do it for me?
Soldier Boy (Ben) x handler!Reader | Payback Era
NOTES: very much inspired by @easytiger-xo‘s AMAZING handler!reader story (absolutely give it a read)!! This is loosely based on how stilwell was with homelander but not quite the same at all. Enjoy <3
TW: handler!reader, power imbalance, emotional control, weaponized softness and femininity, soft dominance, definitely leans toward sub!ben, weaponized tenderness, strategic caretaking, manipulation, aftercare (sorta), Ben in denial, subtle mind games, praise as means to manipulate, Ben w/ a praise kink to the max
MASTERLIST
“I said I’m not fuckin’ goin’.”
Ben doesn’t look at you when he says it. He’s sunk into the couch, shirtless—like always—and stone-heavy, legs spread wide like he owns the air between them. A half-burnt joint dangles from his fingers. The waistband of his sweats is loose, slouching low over his hips, exposing the soft trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband.
He looks like a man who’s made up his mind—and drugged himself into a state where no one can change it.
The TV is on. Loud. Something violent flickering across the screen. A bottle of whiskey sweats beside him on the table, next to a prescription bottle with no label. Just your handwriting, in Sharpie: PM ONLY. The cap’s off. You don’t ask how many he took. He’d probably lie anyway.
You watch him for a long moment. Quiet. Then you walk in.
Your heels whisper against the rug before you toe them off—soft and slow, the kind of movement you know he notices even when he pretends not to. You set the branded folder on the marble with a little click. Not loud. Not accusing. Just final.
He doesn’t move.
So you sink to your knees in between his widespread feet.
You do it delicately—like it’s second nature to fold down in front of him this way. Your skirt pools around your thighs, and your hands find his legs—warm, solid, stretched beneath old cotton that’s been worn soft. He still doesn’t look at you.
So you rest your cheek gently against the inside of his thigh.
That gets him.
Ben glances down, frowning like he’s just now realizing you’re there.
“What the hell’re you doin’?” he mumbles, voice raspy and tinged with smoke. “Tryin’ to guilt me now?”
You blink up at him slowly. Your lashes flutter. Your lips part like you’ve been holding your breath.
“No,” you say softly. “I’m just so tired.”
His eyes narrow. His jaw ticks. Not because he doesn’t believe you—but because he does.
“I fixed everything, just like you asked,” you murmur, your voice light, like it might float away if you speak too loud. “No press. New talking points. No Edgar. No Countess. You don’t even have to entertain, I made sure of it. You’ll be in and out in under an hour. I picked the scotch you like. Had the steak pre-ordered just how you like it so you wouldn’t have to wait.”
Ben exhales, slow and irritable. “Yeah? Still don’t care. Still not goin’.”
Your hand glides up his thigh. Just a little. Innocent.
“You said you liked my red dress,” you whisper—you sound pitiful and you know it. It’s exactly what you want. “So I picked that one. Did my hair the way you like it, too. Thought maybe, just this once, you’d come because I asked.”
He groans, throwing his head back against the cushions. The joint smolders out between his fingers. The remote clatters to the floor when he tosses it aside. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
You flinch. It’s small—subtle—but he sees it. Feels it. And then his hands are on your face.
“Hey. Hey.” His fingers cup your cheeks like he’s afraid you might shatter. “Don’t—fuck, don’t do that.”
You sniff. Just once. “I know it’s stupid,” you whisper. “It’s just—I try so hard, Ben. And you always push back. Even when I’m just—”
Your voice breaks. You press your lips together. Blink fast.
He curses under his breath and drags you up into his lap like you’re something soft and breakable and his.
You curl over him, legs folding on either side of his hips, your hands sliding around his neck as you tuck your face into his bare shoulder.
His skin is warm. Smells like sweat, weed, expensive leather. His hands press up under your skirt automatically—smoothing over your thighs, stroking along the backs of them like he’s trying to ground you.
“You’re not seriously crying over a steakhouse, are you,” he mutters, more annoyed with himself than you.
