authors note: this is mainly backstory focused so you can feel free to technically skip this if you want but the backstory becomes a main focus later in the series.
"Butterfly effect" masterlist
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Since you were young, you wished for the “normal” day to day life. Whatever that was stereotypically anyway. You wanted to stay in your lane, keep to yourself. remain under the radar. You used to hate standing out of the norm and often wished to just be yourself.
Unfortunately that all did change when you were fourteen. Your older sister, Elara. worked herself to the bone in the university science lab, every night was another day she worried for her future career. Trying to impress her mentor, Victor. with creative ideas to hopefully to prove to him that she could innovate with minimal resources.
And after months of you begging her to bring you into the lab, pleading on your hands and knees after you showed an extreme passion and intelligence towards Biochemistry and all things genetics growing up.
She caved.
it was better then you could've ever imagined.
Elara had only walked away for whole of maybe five minutes. But that was enough time for you to wander around and snoop on everything the students were doing. Eventually stumbling upon a small glass tank. inside webs stuck to the sides all the way down with something inside that shined through them, illuminating the bottom of the glass.
"Interest in the spiders?" Elara walked in, classic white coat wrapped around her and she had her signature smile painted on her face.
"What do you use spiders for?" You back away from the tank, somehow just realising that these, probably aren't just normal spiders.
"They're genetically modified...to help form proteins for humans, I believe it could be the future of medicine." Her hands almost graze the side of the tank, but her pulls her hand away.
"Unfortunately it's unethical to test on humans at this stage, we don't know what they do yet" Elara backs away from the enclosure, walking towards the bench next to them. "So don't touch them...as far as you know, they're just regular glowing spiders...okay?" She half laughs, then turns towards you waiting for the confirmation that you heard her.
"Yeah okay" you nod and mumble, crossing your arms over eachother.
"Go find your brother please, he really shouldn't be alone in here…he’s only eight” She ushers you off towards the corridor, as she packs away the tank.
"Adam? Adam where are you?" You cup both hands near your mouth and yell. The lab big enough that your voice echoes through out the place.
As you take your next step, the walls shake and rumble followed by absolute silence. Not a single voice or machine running anymore.
"Adam?" Your voice much quieter.
Red siren alarms begin to blare and the walls begin to shake once more, violently and rough. You run back towards the room you and Elara were just in, only to find her on the floor, glass surrounding her. Glass from the tank, spiders crawling all over the floor.
"El!" You rush towards her kneeling on the floor next to her. As you try to help her up, she Immediately pushes you into the cabinet with enough force the metal screeches and dents at the impact.
"No! Get out of here, find Adam and run!" She panics, lifting up from the floor however another large shake sends her to the ground once more with you.
"What are you talking about—" you only just finish your sentence before the wall bursts open in front of you both, pieces of brick and metal go flying through the air and through the cloud of dust raises a man in a mechanical suit.
"Victor.." Elara coughs through the smoke, jumping up from the ground and stomping on the spiders that ran across the ground.
“You aren’t getting your hands on these!” She shouts.
Anger apparent on his face, he surges forward. Missing her by an inch, mechanical hand wedged in the wall, knocking her to the ground but he's too late. Every spiders is squashed into the linoleum floor.
"Go to my office now, take this. Open the safe...take it all." Elara whispers to you, handing over her ID badge as she helps you off the floor and nudges you towards the open corridor once more, you were scared the man would come after you next but it was clear he was only there for her. So you run.
faster then you ever have before, legs burning and threatening to give out. The walls continue to crumble and break causing you to loose balance a few times but nothing is stopping you from reaching her office. As you burst through the door, parts of the roof cave in causing you to get on all fours. you crawl underneath her office desk, sliding her ID badge over the sensor and watching it light up green.
Inside the safe was various files, you shove them inside Elara’s messenger bag that hung off her desk chair. Before you hear a whimper nearby, Adam.
Hiding inside her office.
"Adam...are you okay?!" You rush towards him after gathering all the pages. "I-I'm okay!" He's obviously shaken and terrified...just as you were.
"We need to get out of here." You groan, grabbing his hand and raising to your feet once more. Sprinting outside the room and down the corridor, as you make it towards the exit, you slam through to be met with hundreds of police pointing guns at you however are soon lowered once seeing you both properly.
You rushed to an ambulance to be treated, as you walk you feel a small prick on your neck, hand instantly reaching for the spot feeling a small bump, pulling it away from your skin, your heart rate picks up.
A spider.
A glowing spider.
A spider from that tank.
It must’ve crawled on you when you tried to help Elara off the floor—
“Sis..?” Adam appears behind you, “you alright?” He asks. Your hand immediately clutches the spider in your fist, just hard enough to hide it. Just as you’re about to answer, your eyes draw on the man from before, Victor. Appearing on top of the building followed by an explosion that radiates through the atmosphere and he grapples away with his metal hands.
The building crumbles to the ground.
“Elara!” You scream, running towards the building. Instantly being grabbed by a police officer and pulled back. You fall on the rubble, tears streaming down your face. Spider still clutched in your hands.
That’s the day your dream changed.
That’s the day the transformation from human to…not human started.
Your mother didn’t say much that night. In fact she didn’t say anything at all. Not so much as a nod. Which was fine, because you couldn’t say much either.
Your temperature was shot, sweat leaked down your body, head throbbing and body aching. As soon as you made it in the comfort of your room and sealed the spider in a mason jar. you collapsed, head first into the carpet.
You don’t remember much from that night. Other when waking up very couple hours and whimper or groan into the floor, clutching onto your body which felt like someone had began stretching and twisting it.
You wake the next morning claustrophobic, you can’t move. You feel strangled.
You start panicking, hands thrashing against the soft material surrounding you. You open your eyes only to be met with…silk.
Webs.
webs that snuggled you like a cocoon.
You tear through the material and start to fall, hands gripping the walls to stop yourself. You expect to hit the floor seconds later, but you don’t. You cling to the walls.
“What the…” you mutter, lifting your hands off the walls and fall into the ground with a thud.
Getting off the ground, somehow convinced it was a trick off the eyes, you walk to the bathroom.
You start brushing your teeth before placing the toothbrush back into the kitchen coffee mug on the sink. Accidentally knocking it off without realising. You catch the cup instantly with your other hand as if a part of your brain just knew and you place it back as if not in control of your hand in that moment.
That was how it started.
Here you are now, after being Spider-Man for over four years. you would've thought, that you knew everything there is to know about it. I mean, can't be that complex right?
Wrong.
Because here you are. practically dying on a rooftop because your head cracked from the impact to the concreate roof. you can feel every individual wound and bruise as you try to grab onto anything to crawl away.
Then. His voice invades your senses, it crawls through your brain and settles on the mushy part that makes you groan out in pain. Feeling that all too familiar sensor that says danger is coming for you, you flick out your wrist, webbing to a nearby building as you go flying through the air and resting against the side of a sky scraper, clutching your stomach to try and stop the buckets of blood gushing out. Just missing the metal hand of Fracture crashing through the spot you had just been.
Victor.
"Fracture! You need to stop this! Please!" tears soak your mask as you look down at all the civilians and police warping in and out of consciousness and buildings glitch out of reality just metres away from you.
and it hits you. there is nothing you can do.
its already ruined.
"No can do Spider-Man, you caused this! Don't forget that." The man whom would haunt your nightmare for the rest of your life begins to hover above the city, glitches and static surround him.
"I've been to thousands of different dimensions. You're only one in infinite realities of Spider-Man's...you aren't the one I need." Your eyes widen at his statement, infinite Spider-Man’s? He turns his back to you, brings his hands together and opens a ripple in time in front of him, a portal.
From where you hug to the side of a building, you can see the warping that happens inside of the universal hole he just opened, flashing images of scenarios, universes he’s ruined. If you knew any better. You wouldn't have done what you did. But you did it anyway.
As he begins to make his way towards it, you muster up enough strength to reach your wrist out once more and web onto his metal back. Pushing yourself forward through the sky and into the portal with him. However he’s gone in an instant and you’re suddenly stuck falling infinitely down through dimensions, flashing pictures of Spider-Man’s.
Until.
You crash and land on the wood floor of someone's house, it feels strangely quiet other then the sound of your very faint heartbeat and all the injuries catch up and become all too much to handle…you start crying, sobbing.
"Woah!.." the voice makes you quickly get up, trying your hardest to ignore the pain that radiates through followed by a whine you let out and then fall onto your knees, the gash in your stomach dripping blood onto the hardwood floor.
You look up.
The boy that stands in front of you is obviously shocked with having you warp into his room through a portal even more than you are.
What's more shocking?
He's wearing a Spider-Man suit and Victor is on his way to find him.
𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 ⭑ your first day as soldier boy’s executive liaison becomes a test of nerve when you’re left alone with him.
𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⭑ soldier boy x reader ( f )
𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 ⭑ 3938 words 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 ⭑ tense fluff (basically foreplay)
𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 ⭑ canon-typical violence and death references, sexual harassment, misogynistic comments, objectification, intimidation and threats, references to imprisonment and torture, workplace power imbalance, strong language.
𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐦 ⭑ heck, i am so darn excited for your feedback on this first chapter. please be kind to it!! it’s been sitting in my google docs for far too long
‧⭑.ᐟ masterlist ‧ join the taglist ‧ support my work
vought tower looks cleaner than a place with this much blood in its walls should. the thought isn't helpful.
the second thing that crosses your mind is that the floors are too shiny. polished black stone, glass walls, chrome edges—all of it reflecting you back in pieces as you walk beside stan edgar through the private upper levels of the building.
your shoes almost don’t make a sound. his make none at all. you wonder if that is something men like him practice.
edgar doesn’t rush. around him, though, people do. assistants with tablets, security in fitted black suits, executives managing crises. they part for him before he reaches them, a sort of silent corporate tide, and for one ridiculous second, you feel as if you’re being escorted through the digestive tract of some enormous, expensive animal.
then again, maybe that’s exactly what this place is.
“the official title is executive liaison,” edgar explains. “you’ll be assigned to legacy asset reintegration.”
you hold your folder against your chest with both hands, mostly because it gives you something to focus on. your résumé is inside it, along with your references, your employee onboarding paperwork, a signed nondisclosure agreement thick enough to make any pre-law student sweat.
