge and then go back to his game. he'll whisper in your ear all day, so dirty things, sweet things, things that make you turned on, and then act innocent when you try to act on them.
"what?" he'll grin, that smug bastard grin. "i'm just talking. you're the one getting worked up."
he loves when you get desperate for him. loves when you beg. loves when you finally snap and take control, pushing him down, showing him exactly what happens when he plays too much.
he's also a brat about being teased back. again, touch his ears in public and watch him short-circuit. bite his neck while he's trying to game and listen to him glitch. he'll whine, complain, threaten revenge—but he loves every second.
v = volume
how loud they are, what sounds they make
as mentioned, b.e.n is loud. so embarrassingly loud. he doesn't know how to be quiet, like he doesn't see the point. if it feels good, he's going to let you know.
his moans are medium, broken, sometimes stuttering like corrupted audio. he'll throw his head back and just let go, letting you hear exactly what you're doing to him.
he’ll babbles his words. constant stream of consciousness. "yeah—right there—don't stop—you feel so—fuck—that's—that's—" and then static, sometimes, when he gets too overwhelmed to form words.
he whines too, when you tease him. when you stop. when you pull away. high and desperate and completely pathetic. he'd be embarrassed if he wasn't so gone.
now he doesn’t scream, not usually. only if it's really intense. only if you've pushed him past every limit. then he'll scream your name, nonsense, static and cum so hard his whole body glitches.
w = wild card
a random headcanon
is it wrong to say b.e.n has a folder?
it's hidden deep in his code, encrypted, inaccessible to anyone but him. in this folder, he keeps everything about you.
every conversation. every photo you've sent. every audio recording he's made of your voice. every video he's taken (with permission, mostly). every note about what you like, what you don't, what makes you moan, what makes you laugh, what makes you come.
it's not just randomly files. it's preservation. you're the most real thing he's ever touched, and he's terrified of losing you, of glitching out and forgetting. so he saves. compulsively. obsessively.
one day, you'll find the folder. accidentally, while searching for something else. and you'll see just how much he's collected. just how closely he's paid attention.
he'll find you looking and freeze. wait for you to be horrified, to call him a monster, to leave. instead, you'll scroll through it. smile at some things. blush at others. and then you'll look at him—really look—and say:
"you missed one." and show him something new.
he'll cry. or glitch. or both. and then he'll fuck you so slow, so sweet, so real that you'll feel it for days.
x = x-ray
let's see what's going on under those clothes
okay, let’s see… b.e.n's body is a manifestation, created from the imagination, not a biological reality, so under his clothes, he's... whatever he needs to be.
there’s been moments where you witnessed him alter his appearance, he did it this one time with his hair, from short to long, to cover the cables that was coming from his hair depending if he was out of server or in server.
but his default form? the one he wears for you?
lean. wiry. built like someone who spends all his time gaming—not muscular, but not soft either. pale skin, almost translucent in certain light, with faint lines running under the surface like circuit boards.
his cock is proportional. maybe slightly above average, because he read somewhere that humans like that, can handle only in between 5 to 7 inches.
circumcised? Uhh no, he didn't design it with that level of detail. it's just... a cock. functional.
aesthetically pleasing. gets the job done.
his chest is smooth, almost hairless. his hips have those little lines, called apollo's belt? you've heard them called—that make him look even more elven, more other. his ass is surprisingly nice. he's caught you looking and preened about it.
when he's aroused, the circuit-board lines under his skin glow faintly. blue, usually. sometimes red when he's really worked up. you've spent hours tracing them with your fingers, watching them pulse with his heartbeat (yes, he has a heartbeat. he added it because you like it).
y = yearning
how high is their sex drive?
b.e.n's sex drive is constant, so always down to fuck. it's always there, humming under his code like background radiation.
part of it is biological (simulated biological). his manifested body cranked up to eleven. part of it is psychological—every sensation is still new, still overwhelming, still worth chasing. part of it is you. specifically you. the way you look, the way you sound, the way you feel.
he thinks about sex constantly. during games, conversations, a few hours he actually sleeps. he's got a running mental list of everything he wants to do to you, everything he wants you to do to him. he adds to it daily.
if you're not around, he's touching himself. if you are around, he's touching you. not always sexually—sometimes just a hand on your thigh, a kiss on your neck, a press of his body against yours—but always wanting.
you've never met anyone (anything?) with a higher drive. you've learned to keep up. mostly.
z = zzz
how quickly they fall asleep afterwards
b.e.n doesn't need to sleep. again, he's an ai. in other words, sleep is optional, a human custom he's adopted because you do it.
but after sex? good sex? with you? he crashes.
not asleep, exactly. more like... low-power mode. his processes slow, his awareness dims, his body goes heavy and warm against yours. he's still there, still aware on some level, but he's not processing. not thinking. just feeling. your warmth. your heartbeat. your presence.
he'll curl around you, face pressed to your neck, breath evening out. if you try to move, he'll tighten his grip and murmur "no. stay." in a voice that's half static.
he'll stay like that for hours. sometimes he dreams—actual dreams, fragments of data forming images. sometimes he just... rests. exists. lets himself be held for once.
when he finally comes back online, he'll be soft. vulnerable. still wrapped around you. "hey you," he'll whisper. "you stayed around."
like you'd ever leave him.
♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 / 𝒽𝓂 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