You don’t answer. You just sniff again, quietly. A little pout in your voice. “I thought maybe you’d want to be there,” you whisper. “For me.”
Ben’s groan is practically a growl. He presses his forehead into your shoulder like he’s trying to block out the world. His hands squeeze your waist. Hard.
“You say shit like that and I swear to God, I—” He pulls back and grabs your chin, makes you look at him. His thumb strokes along your jaw, his pupils blown wide. “You flash those fuckin’ eyes at me again, I’ll follow you to the moon. You make it hard for a man to say no, sweetheart.”
You blink at him, all wide-eyed and trembling. “Pretty please?” you murmur. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
His mouth drops open like he wants to argue. Yell. Tell you that you’re full of shit—even if he knows you’re not. Even if he knows you’re one of the very few people in this fucked up company who always follows through when you say something.
But his hands don’t let go. His hips are already pressing up beneath you. His breath is hot and a little labored and fucked.
“I’ll go,” he relents. “But if one of those uptight motherfuckers even look at me wrong, I’m putting ‘em through the table. And you stay by me the whole time or I walk.”
You smile against his mouth as you lean in to kiss him—soft and grateful and sweet. Like you hadn’t known he’d give into you from the moment your assistant told you he was refusing to go. It just took a little special attention to get him there.
“Deal. I knew you’d come through for me,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his.
He groans again, dragging his hand down your spine, cupping the back of your head like he can’t believe what he’s doing.
“Goddamn you, sweetheart,” he mutters into your skin.
You linger in his lap just a breath longer—arms looped around his neck, forehead tucked against his, like you have to soak up the moment. Like it’s something sacred.
But then, so softly he almost misses it: “We’ll need to leave by seven.”
Ben blinks.
You pull back just enough to kiss his cheek. “Which means you’ve got thirty minutes to shower and get dressed.”
He frowns, caught off guard by the shift. “Shower?”
You nod, lips still curved sweetly, fingers stroking his jaw. “Mhm. Your hair’s all flattened from the couch, baby. And you smell like weed and whiskey and… well, you.”
“I smell good,” he grunts, half-defensive, half-amused.
“You do,” you coo, giving him a little squeeze. “So good. But not like a man who’s about to charm a room full of billionaires.” You smooth your hands down his chest, then tug lightly at the waistband of his sweats. “And you’re obviously not wearing these.”
He groans—loud and dramatic, head tipping back like you just asked him to go back to war.
“You promised,” you sing-song gently, trailing your fingers under his chin. “You said you’d go.”
“Didn’t say I’d play dress-up.”
You gasp like he’s wounded you. “Benjamin.”
He groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ on a cross, you are needy today.”
“Ten minutes in the shower,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “I’ll lay everything out for you. I had wardrobe clean up the suit for you, it was looking dingy. And I bought more of your favorite cologne so I don’t want to hear any complaints about putting it on.”
Ben blinks at you, torn between suspicion and arousal. “You tryin’ to get me laid at this dinner?”
You laugh, soft and honey-warm. “No. I’m trying to get you photographed. Looking strong. Powerful. Like America’s sexiest war machine.”
He narrows his eyes. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It’s totally a compliment,” you whisper, already easing off his lap with a quick kiss to the crown of his head. “Now up. Clock’s a’tickin, you’ve got exactly eight minutes left.”
Ben mutters something under his breath—probably about how he survived decades in warzones and now has to be manhandled into brushing his hair by his tiny PR handler—but he’s already pushing to his feet.
You brush a hand down his back as he passes, and murmur— “Thank you, baby. You’re gonna be amazing tonight.”
And just like that, he’s putty again.
Because he is going. And he’ll wear what you lay out. And he’ll smile when the cameras flash, not because he wants to—but because you asked.
And he always says yes to you eventually.
The second the penthouse door shuts behind you that night, Ben growls out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.