“legacy asset,” you repeat, glancing at him.
edgar glances back, not quite amused. “soldier boy.”
right.
you knew who the position was attached to before you accepted the interview. vought hadn’t been subtle about that part; only vague in the way rich companies get when they want you to understand danger without being able to prove they warned you. the listing had said ‘high profile individual support. crisis communication. schedule management. confidentiality required. prior experience with sensitive personalities preferred’.
the last one was probably what had made you land the gig. you had worked reception for a media firm during election season, handling men who screamed over tepid coffees, women who cried in conference rooms and then came out smiling, publicists who could lie through three layers of teeth. you had also once been called useless by a billionaire’s nephew because his oat milk cappuccino had foam.
“he was revived twenty-six hours ago,” edgar continues. “physically stable. psychologically combative.”
“that feels expected,” you say before you can stop yourself.
edgar’s eyes flick toward you again. you force your face to stay pleasant. his mouth barely shifts. “it is.”
that’s the thing about stan edgar. he doesn’t make you feel stupid for speaking. he makes you feel stupid for thinking you have said something he didn’t already know.
you pass a wall of framed promotional posters from vought’s older campaigns. beside them, newer displays have already been updated and homelander’s face removed from the central wall with the kind of speed only corporate panic can arrange. the empty spaces are worse than the posters would have been.
everyone saw him die. everyone saw it in pieces, replayed from a dozen angles, slowed down, zoomed in, dissected on morning shows by people with perfect fake teeth and no shame. you watched the clip once and then never again, because watching someone die on national television felt less like witnessing justice and more like being handed a disease you couldn’t scrub off.
“does he know?” you ask.
“not yet.”
and because everything feels vague, you press a little harder. “about homelander?”
“about several things,” edgar replies.
that’s not comforting. that’s the complete opposite of comforting. you keep walking.
“he believes he’s being detained.”
“is he?”
he doesn’t look back. “he’s being housed under controlled conditions until we determine his capacity for reintegration.”
sure. okay. corporate english. “so, yes.”
this time, his mouth actually does move. barely. “you’ll find precision useful here.”
“i usually do.”
“good.” he turns down another corridor, narrower than the last, with fewer people and more security. the walls are warmer here, paneled in dark wood, expensive enough to pretend at comfort. “your responsibilities include calendar coordination, communication screening, controlled external access, coordination with legal, medical, public relations, and myself when necessary.”
you nod as he lists. “and unofficially?”
the security checkpoint ahead scans edgar without stopping him. the guard looks at you, then at the temporary badge clipped to your blazer, then back at his screen. your picture stares up from it, stiff and glossy, smiling with the manic calm of a woman who needs dental insurance.
edgar stops just beyond the checkpoint and turns to you. “unofficially,” he starts, “you observe, you redirect, you document, you do not provoke unless required, and you do not indulge unless useful.”
something in your throat dries. “that sounds less like an assistant position.”
“most positions at vought are mislabeled.”
you almost laugh but choose right at the last minute not to. rent is due in twelve days. your student loans still exist. your last job dissolved after the homelander fallout collapsed three media clients in one week and your boss called it restructuring, which was rich, considering the structure was apparently you and two interns getting kicked to the curb.
you need work. that’s the ugly little truth at the bottom of this polished hallway. you need work, and vought is hiring, and morality does not pay your electrical bill.
edgar starts walking again. “he responds poorly to visible fear.”
“most men do.” you feel the words leave you and briefly wish you could reach out and snatch them back by the ankle.
edgar’s expression doesn’t change. “you have a communications degree.”
“yes.”
“use it carefully.”
“of course, sir.” and there it is—the voice. clean, polite, employable. you smooth it over yourself the way you smoothed your blouse this morning, pressing down every wrinkle, every opinion, every inappropriate instinct to tell the truth too soon. in front of edgar, you’re the girl from the résumé photo. capable. composed. professionally warm. the sort of woman who says happy to help! and only thinks about arson in private.
he leads you to the last door in the hall, and from the outside, it doesn’t look like a cell.
the door is dark wood with brushed gold hardware, wide and tasteful, surrounded by a discreet security frame that probably costs more than your childhood home. there’s no barred window, no blinking red light, no warning sign. just one suited guard on either side and a small panel that scans edgar’s palm, then his eye, then his badge.
three locks disengage inside the wall.
not a cell… right.
the door opens. the suite on the other side screams macho. dark leather couch, heavy wooden table, low amber lamps, crystal decanter on a sideboard, though you notice the caps on the liquor bottles are sealed with electronic tags. a shelf of war books so untouched they might as well still be trees. and, to give it a touch of home, framed black-and-white photos of soldier boy from a century ago, all grin, jaw, uniform, and old american violence made marketable.
the windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling along the far wall, showing the city below in a cold afternoon shine. none of them open. soldier boy’s standing in front of one.
he’s broader than you expect. which feels stupid to think because everyone knows what he looks like. his face’s been on posters, documentaries, old commercials, conspiracy forums, museum installations, trading cards, t-shirts. you've seen him in archive, footage with women hanging from his arms and soldiers laughing too hard beside him, seen the public-service reels where he tells kids to drink milk and report communists.
but footage flattens people. posters make them symbols. this man is not flat. he’s solid in a way that makes the room feel built around him and still insufficient. barefoot on the expensive rug, dark sweatpants low on his hips, white shirt stretched across his chest, beard rough, hands loose at his sides, but nothing about him is relaxed.
“soldier boy,” edgar calls.
he turns his head slowly. the look he gives edgar could curdle milk. “if this is your idea of hospitality,” he stars, voice rough from sleep or disuse or rage, “i’ve had warmer welcomes from the russians.”
edgar steps into the room as if he’s not just been casually compared to enemy captivity by america’s most unstable museum exhibit. “you broke the reinforced door in medical.”
“should’ve reinforced it better.” he’s all teeth and anger.
“we made a note.”
“here’s another one—fuck you.”
your fingers tighten around the folder. and almost like he sensed it, soldier boy’s eyes move to you.
there’s no gradual discovery in it. no polite assessment. he looks at you the way men in bars do when they’ve already decided politeness is something women invented to make them work harder—shoes, legs, skirt, blouse, mouth, eyes. then, because he wanted you to know he’s doing it, back to your chest.
you keep your face still. it takes effort—not because you’re flattered, but because you’re deciding how many times you can run your mouth on your first day.
“this is your new executive liaison,” edgar ignores the tantrum completely and instead gives your name cleanly. “she’ll be handling your schedule, communications, appointments, and necessary coordination during your reintegration.”
soldier boy stares at you for one more second before he looks back at edgar. “i don’t need a ‘sitter.”
“good thing she’s not a babysitter, then.”
“then what is she?”
“qualified.”
soldier boy snorts. “for what?”
you open your mouth, but edgar answers before you can—which is probably for the best. “for managing difficult personalities under public scrutiny.”
soldier boy laughs once without humor. “public scrutiny. that what we’re calling it now?”
he starts toward the sitting area, all heavy steps and barely contained force, and you notice the guard by the door shift his weight. soldier boy notices too. his eyes cut sideways and the guard stills. good to know.
“you drag me out of ice, stick me in a room with cameras behind the vents—real fucking original, by the way—give me liquor i can’t open, and now you bring me a secretary.” soldier boy scoffs.
“liaison.” edgar corrects.
“do i look like i give a fuck?”
you smile. it’s not a nice smile, but it’s small enough to pass inspection.
soldier boy catches it. his attention returns to you, sharper now. “something funny, doll?”
edgar looks at you. not with warning exactly, but close enough that you let your smile become professional. “no.”
“no,” soldier boy repeats, tasting the lie. his gaze drops again. “hell, she can stay.” he doesn’t sit. instead, he takes a step closer. “as long as she starts wearing nicer shirts. something that shows off the rack.”
there’s a silence. not shock. this is vought. that is soldier boy. and hardly anything that happens inside this building would shock those inside it for longer than 24 hours. still, the air tightens.
you raise your brows. there’s no gasp. no lecture. no blush. no trembling outrage for him to chew on. just your brows, your still mouth, and a look that says you’ve met men who thought they were funnier.
soldier boy’s smile widens. he’s pleased with himself. of course he is.
“your liaison’s wardrobe is not within your purview,” edgar says.
“shame.”
“neither is her body.”
soldier boy looks at him. “you’ve always been a bore.”
“consistency.”
soldier boy’s jaw tightens. for one second, something in his chest seems to draw in, not visibly glowing, but the room reacts anyway. the guards tense. the legal man takes half a step behind edgar, which is so pathetic you almost feel bad for him.
edgar remains still. the two look at each other across the room: one a relic with fists, the other a knife in a suit.
then edgar turns slightly toward you. “you have the preliminary schedule.”
it takes you half a breath too long to answer. “yes.”
“begin with the briefing. nothing external until i approve it.”
he means homelander. he knows soldier boy might ask. you dread it. but still, you simply nod. “of course.”
soldier boy looks between you. “you leaving her here?”
“yes.”
“alone?”
edgar’s eyes settle on him. “is that a problem?”
it’s a challenge, but wrapped so neatly that anyone with less ego might miss it. soldier boy, unfortunately, doesn’t.
his expression shifts into something ugly and entertained. “not for me.”
edgar turns for the door. “try not to make her first day unnecessarily difficult.”
stan edgar doesn’t wait for soldier boy’s response. he doesn’t even care if he had one. he’s already turning on his heel and heading for the door. the legal man practically evaporates after him. the guards follow but slower, reluctant, staying just outside as the door begins to close. you watch the gap narrow. for one stupid second, the survival part of your brain screams at you to step through it. go. go now. tell them you changed your mind. tell them anything. but the door shuts. the locks click back into place.
one. two. three. and you’re alone with soldier boy. not completely alone. there are cameras, guards beyond the wall, panic buttons you have been told exist but not shown exactly where to find them nor how to use them. you’re alone in the ways that matter.
soldier boy looks at the door. then at you. “well, this is fucking stupid.”
you let out a slow breath through your nose and walk to the table. not too fast. not timid. you set your folder down, place the tablet beside it, and take one second to straighten both because if your hands are busy, maybe they won’t shake.
then you look at him. “let’s get something clear—”
his eyebrows lift. oh, he enjoys that. immediately. the bastard. “that how you talk to your boss?”
your brow lifts right back. there are cameras watching. you're aware of them. the one in the vents over your head. the mirror looks suspiciously large. still, you keep talking. “—my ‘rack’, any other physical attribute, and my wardrobe are not up for debate.”
soldier boy watches you for a second. then another. it’d be easier if he looked angry. but he looks amused in that lazy, cruel way men get when they find a boundary cute because they’re going to step on it just to hear the sound.
his eyes drop again, slower this time. “your rack’s better than your ass anyway.”
for one long second, you say nothing. mostly because every normal professional response leaves your head at once. just empties out. your communications degree, your onboarding modules, the entire section of your employee handbook about maintaining workplace composure during high-stress interpersonal events. gone. burned. reduced to ash by the sheer prehistoric audacity of the man standing in front of you.
he smiles wider, pleased with whatever microscopic twitch he thinks he’s found on your face. “knew you had a look under all that secretary paint.”
you inhale once. just enough to keep yourself from saying something that gets you escorted out of the building before lunch. then you tilt your head. “are you finished?”
his smile remains intact. “with what?”
