The dining room of the Friends of Humanity facility was a cold, sterile box of concrete and steel, the kind of place where even laughter echoed like a gunshot. At the long, metallic table sat Ben Willis, an 18-year-old mutant with a healing factor that could stitch him back together faster than a seamstress on speed, and cybernetic enhancements that made him a walking weapon. A smirk played on his lips as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, waiting for the storm to descend. Last night had been... intense. A marathon of passion that had left his eleven wives—each a powerhouse in her own right—temporarily out of commission. Below the neck, at least.
The door creaked open, and in hobbled Rogue, her Southern drawl sharp enough to cut glass even through her exhaustion. “Well, sugar, you look mighty pleased with yourself. Should I be worried you broke somethin’ permanent this time?”
Ben’s smirk widened. “Only your ability to walk straight, darlin’. But don’t worry, I’ll carry ya if I have to.”
Storm followed, her regal posture only slightly marred by a faint limp. Her silver hair framed a face that could command thunder, and her glare could’ve struck Ben dead if looks were lightning. “You are insufferable, Benjamin. Do not think for a second that last night gives you the upper hand.”
“Oh, I think it does, Ororo,” Ben shot back, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “I mean, look at you. Barely standing, and yet still tryin’ to zap me with that queenly attitude. Adorable.”
Emma Frost sauntered in next, her icy blonde hair a mess, but her diamond-sharp wit intact. “Adorable? Darling, the only thing adorable here is your delusion that you’ve tamed us. I’m half a mind to turn your brain to mush for that stunt you pulled.”
Ben chuckled, unfazed. “Go ahead, Emma. But you’ll miss me when I’m gone. Now, how ‘bout you all get to cookin’? I’m starvin’. And, uh, lose the clothes while you’re at it. Let’s make breakfast a real feast for the eyes.”
A collective gasp of mock outrage filled the room. Psylocke, her violet eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and amusement, crossed her arms. “You’ve got some nerve, Willis. I’m a ninja, not your personal chef. And definitely not your stripper.”
“Aw, come on, Betsy,” Ben teased, winking. “You’ve got the moves for it. And I’m just askin’ for a little... teamwork. Right, Domino? Jean? How ‘bout you two start with the bacon—extra crispy, just like last night.”
Domino, ever the mercenary with luck on her side, rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re a pig, Ben. But fine, I’ll play along. Only ‘cause I’m curious if you can handle the heat when I turn it up.” She sauntered closer, her voice dropping to a sultry purr. “But if I burn the bacon, you’re eatin’ it raw. Deal?”
Jean Grey, telepathic firecracker that she was, arched a brow, her red hair a fiery cascade over her shoulder. “Domino, don’t encourage him. Ben, if you think I’m stripping down to fry your damn eggs, you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll levitate the pan straight at your head.”
Ben grinned, undeterred. “That’s the spirit, Jeannie. I love a woman who fights back. Makes the surrender so much sweeter. Now, c’mon, both of ya. Show me what you’ve got.”
Their banter was cut short as Emma, still near the doorway, shot him a withering look. “Enough of this nonsense. Benjamin, if you want a show, I’ll give you one. But you’ll regret asking.” With a dramatic flair, she turned, giving a deliberate shake of her hips. “Happy now, you insufferable brat?”
Ben let out a low whistle. “Emma, baby, you’ve got no idea. Shake that booty one more time, and I might just call off breakfast altogether.”
“You wish,” Emma snapped, though her lips twitched with amusement. “And while we’re at it, let’s set some ground rules. If we’re playing your little game, you’d better start calling us by our proper titles. Or do I need to remind you who’s really in charge?”
“Oh, I’ve got titles for you,” Ben countered, his voice dripping with mischief. “How ‘bout you all call me ‘Master’ or ‘Daddy’ from now on? Y’know, to keep things... respectful.”
The room erupted in sarcastic laughter. Scarlet Witch, her crimson energy crackling faintly around her fingers, tilted her head. “Daddy? Ben, I could hex you into next week for even suggesting that. But fine, I’ll humor you. Just this once, ‘Daddy.’ Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Ben replied, his grin practically splitting his face. “Now, Jean, Domino, Emma—go clean up. But Emma, not so fast.” He stood, closing the distance between them in two strides, and pulled her into a messy, passionate kiss. Her initial resistance melted into a begrudging sigh against his lips, and when they parted, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, glaring.
“You’re a menace,” Emma muttered, though her voice was husky. “And if you think that kiss makes up for last night, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Worth a shot,” Ben quipped, smacking her playfully on the rear as she turned away. “Now go. I’ll handle the rest of breakfast.”
The playful chaos was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. Ben’s smirk vanished, replaced by a hard edge. “Everyone, bedroom. Now. Hide.”
Without a word, the women moved, their training kicking in despite their lingering soreness. Ben stayed by the table, schooling his expression into neutrality as Carl Denti, the leader of the Friends of Humanity, strode in. Carl was a mountain of a man, his face a roadmap of scars and cold calculation. He didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Willis,” Carl barked, his voice like gravel. “Got a job for you. SHIELD warehouse, downtown. Sentinel parts and somethin’ extra—a Soul Stone. You’ve got fifty minutes to get in, get out, and not screw this up. Fail, and I’ll personally dismantle those fancy cybernetics of yours. Might even upgrade ‘em with Stark tech, if you’re lucky. Or unlucky. Depends on my mood.”
Ben nodded, his jaw tight. “Understood. I’ll handle it.”
“You’d better,” Carl growled, turning on his heel and stalking out, leaving a cloud of menace in his wake.
The bedroom door cracked open as soon as Carl’s footsteps faded, and the women filed back in, their expressions a mix of concern and fury. Jean crossed her arms, her telepathic presence brushing against Ben’s mind like a warning. “Soul Stone? Sentinel parts? Ben, what the hell is he dragging you into now?”
Ben sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s the finish line, Jean. This mission—it’s our ticket out. We do this, we end Carl’s hold over us. For good.”
Storm stepped forward, her voice steady as a gathering tempest. “Then we do it together. No more games, Benjamin. We’re not just your wives—we’re your army. And Carl will regret the day he thought he could control us.”
Emma smirked, her icy facade back in place. “Well said, Ororo. Now, let’s get this dinner made. If we’re planning a rebellion, we’ll need our strength. And Ben, darling, if you so much as whisper ‘Daddy’ again, I’ll freeze your tongue off.”
Ben laughed, the tension easing just a fraction as they moved to the kitchen together. “Deal. But only ‘cause I know you’d miss my sweet talk.”
As they chopped, stirred, and bantered, a silent resolve settled over the group. This mission, this moment—it was their chance. And they’d be damned if they let Carl Denti win.
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