“Never again,” he mutters, already tugging at the knot in his tie. “I mean it this time. You can drug me, shoot me, fuckin’ bribe me—I am not sittin’ through another two-hour circle jerk over beef tartare.”
You slip past him quietly, heels in hand, dress swishing just above your ankles as you move through the soft lighting of the living room. No arguments. No sarcasm. Just the gentle click of your shoes being placed neatly by the door.
“I know,” you murmur. “It was a lot.”
Ben tosses his tie on the couch. “Guy next to me spent ten straight minutes tellin’ me how he grew his own herbs. Fuckin’ herbs, sweetheart. I’ve fought wars for this country. More than once. The fuck do I care about herbs?”
He’s flushed and fuming, stinking of expensive cologne, even more expensive scotch and barely-restrained violence, but you don’t flinch. Don’t even blink.
You just glance up from the crystal tray you’re arranging—two fingers of bourbon already poured for him.
You don’t try to stop him.
You let him pace.
Let him wear himself out.
That’s the key.
Not control—never control.
Ben bristles at leashes.
But need?
He melts for need.
When he’s worked himself into a proper tantrum—shirt untucked, pacing barefoot on the Persian rug, ranting about assholes and photographers and whatever else pissed him off—you finally step into his space.
Quiet. Careful. Sweet.
Your touch lands light on his shoulder. “I was so proud of you tonight.”
Ben eyes you warily, like he’s waiting for the catch. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You reach for his collar, brushing it smooth. “I know how much you hate those dinners.”
“You mean I hate everyone at those dinners.”
“I know, baby.”
He grunts. “Only went ‘cause you asked.”
“I know that, too.” You smooth the front of his shirt, your fingers dragging low, just barely skimming over the trail of skin above his waistband. His hands catch your hips, rough and warm.
“Sit down,” you murmur, brushing a lock of hair off his brow. “You ran hot tonight, you need to cool down.”
He looks like he’s about to argue, but then his eyes catch the drink waiting for him on the end table. And the way you’re watching him—chin tilted, gaze soft, one hand smoothing up his chest like it’s muscle memory.
He sinks onto the couch without another word.
You ease into his lap a second later.
Just like always.
Your knees tuck on either side of his thighs, arms loop gently around his neck. His hands instinctively find your waist, and you press a soft kiss below his ear.
He growls into your shoulder. “Fuck. You keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna think you like me.”
“Don't be silly.” You laugh—quiet and sweet, forehead tipping against his. “You know I do.”
He squeezes your waist, voice low and a little rough. “You gonna show me how much?”
You nod. Innocent. Eager. “I always do when you’re good.”
That makes him twitch beneath you. You feel it. His hands are already sliding down your back, under your thighs, like he can’t decide whether to manhandle you or hold you there.
But you just lean in, cupping his face in your hands. “You let them take their pictures with you,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“A few.”
“You didn’t threaten anyone.”
“Out loud.”
“You smiled.”
Ben snorts at that one. “I smiled because you were wearin’ that dress.”
Your own smile widens as you reach up, smoothing his collar like you’ve done it a thousand times. “That’s why I wore it.”
He blinks, caught off guard. The storm in his chest quiets just a little. “Yeah?”
You nod, tilting your head just slightly, fingers dragging down his chest. “I like looking good for my favorite guy.”
You bit your lip—he loves when you do that. Playing coy, like you hadn’t been planning this since the beginning of dinner. “Especially because you did tonight for me.”
His jaw flexes. His eyes flick up to yours—hot and narrow and falling fast. “Yeah, I fuckin’ did,” he mutters.
You smile, slow and soft, brushing your nose against his. “I’m so lucky.”
Ben’s breath stutters. His hands tighten on you. And there it is—that tug in his chest.
That animal part of him that needs to feel big. Wanted. Relied on.
“You looked good,” he mutters, almost sheepish. “Real good. Kept forgettin’ what I was supposed to say.”
“You didn’t have to say anything,” you whisper. “Just sit there and look like the hero you are.”