“trying to make me feel small.” you gesture lightly between the two of you. “because if that was your opening act, i should warn you, i’ve worked for men that would bleed if they got shot and had better material.”
“i think i’m employed.” you pick up your tablet and tap the screen awake, because looking busy gives your body something to do besides remember that he could fold the table in half and you with it. “and i think you’re mistaking me for temporary.”
“you walked in here with edgar and a folder. what the hell else are you?”
“the person currently standing between you and a lot of consequences.”
he lets out a short laugh. “consequences.”
“yes.”
“from you?”
“no.” you glance at him. “from the company that thawed you out and locked you in a luxury cage with tagged liquor.”
his face changes. it isn’t much. with another man, you might miss it. with him, it feels like someone pulled a wire tight in the walls. the amusement doesn’t disappear completely, but it hardens. something old and ugly moves under it, something less performative than the comments about your chest.
“you can call me whatever you want in your head. secretary, babysitter, doll… whatever makes the century less confusing for you. but out loud, you’re going to use my name, or you’re going to use my title, and you’re going to keep your thoughts about my boobs and my ass buried wherever you keep the rest of your outdated opinions.”
his mouth curves again, but it’s thinner now. “or what?”
you knew he’d ask. men like him always do. they don’t believe in fences unless they’ve personally thrown themselves against the wood and learned how much pressure it takes to crack.
you set the tablet down. “or they replace me.”
he blinks once. that’s not the answer he expected.
you smile, sharper than anything you’ve worn today. “that’s the part you’re not understanding. i’m not here because vought thinks i’m special. i’m here because the position is available and i’m qualified.”
he stares at you, the amusement slowly dripping out of him.
“if i don’t last, they’ll find someone else. and if that person doesn’t last, they’ll find another one. and after enough assistants quit, cry, file complaints, or get carried out of here with a concussion, someone upstairs is going to decide that this,” you gesture around the room, the expensive wood, the sealed windows, the cameras pretending not to exist, him. “is too much work.”
the air feels different now. you can hear the building hum. maybe it was always doing that. maybe you only notice because soldier boy’s gone very still.
“and when vought decides you’re too much work,” you continue, softer, cleaner, meaner, “they won’t build you a bigger room. they won’t give you more freedom. they won’t sit you down and ask about your feelings…”
his jaw ticks.
you hold his gaze. “they’ll put you back in the freezer.”
for the first time since edgar left, soldier boy doesn’t have an immediate comeback.
that should feel good. expect… it doesn’t. it feels like standing too close to a bomb you’ve just realized could go off.
his eyes stay on yours, green and flat and bright with something you’re very, very smart not to name. the room seems to shrink around him. no movement, no glow, no dramatic crack in the floor. only the sudden knowledge that the cameras in the vents and the guards behind the door aren’t in here with you.
you force yourself not to recoil. your body wants to. every old animal part of you wants distance. but your face stays still, because if you give him fear right now, he’ll use it.
soldier boy takes one step closer. measured. testing. “you threatening me?” his voice is lower now.
you swallow, and hate that you have to. “no.”
“sounds like a threat.”
“it’s an explanation of your current employment conditions.”
his nostrils flare. for a second, you think he might laugh. for another, you think he might put his hand through the table. he does neither. he just looks at you, and something in his expression shifts again. not softening. god, no. nothing that generous. more like a door inside him opens half an inch, not to let you in, but to check whether you’re worth locking out properly.
“employment conditions,” he repeats. his eyebrows lift and the corner of his mouth moves before he can decide whether to stop it. quick. unwilling. almost a smile. “you got a mouth on you.”
“i’ve been told.”
“by men who lived?”
“a few of them.”
this time, he does laugh. not much. barely more than air through his nose. but it breaks something in the room that had started to tighten too far. he turns away first, which feels like a victory until you realize your pulse’s trying to climb out through your neck.
he walks to the sideboard and picks up one of the liquor bottles. the electronic tag flashes red under his fingers. he looks down at it with pure disgust.
he twists the bottle once, testing the cap. the tag blinks again. somewhere outside the room, someone’s probably seeing an alert. maybe they can put subject attempted emotional support bourbon in the file.
“you gonna report everything i say?” he asks.
you pick up the tablet again. professional mode slides back over you, not because it fits perfectly, but because it’s safer than being here with your nerves showing. “depends.”
“on?”
“whether it’s necessary.”
that earns another look. less amused than before. more attentive. you decide not to enjoy it. enjoying things in this room feels like how people end up with preventable injuries.
you tap open the schedule. “your schedule will resume tomorrow morning. briefing is at nine.”
“not going.”
“you don’t know what it is.”
“don’t need to.”
“medical evaluation at ten-thirty.”
“definitely not going.”
“wardrobe fitting at noon.”
his head turns. “wardrobe fitting?”
“reintegration wardrobe review.”
“what the hell does that mean?”
“it means someone in branding wants to know whether you’ll still test well in green.”
his face does something deeply offended. “the suit tested fine.”
“in 1984, maybe.”
he points at you with the bottle. “watch it.”
you look at the bottle. “you’re threatening me with tagged bourbon. it’s not as intimidating as you think.”
he lowers it, but the ghost of amusement is there again, tucked meanly at the edge of his mouth.
you keep scrolling. “media training is tentatively scheduled for friday.”
“no.”
“that one wasn’t a question.”
“make it one.”
“fine. would you like to attend media training voluntarily, or would you like me to write that you refused because structured conversation frightens you?”
his smile comes back, wider this time. “you always this annoying?”
“only when i’m doing my job well.”
“you think this is doing your job well?”
you look up at him. “you haven’t broken anything since i got here.”
that one nearly gets you. not because it’s funny, though it is, but because his expression goes through three things too quickly to name. insult. anger. something almost like recognition. then he settles on a sneer.
he holds your stare.
you hold his.
the room hums around you. the city glitters beyond sealed glass. somewhere outside this door, stan edgar’s people are listening, waiting to see if the new hire survives her first unsupervised conversation with the company’s most expensive liability.
finally, soldier boy drops onto the leather couch with a heavy, irritated sprawl, one arm thrown across the back, knees apart, all arrogance and muscle and wounded pride arranged like he invented furniture. “fine. talk.”
you blink, completely caught off guard by the sudden surrender.
he sees it and looks pleased again, which is unbearable. “what?” he asks. “you wanted to go over my little list of to-dos, didn’t you?”
you lift your tablet a little higher, putting the screen between his face and whatever your expression might be doing. “yes.”
“then go on.” he settles deeper into the couch, watching you like he’s decided the meeting might not be a total waste after all. “orient me.”
you hate that he makes the word sound dirty. you hate more that your mouth almost twitches. instead, you square your shoulders, clear your throat, and let the résumé girl crawl neatly back into place.
“tomorrow,” you begin, voice smooth enough to invoice, “the briefing will start with behavioral compliance expectations.”
soldier boy grins. slow. mean. entertained. “can’t wait.”
𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 ⭑ after homelander’s death and stan edgar’s return to vought, soldier boy is pulled out of cryosleep and placed under “controlled reintegration”. officially, you’re hired as his executive liaison—managing his schedule, communications, appointments, and public-facing transition back into the world. unofficially, you’re there to keep eyes on him.
𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⭑ soldier boy x reader ( f )
𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 ⭑ est. 50-75k 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 ⭑ forced proximity ; slow burn
𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 ⭑ explicit sexual content, crude language, sexual harassment/misogynistic comments, workplace power imbalance, morally grey relationship dynamics, forced proximity, vought being vought, supe-related violence, alcohol, smoking, the boys spoilers, soldier boy being his own usual warning
𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 ⭑ every tuesday, thursday, and saturday
𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 ⭑ sign up here .ᐟ
𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐦 ⭑ human resources has actually been sitting in my drafts since before mouth like that turned into a series, which feels insane to say because chapter one has been written since may!! the funny thing is, human resources was the story i originally wanted to turn into a full series first. hopefully, you’ll like this one just as much. if i’m lucky, maybe even more ehe 🖤
‧⭑.ᐟ the first chapter is coming out on the 25th of july!!
lowdown ☆ after the tower, you’re left with the fallout and the road ahead.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2436 ride style ☆ fluff 😌
danger on the trail ☆ post-finale aftermath, injury, temp v use, emotional distress, toxic dynamics, the end of a fucking era!!! notes at the end 😭
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the radio barely works.
it keeps cutting in and out beneath the rain, old guitar and static slipping through the speakers in broken pieces. every few seconds, a man’s voice finds the melody, holds it for half a line, then disappears again.
you should turn it off. you hum instead, low under your breath, because the car feels too quiet without something filling it. because if you stop humming, you’ll hear the tower again. glass giving way. annie shouting. ryan screaming. soldier boy’s roars, rough and ruined.
your hands stay locked around the steering wheel.
your wrist's swollen where the cuff bit in. your throat burns when you swallow, skin bruised beneath your jaw in the shape of homelander’s fingers. there’s blood under one sleeve, not all of it yours, and temp v still crawls ugly through your veins, leaving your skin too cold and your heartbeat too fast.
the highway stretches ahead, dark and wet. somewhere behind you, soldier boy is unconscious across the backseat. you check the mirror again. he’s too big for the car. boots jammed awkwardly against the door, one arm hanging half-off the seat, shield shoved into the footwell because you couldn’t leave it behind even though dragging it nearly made you sob from pure exhaustion.
his face's turned toward the window, slack in a way that still looks wrong on him. soot and blood mark the side of his neck. his armor's cracked open at the chest. breathing, though. you keep checking. breathing. that has to be enough for now.
the road blurs. you blink hard until the lines sharpen again. “not yet,” you whisper.
your fingers tremble on the wheel, so you grip tighter. ten and two, absurdly proper for a woman driving a stolen car with a wanted supe unconscious in the backseat. the thought almost makes you laugh, bur the sound doesn’t make it out.
the radio catches another few notes. you hum along badly. behind you, leather creaks. soldier boy jerks upright. not at all like waking. one second he's deadweight, and the next he's moving, sharp and violent, dragging air into his lungs like he's come up from underwater with his hand already reaching for a weapon.
you scream. “jesus, what the fuck?” the car swerves across the lane. tires hit the rumble strip with a grinding roar. your heart kicks into your throat.
soldier boy grabs the back of the passenger seat, eyes wild in the dashboard glow, and that only makes the wheel slip harder in your hands. “where the fuck—”
“sit down!”
“keep the car on the road!”
“i was doing that before you resurrected in my fucking backseat!”
you yank the wheel back. the car lurches, corrects, then straightens beneath the rain. for three seconds, neither of you speaks. the wipers scrape across the windshield. the radio hisses.
then he says, “pull over.”
you laugh once, too sharp. “of course. sure. already barking orders.”
“stop the fucking car.” the way he says it is different the second time. not barked. not cruel. strained.
you glance at him in the mirror and see that his eyes have dropped to your throat. then your wrist. then your shaking hands. your grip tightens around the wheel until your knuckles hurt. “fine.”
you pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires, and shove the car into park. cold rain hits you the second you open the door. it feels good for half a breath, then awful. you climb out anyway.
your legs nearly fold. you catch yourself against the car. soldier boy's already out on the other side, unsteady for maybe one second before pride straightens him. he looks around the empty road, the wet fields, the dark line of trees beyond the shoulder. then he looks at you.
“where are we?” he asks.
“somewhere in pennsylvania. maybe ohio by now.” your voice comes out rough from homelander’s hand.
his eyes stay on your throat. “what happened?”
“a lot.” you swallow, and it hurts. “everyone’s alive.”
he goes very still. the rain ticks against the roof of the car. somewhere far away, a truck passes on another road, low and lonely through the night.
“even maeve?” he asks.
your chest tightens. you nod. “i think. she was breathing when they found her.”
his jaw works once. “homelander?”
“alive.” that hits worse. of course it does.
his face closes, and for a second he looks back toward the road behind you like he might try to walk all the way to new york with broken armor and blood in his hair.
“ryan’s alive too,” you add. “butcher. annie. hughie. mm. frenchie. kimiko. me...” his eyes come back to you. you almost make a joke. you’re too tired. “i’m here.”
he steps closer. “you took it.”
“i did.”
his expression hardens. “after i told you not to.”
“after you cuffed me to a radiator and destroyed the vial in my face.”
“to keep you alive.”
“that wasn’t your choice.”
he flinches. small. almost nothing. but you see it, and some mean, hurt part of you is glad.
“you left me there,” the words come out quieter than you expect. worse because of it. “after i promised. after i told you. you made me watch you walk away.”
rain runs down his face. he doesn’t wipe it. “i know.”
“do you?”
his eyes meet yours. there's no joke waiting in them now. no dirty comment. no easy cruelty to hide behind. “yeah,” he says. “i do.”
that fixes nothing. still, your throat tightens.
you look away first, toward the highway. toward anywhere that is not his face.
for a while, the only sound is the rain. then he asks, “in the tower. did you—”
“not on you.” the answer's immediate.
his jaw tightens.
you take one step toward him, even though your body protests. “i could have. when you were charging, when everyone was still too close, when i thought the whole floor was going to come down. the word was right there.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t say it.”
he looks away.
“i promised you,” you say. “and i kept it.”
his hand flexes at his side. you almost wish he would argue. it would be easier than watching him stand there with the truth pressing into him from every side.
“i used it on them,” you continue. “after.”
his eyes return to you.
“they were going to take you back.”
his face empties so fast it makes your stomach turn. “freezer?”
“nobody said the word.” you fold your arms, then stop because your ribs ache. “they didn’t have to.”
for a second, he's not on the highway with you. he's somewhere colder. somewhere metal. somewhere locked. you hate them for it, suddenly and completely, even though part of you understands. even though you saw him light up that room. even though you know how close everyone came to dying. you still hate them.
“you were unconscious,” you say. “maeve was down. homelander was gone. butcher was bleeding all over the floor and still trying to stand. mm was calling for containment. frenchie had the gas...” your throat tightens again. “annie looked at me like she was sorry.”
his voice is flat when he asks, “what did you say?”
you remember it too clearly. your knees on broken glass beside him. your hand against his chest, checking for breath. butcher swearing from somewhere behind you. mm reaching for your shoulder. annie saying your name in warning. frenchie’s face pale above the mask canister. your own voice cutting through all of it.
“i told them to stay back,” you say.
he watches you. “and they did?”
“yes.”
“all of them?”
“yes.”
“butcher?”
“especially butcher.”
something dark and almost satisfied crosses his face before pain swallows it.
“you carried me out?”
“dragged you. carried you a little. cursed your entire bloodline.” you glance toward the car. “took the shield too. you’re welcome.”
he doesn’t answer. he's looking at your wrist again. the cuff mark's ugly. red and swollen, rubbed raw in places from where you fought the radiator, then the door, then the whole goddamn world to get to him.
his hand lifts. you stiffen before you can stop yourself.
slowly, he lets his hand fall. the absence hurts more than the reach. “i’m not going to grab you."
“good,” you answer. “because i might hit you with the car.”
“with your driving, i don't doubt it."
it slips out before either of you can stop it. a tiny, stupid sound leaves you. not a laugh. close enough to hurt.
his face shifts like that sound does something to him. then his hands come up to your face. slowly. giving you time. you should step back. you're still angry. your wrist throbs because of him. your throat hurts because of homelander. your veins feel poisoned because you had to take the vial alone after he took your choice and called it love. but his palms settle against your cheeks, big and careful, and you're too tired to pretend it doesn’t almost break you.
his thumbs rest beneath your cheekbones. “you shouldn’t have come."
your eyes burn. “you shouldn’t have left me.”
his face tightens. “i know.”
it isn't enough. but it's the closest he has come.
“i’m still mad,” you whisper.
“yeah.”
“i might be mad for a while.”
“figured.”
“and if you ever handcuff me to something again, i’m commanding you to shave your beard.”
his face goes so still that, despite everything, a laugh breaks out of you. his eyes narrow. “that a threat?”
“a promise.”
“you promised not to use it on me.”
“tempt me.”
the old rhythm flickers between you, bruised and weak but alive. you feel it and hate yourself a little for needing it.
his gaze drops to your mouth.
the rain keeps falling.
“where are we going?” he asks, voice lower now.
“sioux falls.”
his brows draw together. “why?”
“i have family there. an aunt. sort of. long story.” you breathe in carefully. “small house outside town. old garage. she minds her business if i tell her to. we can stay a few days. figure out where we go next.”
“where we go next?”
your throat tightens.
there it is. the small, stupid word with teeth.
“unless you have somewhere better to be.”
his hands tighten on your face for half a second. “no.”
his thumb drags once along your cheek, wiping rain or tears or both.
“you stole me,” he says.
your mouth trembles around a smile that doesn’t fully form. “rescued.”
“stole.”
“fine. i stole you.”
“from all of them.” his eyes stay on yours. “why?”
there're a dozen answers. because they were going to freeze him. because you were angry. because he was breathing. because after everything, after every ugly choice and every wrong word and every time one of you used teeth because tenderness felt too dangerous, you still couldn't leave him on that floor.
you say the smallest true thing. “because i wasn’t done with you.”
his face changes. not much. never much. but you know him now, and it is enough. then he kisses you. it isn't gentle at first. not careful enough to turn the night pretty. he kisses you like he's furious at the rain, at the tower, at the fall, at your bruises, at himself. his hands hold your face the whole time, and that's the part that ruins you. not the force. not the heat. the holding.
you grip the torn front of his suit. then he makes a sound against your mouth, low and wrecked, and you melt. stupidly. completely. he kisses you until the rain is cold on your back and the car engine ticks itself quiet beside you.
when he pulls away, his forehead stays pressed to yours. neither of you says anything. there's nothing clean enough to say.
then he looks down at you and his face hardens again. “you're shaking. get in the car. i’m driving.”
you pull back. “absolutely not.”
“you almost put us in a ditch.”
“because you scared me.”
“women shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”
you stare at him. rain drips from his hair. he looks half-dead, bruised, burned, impossible, and completely serious.
you slap his chest. he doesn’t move. your hand hurts. “ow,” you mutter.
his mouth twitches. “that was pathetic."
“i'm withdrawing.”
“explains the driving.”
you point at him. “do not make me regret stealing you.”
“too late.”
you hate that it makes you smile. small. exhausted. real. you drop the keys into his open hand before you can change your mind. “one misogynistic comment about my navigation and i leave you at the next gas station.”
“you’d come back.”
“unfortunately.”
he closes his fingers around the keys and walks around the car with only a slight limp. you notice. he knows you notice. neither of you says anything.
you slide into the passenger seat and immediately regret sitting because every bruise introduces itself at once. soldier boy gets behind the wheel, adjusts the seat with an annoyed grunt, and glares at the dashboard like the car's personally disappointed him.
“piece of shit,” he mutters.