He groans under his breath. “Fuck,” he says, voice thick. “You say shit like that and I forget why I’m pissed.”
You tilt your head and coo, fingers threading into his hair. “You made me so proud tonight.”
You kiss him then—soft, slow, syrupy—and pull back just enough to whisper: “So now you get what you want.”
Ben groans, kneading your ass with both hands. “And what’s that, sweetheart?”
You’re warm in his lap, lips still close, lashes lowered just enough to be devastating. And when you whisper—
“Me.”
—his whole body twitches like you hit a nerve.
He groans, low and guttural, letting his head fall back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut like he’s in pain. “Fuck.”
You hum softly and kiss his throat. Once. Twice. Then drag your mouth up toward his ear.
“However you want,” you breathe, just barely grazing the shell of it. “You were perfect.”
His hands are everywhere at once—gripping your hips, stroking down your back, sliding under your thighs like he needs to feel all of you at once. There’s a beat of heavy silence where he just looks at you, blinking like he doesn’t believe you said it. “You mean that?”
You nod. Soft and sure. “Mhm, have I ever not?”
Ben’s voice drops into something rough and dangerous. “Say it again.”
You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his. “You did exactly what I asked you to do,” you whisper, slow and honey-sweet. “So you can fuck me any way you want, baby.”
He growls like it hits something feral in his chest. “Fuckin’ Christ on a goddamn cross.”
And then his mouth is on yours, hot and possessive, kissing you like he’s trying to make up for the hours he spent behaving. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you flush against him as he shifts under you, hard and hungry and already getting impatient.
You kiss him slow. Let him take. Let him think he’s taking. Let him feel like he’s in charge while your fingers sneak up into his hair, grounding him, guiding him, praising him between breaths.
“There you go,” you murmur when he bites at your lower lip. “Just like that. Take what you need, baby.”
He groans into your mouth like he’s never been given such glorious permission before.
Because that’s the trick, really.
You give him you—soft and warm and pliant—but on your terms. You give him everything, and he never even realizes that he’s the one being handled.
“You were so handsome at that dinner tonight,” you say, cupping his face in both hands. “My best guy. My hero.”
His breath shudders. “Yeah?” he mutters, hands tightening on your waist like he can’t help it. “That right?”
You nod, slow, sweet, letting your hips rock forward just enough to tease him. “You’re the reason I can walk into any room and keep my head up. They can talk all they want, but I know I’ve got the strongest man in the world in my corner.”
He groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Fuck, sweetheart, don’t say shit like that if you’re not ready to get railed into the goddamn couch.”
You just giggle softly, tracing your thumbs over his cheekbones. “I’m always ready for you.”
He’s panting now—eyes dark and hungry, cock straining hard against you. But he’s still not moving. Not yet.
So you lean in, press your lips to his ear. “You’ve been on your best behavior lately,” you murmur. “Haven’t scared anyone off. Haven’t put anyone through a wall. You’ve done everything I asked. You deserve a real reward.”
Ben swears under his breath, already fumbling to get himself free, to push your panties aside. You tilt your hips to help, fingers brushing his cheek the whole time, so loving. So grateful.
“You want me?” you whisper. “You want your girl right here, baby? Right now?”
“Fuckin’ always,” he rasps. “Don’t make me beg.”
You smile, guiding him to your entrance with soft fingers, already soaked for him.
“I like when you beg, you know that,” you whisper, sinking down slow.
Ben’s mouth falls open. His hands fly to your hips like it’s instinct, dragging you flush against him, groaning like it physically hurts to be inside you.
Your hand cradles the back of his head. Your voice stays soft. Always soft. “You fill me up so good,” you murmur against his ear. “No one makes me feel like this but you.”
“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.
You moan sweetly, rocking your hips in a slow, wet grind.
“You make me feel so full, Ben. So safe. You always take care of me.”
He growls, full-chested and feral.
You let him take over then—let him snap his hips up into you, wild and rough, mouth on your throat like he needs to claim you.