“free piece of shit.”
he starts the engine. the radio wakes with a burst of static, then finds the old song again. faint guitar. a voice you still don’t recognize. rain under the tires as he pulls back onto the highway.
for a while, neither of you speaks. behind you, new york is sirens and broken glass and people who will turn the whole thing into headlines by morning.
terrorist attack.
supe disaster.
vought tragedy.
they won't call it what it was. they won't know about the radiator. the second vial. the word you didn't say. maeve’s arms around him as the sky went white. your knees on broken glass while everyone stepped back because you told them to. his hands on your face in the rain.
they won't know that the world ended and kept going anyway.
sioux falls is still too far. temp v still burns under your skin. homelander's alive. butcher's alive. everyone you left behind's alive and furious and probably already hunting for the stolen car.
but soldier boy's breathing beside you. you're breathing beside him. for tonight, that has to be enough.
the radio clears for a few seconds, and you start humming again, quieter now. soldier boy glances over as one hand leaves the wheel. he extends it toward you, palm open, waiting. you slip your hand into his.
the road stretches out ahead of you, dark and endless beneath the rain, and this time, neither of you lets go.
liv's log ☆ and here we are... the last chapter of mouth like that 🙂↕️
i don’t really know how to write this without getting a little emotional, because this genuinely feels like the end of an era for me. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember. since i understood myself as someone with too many feelings and nowhere else to put them, i’ve been putting them into words. writing has always been mine in that way.
but this was different.
tumblr wasn’t new to me, and writing wasn’t new to me, but having this much love and support for something i created? that was new. seeing your comments, your asks, your reblogs, your tags, your theories, your yelling, your suffering—it made me feel giddy in a way i genuinely don’t think i can explain without sounding insane. some days, it felt like being high. some days, when real life was awful and heavy and exhausting, i would open tumblr and read what you guys had said, and it would make me happy. actually happy.
and i know i made you suffer. i know the angst was evil. i know there were moments where it probably felt like things were going to be bad forever. but the fact that so many of you stayed with this story anyway means more to me than i can say.
mouth like that was supposed to be one drabble. one silly, stupid little scenario that got stuck in my head and refused to leave me alone. somehow, that turned into this huge, messy, emotional, unhinged thing with over 150 people on the taglist, and i still don’t know how to wrap my head around that. i am so so grateful to every single one of you who read it, commented on it, reblogged it, screamed at me about it, recommended it, or quietly came back chapter after chapter.
i’m also grateful for the friends i made because of this story. that might be the most special part of all.
this isn’t goodbye to soldier boy. i’m never going to stop writing for him/jensen, because apparently i have a sickness and the only cure is putting that man in increasingly deranged situations. but mouth like that will always be special to me. it was my first project that really became something bigger than i expected. my first story that made me feel that kind of support. my first “holy shit, people are actually here for this” moment.
so, from the bottom of my very dramatic little heart: thank you! thank you for reading. thank you for caring. thank you for suffering with me. thank you for making this story feel alive.
i’m gonna stop crying now.
here’s to more soldier boy stories, more unhinged nonsense, and whatever emotional damage comes next 🩷
lowdown ☆ you reach vought tower mid-fight. the plan has collapsed, the team turns on soldier boy, and the truth of your escape pushes everything past stopping.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3411 ride style ☆ tense!!
danger on the trail ☆ violence, panic, injury, choking, assault, temp v use, loss of control, betrayal, homelander violence, ryan in danger, explosion, fall from height, emotional distress, canon-divergent-ish
liv's log ☆ final chapter comes out tomorrow. holy hell!! 🤧
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
people are running out of vought tower when you walk in.
your feet hit the marble too fast, one step chasing the next, breath tearing hot in your throat while alarms scream overhead and red emergency lights wash the lobby in pulses. outside, security shouts at civilians to move back from the building. inside, employees pour toward the front doors in a panicked rush of suits, badges, crying assistants, and guards who look like they have spent their whole careers waiting for a threat to come from outside, not from the top floors where they built their gods.
you go the wrong way.
everyone else runs for safety. you head for the elevators.
no one stops you at first. not because you look like you belong, not anymore, not with your face burned across the country under firecracker’s red headline, not with your wrist scraped raw and your hair coming loose and your lungs already working too hard. no one stops you because the building is bleeding people and nobody has enough hands to plug the wound.
a guard catches your shoulder near the security gates. “ma’am, you need to evacuate—”
you twist out from under his hand. “try me later.”
he grabs for you again. you drive your elbow back into his throat. the sound he makes is wet and startled. the guard folds just enough for you to shove past, badge scanner shrieking when your hip hits the turnstile.
another guard looks over, one hand going toward his weapon, and then somewhere high above you, something booms hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling. everyone flinches. you run.
the elevator doors are locked down. the screens above them flicker between emergency instructions and the vought logo, bright and cheerful enough to make you want to put your fist through the glass.
stairs, then.
you turn toward the emergency stairwell. someone comes around the corner too fast and nearly slams into you. ginger hair. white boots. bright red lipstick smeared slightly at one corner like the day has finally had the nerve to touch her.
firecracker freezes first. for half a second, she’s not the woman on television with the smug mouth and flag-colored outrage. she’s just a person trying to get out before the building becomes a tomb. one hand grips her phone. her eyes flick down your body, up to your face, and recognition lands so quickly it almost looks like fear.
then her mouth curls because some people would rather die than miss a chance to perform. “well, shit! look who crawled out of the terrorist den.”
you step closer.
her eyes dart past you, toward the lobby, toward the exits, toward anyone who might be watching.
“you picked a real bad day to play hero, sweetheart.” she lifts her phone slightly, thumb already moving. “america’s gonna love this.”
you hit her. not a slap. not a shove. not a dramatic little television fight with hair-pulling and insults. your fist connects with the center of her face with a crack sharp enough to cut through the alarms. pain bursts across your knuckles. firecracker’s head snaps back, and she drops hard against the wall before sliding to the floor, phone skittering across the marble.
“thanks for the compliment, but we can catch up another time.”
she makes a thin, shocked sound, both hands flying to her nose as blood spills bright over her fingers. “you—”
you step over her phone, smashing the screen with your heel. then you run for the stairs. by the twentieth floor, your lungs feel scraped raw. by the thirtieth, the stairwell lights flicker. by the fortieth, you hear something break above you that doesn’t sound like glass so much as structure. metal shrieking. concrete cracking. a deep impact that travels through the railing into your palm.
the building is alive with fear.
doors slam open and shut on lower floors. people sob into phones. someone prays in the stairwell two flights below, voice shaking so hard you can hear every breath. the emergency intercom repeats the same calm lie over and over.
please proceed to the nearest exit.
please remain calm.
please proceed to the nearest exit.
calm is for people who weren’t cuffed to radiators by men who kiss them in the morning and ruin them by noon.
you climb.
your wrist throbs where the cuff bit into skin. every flex sends a hot line of pain up your arm. you use that pain. hold it under your tongue like a match. ben’s face when the vial shattered. the green spill down his hand. sorry, doll. you’re not coming.
you almost fall on the next landing because rage moves faster than feet. you catch yourself on the rail and keep going.
somewhere above you, the whole tower shakes again. this time, the lights go out for two seconds. annie. darkness swallows the stairwell. then emergency red snaps back on. you climb into it.
the broadcast level door is already bent when you reach it. the metal buckles inward around the handle, hinges twisted, glass panel cracked into a spiderweb around a hole that looks like someone went through it instead of opening it. smoke crawls from underneath in thin gray fingers. the air tastes like burned wiring.
you grip the edge of the door and pull. it groans, shifts half an inch, then catches. “fuck’s sake—” you brace one foot against the frame and yank again. the door gives.
sound hits you all at once. not one fight. several. layered over each other until the whole floor becomes noise: alarms screaming, glass popping, someone shouting, something heavy crashing through a wall, the distant metallic hum of the studio lights swinging overhead. air rushes through broken windows somewhere ahead.
you step through. the broadcast level is ruined. monitors flash blue and red over the walls. one camera lies on its side, lens cracked, still recording nothing but feet and debris. half the ceiling has dropped in a curtain of cables. the big vought news backdrop is torn down the middle, the smiling patriotic graphics split open by a jagged scorch mark. and in the middle of it, the fight’s already eating itself alive.
maeve hits homelander hard enough to send him through a glass partition. he comes back laughing. not happy. not even amused. laughing because he’s bleeding from the mouth and cannot stand the idea that anyone saw. his cape is torn at one shoulder. one eye is already swelling. maeve looks worse, one side of her face bloody, ribs clearly screaming every time she moves, but she meets him again anyway, driving her shoulder into his chest before he can turn toward the rest of the room.
across the floor, butcher is fighting soldier boy.
butcher’s eyes burn hot yellow, temp v lighting him up from the inside like hell finally found a doorway. he slams soldier boy back against a row of studio desks, teeth bared, face twisted with the kind of rage that’s less about murder than it is about protection. annie stands near him, glowing too bright under the flickering lights, both hands raised as she blasts soldier boy back before he can get a clean swing.
and then you see the others.
your stomach drops.
mm has both hands locked around a thick strap pulled across soldier boy’s chest, boots sliding against the floor as he uses his whole body to hold him down. frenchie is beside him, face white with terror and concentration, trying to force the gas mask tight over soldier boy’s mouth and nose. kimiko has one arm hooked around soldier boy’s throat from behind, the other gripping his shoulder, teeth clenched as he fights hard enough to drag all three of them inches at a time.
the mask. frenchie’s mask. the thing built for homelander. they are using it on him.
for a second, the whole room tilts.
some part of you knew. the second frenchie opened the case. the second butcher’s eyes moved too quickly. still, seeing it is different. seeing soldier boy on one knee, gas hissing around the broken seal of the mask, chest already starting to glow beneath the armor while everyone pulls him down like a monster they rescued and regretted, does something to you that has no name.
his eyes are wild. not scared. he’d kill you for calling it that. but too awake. too bright. betrayed in a way that looks almost feral. russia’s in that room with him. vought’s in that room with him. payback’s in that room with him. every hand that ever held him down has come back wearing faces he almost trusted.
“hold him!” butcher shouts.
“i am trying!” frenchie yells back, voice cracking.
soldier boy drives his elbow back into kimiko hard enough that she loses her grip for half a second. annie blasts him again before he can rise, light cracking against his chest. he snarls behind the mask and rips one arm free. mm curses, grabs again, and nearly gets thrown through the desk for it.
on the far side of the room, ryan’s backed against a wall, eyes wide and wet, hands lifted like he doesn’t know whether to cover his ears or defend himself. a long cut marks his eyebrow. not deep. but enough. enough for butcher to keep looking over. enough for homelander to keep smiling through blood like every terrible thing in the room proves something about love.
“dad!” ryan cries out. homelander’s head snaps toward him.
maeve uses the opening. her fist crashes into homelander’s jaw, and he stumbles two steps before catching himself on the broken edge of the broadcast desk. he spits blood onto the floor, then looks up at her slowly.
“you really should’ve stayed locked-up.”
maeve wipes blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. “and miss seeing you bleed? never.”
he moves. you lose sight of them in a blur of cape and fists and shattering glass.
soldier boy’s chest gets brighter. burning. everyone feels it at once.
“mask!” butcher roars.
frenchie slams the canister trigger.
gas releases in a hard white burst around soldier boy’s face. it floods the mask, spills through the broken seal, curls around his hair and shoulders. he convulses once, not going limp, not going down, just jerking with rage as the chemical hits and fails to fully win.
his laser cuts across soldier boy’s shoulder. soldier boy bellows and surges up through the pain, dragging kimiko and mm with him. frenchie loses his footing, still clinging to the mask strap. annie throws another blast, but the light sputters weakly in the smoke.
hughie’s near the control panel, half-hidden behind a fallen camera rig, shouting something into the comms that nobody hears.
the floor trembles. soldier boy’s chest keeps building.
every instinct in your body screams at once. you step forward. “let him go.”
the words don’t sound like words. they leave your mouth wrong. not loud. not screamed. not even angry enough for what you mean. they come out thin and panicked and still the room bends around them—mm’s hands open. frenchie releases the strap. kimiko stumbles back. annie’s light cuts out. butcher’s laser dies mid-burn. for one impossible second, everyone obeys.
and that’s when they know.
annie turns toward you, face going pale beneath the grime and blood. hughie’s mouth parts. frenchie looks like he might be sick. mm stares at your mouth. butcher’s eyes narrow.
soldier boy rips the mask from his face. it hits the floor with a heavy crack. gas spills loose across the ground in a dying cloud. his breathing’s ragged. his chest’s lit too bright. his eyes find yours through the smoke, and the whole room seems to fall away for half a heartbeat. there are too many things in that look.
you took it.
i left you.
you came anyway.
i know.
his face twists around something that might have become your name if the charge in his chest hadn’t dragged a sound out of him instead. low. broken. furious with the body that won’t stop becoming a bomb.
you move toward him. slow first. then faster. “ben—”
his eyes sharpen. “no. don’t,” he warns.
not don’t come closer. not don’t touch me. don’t say it. don’t use that voice on me.
your throat tightens around the easiest command in the world. stop. it waits there, bright and terrible, shaped exactly like salvation. one word and his body might listen. one word and you might save everyone. one word and you’d ruin the only promise you have left between you.
you don’t say it. you take another step. “ben, look at me.”
his chest pulses harder.
behind you, butcher drags himself upright, breathing hard. “get away from him.”
you ignore him. “look at me,” you say again, and this time it’s only your voice. human around the edges even with the wrongness burning beneath it. “just me.”
soldier boy’s jaw clenches. for one second, it works. you. his breathing catches. the glow stutters, just slightly, like something inside him recognizes the shape of you and hates itself for reaching.
then homelander sees you. you don’t hear him move. one second maeve has him. the next, a hand catches your throat. the world lifts. your back hits the broadcast desk hard enough to split the wood beneath you. pain explodes through your spine, white and sharp, air punched out of your lungs. homelander leans over you with blood on his teeth and something bright and delighted in his eyes.
“oh,” he says softly. “i know your face.” your fingers claw at his wrist. he smiles wider. “i was wondering what made him stupid.”
soldier boy roars. the sound tears through the floor.
“homelander!” butcher shouts.
ryan screams.
homelander doesn’t look away from you. his fingers tighten just enough for black spots to flicker at the edges of your vision.
“you know,” he says, almost conversational, “i thought maybe it was me. the blood. the son he never got to meet. but no…” his thumb presses beneath your jaw, tilting your face while he studies you like an ugly little miracle. “it’s you.”
you try to speak. nothing comes out.
then maeve hits him from the side. a full-body impact that sends homelander flying off you and across the floor. he crashes through a line of monitors, sparks bursting over his cape as he hits the ground.
air slams back into your chest. you roll onto your side, coughing hard enough that your ribs scream. the whole room blurs for a second, sound rushing in and out like water. your throat burns. your back feels cracked open. you press one hand to the floor and try to push up. your arm holds even when it shouldn’t. not after that hit.
annie sees it. so does butcher. so does soldier boy. and his face changes in the instant he understands that homelander touched you and you survived because you did the thing he tried to stop. because he broke the vial and cuffed you and left, and still you found a way to put poison in your own blood and come after him. everything in him goes nuclear.
“no,” you cough.
it’s too soft. too late.
the light in his chest climbs up his throat.
kimiko grabs frenchie and drags him backward. mm shouts something you cannot make out. annie turns toward ryan, one hand reaching, but butcher’s already there, stumbling between the boy and the blast with his whole body like a shield.
for one second, butcher and homelander are on the same side of the room for the same reason.
everything happens at once. there’s no plan now. no gas. no ninety seconds. no kid first, then homelander. there’s only motion and terror and the awful, rising hum under soldier boy’s skin.
hughie scrambles back from the control panel. frenchie stumbles. mm staggers two steps away from soldier boy before catching himself. annie’s shoulder jerks as if pulled, but she fights through it, face twisting as she stays between the blast and ryan.
panic ruins everything it touches.
“get back!” you try.
the words hit the room badly. too broad. too late. half-command, half-begging. kimiko moves. frenchie moves. hughie moves. mm moves but not enough to keep himself alive. butcher doesn’t move at all because ryan’s behind him and some griefs make men heavier than power.
soldier boy’s head turns toward you. “don’t,” he murmurs.
you don’t know what he means. don’t command them. don’t come closer. don’t look at me like that. don’t make me watch you die.
you stagger toward him anyway. glass crunches under your shoes. your throat feels bruised from homelander’s hand. your body’s screaming in places that the temp v hasn’t decided whether to heal or hide.
“ben, you have to stop.”
his eyes burn into yours. “can’t.”
one word. that is all. can’t.
the charge has him now. the light’s too bright beneath the torn armor, spilling through every seam. the air around him ripples with heat. loose papers lift from the floor and spiral upward. monitors crack one by one, screens bursting black.
you feel your own fear change shape. not fear of him. fear for everyone else.
because frenchie’s human. mm’s human. hughie’s human. because ryan’s still a child, supe or not. because annie’s glowing but not enough. because kimiko’s already lost her powers once to this. because butcher’s half-dead on a drug that’s killing him and still putting himself between violence and the boy he swore he didn’t love. because maeve’s bleeding and homelander’s getting up again. because vought tower’s full of people still trying to find their way out. because if soldier boy blasts here, the building might not hold.
“please,” it’s not a command. just the stupid, useless thing you said in the hallway when you asked him to stay.
his face breaks around it. for half a second, he looks at you like he did then. raw. furious. almost young beneath everything vought put over him. like he can hear you from very far away and wants to come back badly enough to tear himself open trying.
then homelander rises behind maeve. his eyes lock on you. they flare red.
maeve sees it first.
she throws herself across the distance and punches him so hard his head snaps sideways. the lasers cut wide, carving a bright line through the ceiling instead of through you. plaster and sparks rain down. homelander staggers, catches himself, and maeve hits him again, harder, driving him back toward the broken glass wall.
the light surges.
maeve turns. you see the moment she understands. it’s awful how quick it is. no speech. no hesitation long enough to become a scene. her eyes take in the room. ryan. butcher. the humans. annie. kimiko. you on your feet when you should be dead. homelander too close. soldier boy past the edge.
the window behind him’s already cracked. the city waits beyond it, gray and wet and impossibly far down.
“maeve,” annie gasps.
maeve doesn’t look at her. she simply moves.
homelander catches her wrist halfway. she rips free, pivots, and drives herself at soldier boy from the side with everything she has left.
soldier boy sees her too late. or maybe he sees her and cannot move.
his eyes find yours over her shoulder. one impossible second. you don’t know what he sees.
the girl he cuffed to a radiator.
the woman who broke out anyway.
the weapon he tried to keep from becoming one.
the promise you kept and the choice he stole.
your mouth shapes his name. no sound makes it out.
maeve hits him. not hard enough to stop the blast. hard enough to move it.
the cracked glass wall gives with a scream. wind tears through the room. soldier boy and maeve go through it together.
“no!” you scream.
someone grabs you. annie, maybe. kimiko. mm. you don’t know. your body fights whoever it is, feet slipping on glass and blood, throat ripping around his name while the open side of the tower swallows cold air and falling debris.
you see them outside the building. maeve wrapped around soldier boy like a chain. his chest white-hot between them. his eyes still open. still on you.
lowdown ☆ you discover soldier boy's singer era and have a blast with it.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2909 ride style ☆ teasing n smut !!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), male masturbation, cum in mouth / on face, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, brat taming vibes, manhandling, wrist-pinning, hair-pulling, slight humiliation kink if you squint, banter during sex, post-sex softness
liv's log ☆ part of the mouth like that universe, but can be read as a standalone ☆ because tonight's chapter is angsty and i do love yall, here's a little something to ease the pain 🤧
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the safehouse has two moods: sad-boy suicide and impending homicide.
tonight, thankfully, it’s mostly sad-boy suicide.
rain taps lightly against the windows, soft enough to blur into the hiss of the ancient radiator. the smell of coffee hovers in living room, mixing with dust and old upholstery. you’re curled into one corner of the couch with your laptop balanced on your thighs, clicking through file after file from and old vought archive dump while soldier boy makes noise in the kitchen.
he’s not cooking. obviously. he’s standing in front of the open fridge, talking to himself under his breath about powdered eggs, communists, and the tragic decline of american cheese.
“you know,” he calls, “for a place stocked by people who allegedly want me alive, there’s not a goddamn thing in here worth eating.”
“there’s protein bars in the cabinet.”
“i’d rather eat the cabinet.”
“big brave soldier boy… defeated by granola.”
he snorts, and you keep scrolling.
most of the files are exactly what you expect. old press releases. mission briefs with half the interesting parts redacted. vought-approved interviews that read like they were written by a cocaine-addicted intern. then, one folder catches your eye.
soldier boy — media appearances
you pause. well, that sounds like something you deserve to know about.
you click.
there are photos first. staged ones. glossy ones. him shaking hands with politicians, standing beside cars, holding babies like he’s one wrong move away from punting them. then you find a reference to solid gold, and your eyebrows lift before you can stop them.
“oh my god…” you whisper.
from the kitchen, soldier boy doesn’t seem to catch it, because he continues whining about his conundrum. “ya’ know, you should come in here and make me a sandwich.”
you don’t answer. because you’re typing. fast. that should be the first indicator that you’re up to something. it is.
it takes less than thirty seconds for the internet to betray him. the video loads slowly, grainy and golden and aggressively eighties. there’s a vought promotion logo in the corner, a stage soaked in lights, dancers in full glam swaying behind him, and then—there he is… helmet on, shoulders moving, smile wide, flirting shamelessly with the camera.
you press your lips together so hard they hurt.