But you still murmur through every thrust.
“That’s it, my hero. My man. So big—so deep inside me. Feel so perfect for me, baby.”
He snarls against your neck. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna fill you so fuckin’ full they’ll know you’re mine for a week.”
You gasp, clinging tighter. “I am yours. My whole world revolves around you.”
He’s close. You can feel it. So you coo in his ear one more time—quiet, breathless, wicked: “Come for me, baby. My strong, brave hero. You’ve been so good—give it to me. Please, Ben. For me?”
He loses it.
His grip bruises. His hips slam up hard and desperate. He groans like he’s been set on fire and buries himself deep inside you, cock twitching, spilling hot and thick and endless.
You hold him through it. Stroke his hair. Kiss his temple. Praise him through every shudder. “That’s it. That’s my man. You did so good, baby.”
He’s almost trembling, head buried against your chest.
And you just rock gently, purring into his ear like a lullaby.
“You’ll do the ribbon cutting next week, won’t you?” you whisper, soft as velvet. “Just for me?”
Ben groans—but you feel his head nod, slow and reluctant.
You smile.
You always get what you want.
You stay curled in his lap for a long time after.
Ben’s breath is still ragged against your neck, his chest hot and sticky beneath your palms. His arms stay locked around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he loosens his grip.
And maybe he should be.
But for now—you let him have you.
You keep rocking him with soft touches, your fingers smoothing through his damp hair, your lips brushing his temple. You hum something under your breath—not a lullaby, not quite—but warm and familiar. Something only for him.
You stay curled over him just long enough for his heartbeat to settle.
He’s still warm and solid beneath you, one hand resting heavy on your hip, the other curled at the nape of your neck like he might not let you go.
He always says he doesn’t need it.
That he doesn’t need you—not like this.
But his body tells the truth.
And so does his silence.
That’s the part that makes your stomach flutter—not because it’s sweet, but because it’s true.
No one else can handle him. No one else wants to.
But you?
You’ve made a career out of it.
You press a soft kiss to the hinge of his jaw, then shift, easing off of him slowly, adjusting your panties, smoothing your skirt back into place.
Ben makes a low noise of protest. Not a word, just a sound. Like something you’ve taken from him.
You don’t look at him just yet.
You keep moving.
You grab his pills, the ones you know he likes to take before bed. No questions asked. You drop them into his lap and you move across the room to adjust the thermostat lower. You settle in front of him, pull his boots off one at a time, placing them neatly by the door. You move into the bedroom through the large, opened sliding doors that separate the space.
Every movement gentle. Familiar. Doting.
You’re not staying. You never do.
But you take care of him all the same.
“You don’t have to do all that,” he mumbles, voice gone rough.
You finally glance over.
His hair’s a mess. His chest still rising like he’s chasing you through a dream.
You smile, soft and warm. “I know.”
You come back to the couch, sit beside him. Run a hand over his chest, slow and absent like you’re memorizing the shape of him.
“I just want you comfortable. And I think you sleep better when I do this for you.”
He huffs a breath through his nose, eyes heavy on yours.
“You could stay,” he says, voice rough with something heavier than tiredness. “Just for tonight.”
You smile sadly, smoothing his hair back. “You need to shower again and go to bed. You’ve got your meeting with Edgar first thing. If I stay, you’ll be late.”
“I don’t care.”
“I care.” You lean down and kiss him slow—sweet and lingering, fingers brushing the side of his jaw. “And I’ve got staff meetings of my own first thing. You’ll see me after.”
He makes a frustrated noise in his chest, but he doesn’t argue.
Instead, he catches your wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it “Don’t let anyone talk shit about me,” he murmurs.
You smile, lean into the touch just enough, “I never do.”
You straighten, adjust your dress in the mirror one last time, and head for the door. But just before you leave, you glance back. You smile softly. “Goodnight, Ben.”
The door clicks shut behind you.
You left him satisfied and pliant but wanting more—just how you like him.
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