“what?” ben stares, sharper now.
you pause the video immediately and lower the laptop screen a few inches. “nothing.”
there’s a beat of silence. then the fridge door shuts. heavy footsteps cross the kitchen.
you school your face into something innocent just as he appears in the doorway, beer in hand, white t-shirt stretched across his chest, sweatpants low on his hips. unfairly handsome. deeply suspicious. “you went quiet.”
“did i?”
“you only go quiet when you’re lying or planning something stupid.”
“wow. so you do pay attention.”
his eyes narrow.
you look up at him, hiding most of the screen with your forearms, and let the grin bloom slow. “your suit had a helmet?”
the change is immediate. his face drops enough for you to see the old reflex underneath, the irritation that comes with being dragged by the ankles into a version of himself he’d rather leave behind.
“what are you up to?”
“i’m not up to anything.”
“you’ve got that look.”
“what look?”
“the one that makes me want to put you through a wall.”
you smile sweetly. “romantic.”
he points the beer bottle at you. “don’t start with whatever the hell you’re about to do.”
you turn the laptop toward him. he stares. on screen, younger soldier boy beams under hot studio lights, helmet gleaming, dancers fanned out behind him like he’s the patriotic fifth member of a boyband that only knows how to weaponize shoulder movements.
you bite your knuckle.
ben’s jaw tightens. “turn it off.”
“absolutely not.”
“i said—”
you click play. his own voice fills the living room, smooth and ridiculous through the tinny laptop speakers.
“fab five freddy told me everybody’s fly—”
ben lunges.
you squeal, clutching the laptop to your chest and scrambling backward on the couch. “wait, wait, i’m studying history!”
“you’re studying how to piss me off.”
“it’s important research!” you laugh, twisting away when he reaches for the laptop. “i need to know why nobody told me you used to perform with backup dancers.”
“that’s promotional bullshit.”
“you smiled at the camera.”
“that was my job.”
“you flirted with the camera.”
“also my job.”
“you did a little shoulder thing.” he freezes. your grin turns wicked. “oh my god… you know exactly what shoulder thing i mean.”
“give me the laptop.”
“no, because now i need to watch it again for the choreography.”
“you’re not watching a goddamn thing.”
“ben, you looked like a slutty boy scout.”
his expression goes flat. you lose it. the laugh bursts out of you, bright and helpless, and you curl sideways into the couch cushions as he stands over you looking personally wounded by your joy. there’s color in his face now, annoyance warming his cheeks, but his eyes have changed. that’s the dangerous part. they’ve sharpened, darkened, fixed on your mouth.
you don’t notice fast enough. or maybe you do, and that’s worse.
“it hid your hair,” you add, because apparently your survival instincts have taken the night off. “which is criminal, by the way. hiding all that? terrible branding. honestly, the russians might’ve done you a favor. the hair transplant makes you look much better now.”
he steps closer.
you tuck the laptop behind your back. “what? i’m complimenting you.”
“you’re running your mouth.”
“you love my mouth.”
ben’s hand lands on the back of the couch beside your head. the room shifts.
the air tightens between you, all the laughter catching on something low in your stomach. he leans down, broad enough to block the lamplight, close enough that you can smell beer and soap and him.
“you think you’re real cute, don’t you?”
your pulse jumps. still, you tilt your chin up. “i think i’m hilarious.”
“yeah?” his gaze drops to your lips. “keep laughing.”
the words hit hot. you swallow, and his eyes follow the movement. for a second, neither of you says anything. the laptop hums behind your back. on the paused screen, his younger self grins forever, frozen mid-performance, completely unaware that decades later he’ll be losing a fight to one woman on a couch.
you lift one eyebrow. “are you mad because i found the video, or because the helmet did make you look like a boy scout?”
his hand closes around your ankle. you barely get a breath in before he drags you down the couch. “ben!”
he yanks you flat under him, smooth as anything, your back hitting the cushions, your laptop sliding safely onto the rug with a dull thump. his body comes over yours, one knee planted between your thighs, one hand braced beside your shoulder. the other catches both your wrists and pins them above your head. hard enough to make your brain go beautifully, stupidly blank.
he smirks when he sees it. “there she is.”
you glare at him, but it has no teeth with your chest rising this fast. “you’re very sensitive about your boyband era.”
“keep talking.”
“i’m serious. did vought consider giving you four backup singers? matching jackets? maybe a little synchronized—”
he dips his head and bites at the side of your jaw. not gentle. just enough to steal the rest of the sentence right out of your mouth.
your breath catches embarrassingly loud.
ben laughs against your skin. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“you went quiet.”
“i’m reflecting.”
“on?”
“your artistic legacy.”
he lifts his head, eyes almost black now, amusement threaded through the heat. “you’re a pain in my ass.”
“and yet—” you muse.
his grip on your wrists tightens by a fraction.
“and yet,” he agrees.
you test the hold because you want to feel it. his thumb strokes once over the inside of your wrist, a small check-on hidden inside the roughness—the kind of thing he’ll deny if you call it sweet.
“still funny?” he asks.
your smile comes back, softer this time. meaner too. “a little.”
your thighs press lightly around his hips and that does something to him. you feel it in the way he stills, in the way his mouth parts just barely, in the way the cocky line of him turns heavier. hungrier. his gaze drops over you like he’s deciding exactly how much trouble to make of your body.
then he releases your wrists only to grab your waist and haul you higher beneath him. you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers digging into warm cotton and muscle.
“you called me a boy scout.”
“a slutty boy scout.”
his mouth twitches. “you think you’re getting away with that?”
“i was hoping to, yeah.”
“bad plan.”
he kisses you hard. it’s all heat and pressure, his hand sliding up your ribs, his weight pinning you into the couch, his mouth opening yours like he’s proving a point. you kiss him back just as mean, smiling into it when he growls, because you can feel how turned on he is, how much he likes you sharp, laughing, fearless with him.
he likes the fight.
he likes that you know exactly where to press.
he likes that you’re not scared when he presses back.
your hand slides into his hair and tugs. he breaks the kiss with a rough sound. “see?” you whisper. “much better without the helmet.”
soldier boy stares at you for one burning second. then he scoops you off the couch like you weigh nothing.
you yelp, grabbing at his neck as he turns toward the hallway, your laughter spilling against his throat. he doesn’t slow down. his shoulder bumps the doorframe on the way in and he kicks the door shut hard enough that the whole safehouse probably hears it.
“still funny?” he asks.
“extremely.”
“yeah?” his mouth brushes your ear. a second later, your back hits the mattress, the old springs giving an ugly little creak under the sudden weight of you. ben follows you down before you can even scramble backward, one knee sinking into the bed between your legs, one hand catching your hip and dragging you right back where he wants you.
you grin up at him, flushed and messy already. “careful. this is very boyband behavior.”
“continue laughing, doll. let’s see how long you’ll last,” his hand slides up your thigh, slow now, rough palm warm through the fabric of your sweats. the shift in pace does something wicked to your stomach. he is all brute strength and attitude when he wants to be, but this is worse. this is him taking his time because he knows you expect him not to.
you swallow. he catches it. of course he does. soldier boy’s mouth curls. “there she is.”
“don’t sound so proud of yourself.”
“hard not to when you shut up so pretty.”
you open your mouth to bite back, but he kisses you before the words can make it out. hard. deep. one hand braced beside your head, the other planted on your thigh, spreading you open under him inch by inch. you kiss him back, fingers digging into his shirt, trying to pull him closer even though there’s barely any space left between you.
his hand slips under your shirt, dragging over your ribs, thumb brushing just beneath your bra. not enough. nowhere close. your hips lift without permission, searching for friction, and his gaze drops immediately. smug bastard.
“oh,” he murmurs. “now you want something.”
you glare at him, but it’s ruined by the way your chest rises under his hand. “i wanted something before.”
“yeah? what?”
“for vought to release the full choreography footage.”
he stares at you. you smile. “fuckin’ brat,” his voice is already rough. he’s between your legs before you can answer, shoving your thighs apart with big hands and dragging your sweats and underwear down in one impatient yank.
you barely have time to kick them off before his mouth is on you. soldier boy buries his face between your thighs like a man who’s been starving for it. his tongue drags up through your folds in one long, slow stripe and the noise he lets out vibrates straight through you.
“fuck,” he mutters against you, more breath than word. “could have you like this all day.”
you try to say something but it dies when he tongues over your clit. your back arches off the bed. one of your hands flies to his hair, gripping it tight. he makes another low sound, almost relieved, and the vibration pulls a broken moan out of you.
he eats you out in long, hungry licks that make your thighs tremble around his ears. tight circles with the flat of his tongue. then he dips lower, pushing inside you, fucking you with his tongue while his nose nudges your clit.
the wet sounds are obscene. loud, slick, constant. every time you whimper, he answers with a groan.
“that’s it, baby” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. “make those pretty noises for me. love the way you sound when i’ve got my tongue in you.”
you tug his hair harder and he moans again, louder this time. one of his hands leaves your thigh. you hear the rustle of fabric, the sound of him shoving his sweats down. then the drag of his fist around his own cock. slow at first, almost lazy, while his mouth stays busy between your legs.
“ben—fuck—” your hips roll against his face.
the sounds of him stroking himself mix with the filthy noises of his mouth. it’s too much. the sight of his broad shoulders between your thighs, the way his arm flexes every time he pumps his fist, the desperate little grunts he makes against you.
your legs start shaking. you’re close. so close. but he keeps you there, easing off just enough every time your moans pitch higher.
“please,” you gasp, hips chasing his mouth.
“please what?” he murmurs, voice thick. “use your words, sweetheart. tell me what you need.”
“ben, please—don’t stop—”
his tongue works your clit in tight, relentless circles while two thick fingers slide inside you, curling just right. the wet squelch of his fingers fucking into you joins the sound of his fist flying over his cock.
he’s breathing hard against you, hips rocking into his own hand, clearly losing himself in it.
“goddamn,” he growls, the words muffled. “you taste so fucking good. my girl making such pretty sounds while i fuck myself.”
the praise hits low and filthy. you moan his name again, louder, thighs clamping around his head. he doesn’t stop. his fingers thrust deeper. faster. curling against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes.
you’re right there, teetering, every muscle drawn tight. he feels it. he moans long and low against you, the vibration pushing you closer, and the wet sounds of him jerking himself off grow louder, messier.
he pulls his mouth off just long enough to rasp, “come on my tongue. let me feel it.”
then he’s back on you, sucking hard, fingers pumping deep, and you shatter. the orgasm crashes through you, long and overwhelming. you cry out, back bowing off the bed, thighs shaking violently around his head. he keeps licking you through it, greedy and relentless, groaning like your pleasure is feeding him.
he doesn’t stop until you’re twitching and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head. only then does he stand up, chest heaving, lips shiny and swollen, eyes wild. his cock is flushed dark and leaking, fist still wrapped tight around it. he looks wrecked.
“open,” he orders, voice shot to hell.
you push up on shaky elbows, mouth wide with the tongue out. he steps closer, stroking himself fast and rough right in front of your face. his other hand cups the back of your head.
“christ… look at you,” he groans, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “such a good girl. gonna come down your throat.”
you moan around nothing. his hips jerk, a broken sound tears out of him, and he comes hard. thick pulses coat your tongue, your lips, some spilling down your chin. he keeps stroking himself through it, murmuring your name under his breath.
when he’s done he’s breathing hard. he looks down at you, thumb smearing his release across your bottom lip, eyes soft in a way he’d never admit to.
“messy girl,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it. just raw affection wrapped in filth.
you swallow, then lean forward to lick the last drops from the head of his cock. he curses softly, fingers tightening in your hair for a second before he hauls you up into his arms.
the bed creaks again as he collapses onto it, pulling you on top of him. his arms wrap around you tight, one hand stroking down your back, the other tangled in your hair.
you tuck your face against his neck, still catching your breath, tasting him on your tongue.
for a long minute the only sound is rain against the window and both of you breathing. then soldier boy huffs a quiet laugh against your hair. “still think the helmet was a good look?”
you smile against his skin. “best decision vought ever made.”
he pinches your ass. you laugh, and he kisses the top of your head like he can’t help it.
lowdown ☆ after learning the truth about homelander, soldier boy prepares to leave the safehouse for good.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3693 ride style ☆ sad soft angst
danger on the trail ☆ emotional distress, guilt, arguments, emotional vulnerability (a lot!!)
liv's log ☆ is this what the kids call yearning? if not then my bad. i tried. i'm proud of this one. please love it!
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the house doesn’t recover from the truth. it simply adjusts around it.
by evening, the safehouse has split itself into smaller silences. annie and hughie speak in low voices behind a closed door, the kind of careful low that means neither of them is winning. frenchie stays at the table with kimiko beside him, both of them bent over the vought files until the laptop glow turns their faces pale and strange. butcher disappears outside twice and comes back smelling of rain and smoke, jaw set like every new disaster has only made him more certain of the old one. mm keeps watch without calling it watch, checking windows, checking locks, checking the street through a gap in the curtain with his shoulders squared and his temper held by a thread.
soldier boy doesn’t come out of his room.
that’s the shape the day takes. his closed door. the file still open on frenchie’s laptop. firecracker’s broadcast playing muted on the tv until mm finally snaps and shuts it off, leaving your face burned into the back of your eyes anyway. your name beneath a red headline. your town. your age. your body caught in a grainy still while soldier boy’s hand closed around your wrist and dragged you out of a hallway where the deep had cornered you. a story built around half truths that vought decided to take and use.
you should be more frightened by that. you are frightened by it. but the fear has to share space with everything else, and everything else is louder.
homelander is his son.
the words keep arranging themselves wrong in your head no matter how many times you think them. samples collected. stored. transferred. paternal genetic source. ugly clinical phrases for the kind of violation that makes the whole body feel less like a body and more like evidence.
they didn’t ask soldier boy for a child. they didn’t give him one either. they took something from him and built homelander out of it, then buried the truth under files and dead men and decades of vought polish.
and then he called him.
no one else knows that part. no one else heard the filtered voice, the static, homelander’s voice so small it had made your skin go cold. no one else heard soldier boy’s answer.
the situation’s changed.
you don’t tell anyone despite knowing that secrets aren’t a pretty thing to keep. especially now. despite soldier boy deserving your protection. you keep it because it isn’t yours. because mm had looked at you in the kitchen and told you to give him space, and for once, you listened.
night comes slowly. the safehouse settles by degrees, each room giving up its noise one at a time. you go to bed because there’s nowhere else to put yourself. still, sleep doesn’t come.
your new room is too unfamiliar to lie to you properly like the old safehouse did. the walls answer differently. the floor complains in sharper spots. the window rattles when the wind hits it, and the radiator makes a thin metallic tick every few minutes that keeps tricking your body into bracing for movement. you lie under the blanket with your hoodie still on and listen anyway.
maybe that is why you hear him.
not at first. at first there’s only the house doing what houses do when people try to rest inside them. soft, barely there, noises. then, beneath that, a door opens down the hall. slowly. carefully. too careful for butcher. too steady for hughie. not light enough for annie. not quick enough for kimiko. your body knows before your brain earns the certainty. you sit up.
another sound follows. leather. a faint metallic adjustment. the low, unmistakable scrape of something heavy being lifted from where it had been resting against a wall. the shield. your throat tightens so fast it hurts.
you’re out of bed before you decide what you’re doing, bare feet finding the cold floor, fingers dragging the hoodie sleeves down over your hands as if that’ll make you less obvious, less afraid, less late.
the hallway’s dark when you open your door. only a weak strip of light from the living room cuts across the far wall. for a second, all you can see is the shape of him near the front door.
fully dressed—not an old shirt and sweats; not the half-human version of him that haunted the kitchen this morning. soldier boy stands in the narrow entryway in the suit, chest armor catching the low light, gloves on, boots planted, shield strapped to one arm.
his jaw is rough, hair pushed back badly, and from behind he looks built out of every version of himself vought ever sold: weapon, legend, monster, flag.
his hand is on the door. for one sick second, you understand that he’s not sneaking out for air. he’s leaving. not the room. not the house for an hour. all of it. all of you.
“wait,” the word comes out before anything else can. not loud. not strong. nothing like an order. it almost breaks in the middle and has to crawl the rest of the way from your throat.
his hand stills on the lock.
you step into the hallway. “please, don’t go.”
he doesn’t turn right away.
you watch the line of his shoulders, the slight lift of his breathing beneath the armor, the shield angled against his side. he could leave before you reach him. he could open the door, step out, disappear into the dark, and no one in this house could stop him without turning the hallway into another battlefield. even then.
when he finally looks back, his face is hard enough to make you wish he’d kept facing the door. “saying please now?”
the hit lands with less force than it could have. maybe because you expected worse. maybe because the word is still sitting open between you, embarrassing and naked.
“yeah,” you say. “i am.”
his eyes move over your face once. not gently. not without anger. thoroughly, like he’s checking whether this is another trick your body has taught itself to survive him. “you want something.”
“i want you to stay.”
his mouth shifts into something cruel by habit and too tired to enjoy itself. “that’s what we’re calling it?”
you swallow. “i’m asking.”
that makes his stare sharpen.
for a moment, neither of you says anything. the house behind you remains too still, doors closed, everyone sleeping or pretending well enough not to matter. your pulse beats sickeningly in your throat. the front door waits under his hand.
“go back to bed,” he finally grunts.
“come with me.”
his mouth twists. “that didn’t end well last time.”
your face burns. you let it. there’s no version of this conversation where you get to pretend last night isn’t under the floorboards with the rest of the damage. “different motives this time.”
he looks away, jaw tight.
you take half a step closer, then stop yourself. leave space. let him keep the door. let him know it’s still there. the discipline of that nearly splits you open.
“ben…”
his eyes come back to you. here, in the hall, with the house dark and his shield on his arm, the name feels less like comfort and more like a hand reaching toward a fuse.
“don’t call me that,” he says.
you nod once, even though you keep looking at him. “okay.”
that seems to throw him more than arguing would have.
you breathe in carefully. “i heard the call.”
everything in him goes still. aimed. “you spying on me now?”
“no.” the answer comes quickly, then you force yourself to slow down because panic’s never been a friend. “i heard enough from the hall. i should’ve walked away sooner.”
his eyes narrow. “but you didn’t.”
“no,” the honesty sits there, ugly and plain.
he studies you for a long second, and you can’t tell if he wants to punish you for it or if some part of him is too exhausted to spend anger on one more thing. “did you tell anyone?”
“no.”
“why not?”
“because it wasn’t mine.”
something shifts in his face. not softness. not forgiveness. only a small disruption in the armor, a place where the expected answer fails to arrive and leaves him with nothing ready to throw back.
you hold your sleeves tight inside your fists. “i’m not going to tell them. if you want them to know, you can tell them.”
a humorless breath leaves him. “that supposed to make you sound trustworthy?”
“probably not.”
“smart.”
“i’m trying something new.”
his grip tightens on the helmet. you see the leather of his glove crease around it. “you don’t know what you heard.”
“i heard him ask if it was really you,” you wish you hadn’t said it. you wish you’d said it better. you wish there were a way to touch the truth without making it bleed again.
soldier boy’s jaw works once, and the expression on his face makes something behind your ribs hurt badly enough that you have to press your nails into your own palms. he’s not crying. he’d probably walk into traffic before letting that happen where someone could see. but his eyes are wet in the dark, furious with it, shining just enough to make him look betrayed by his own body.
“guy picks up the phone like that,” he says. “like he’s been waiting.”
you think of homelander’s voice. is this really you? almost boyish and young. almost hopeful. a monster with a child’s hunger trapped underneath the cape and the cameras and the bodies.
“maybe he has,” you say quietly.
soldier boy’s face hardens, but the hurt doesn’t disappear fast enough. “yeah, well… now he found me.”
“you don’t owe him anything.”
he laughs once with disbelief sharp enough to cut. “you giving advice on parenthood now?”
you close your eyes for half a second. when you open them, he’s still there. “no,” you say. “i’m not.”
his stare stays on you.
“i know what i did,” you continue, and your voice threatens to shake, but you don’t let it become an excuse. “i know saying i’m sorry doesn’t fix it. i know wanting you to stay doesn’t give me the right to keep you here. if you walk out that door, i won’t stop you. i won’t follow you. i won’t wake them up and turn it into a team vote.” you swallow, throat tight around the next words. “i’m asking you not to go because i think you’re about to make a choice while you’re bleeding from something nobody can see.”
he looks at you like he hates that sentence. maybe he does. maybe he hates that you aren’t wrong.
“you don’t know shit about it,” he says.
“i know they used you.” your voice comes out low. careful. not gentle enough to be pity. “i know they took pieces of you and put them somewhere you never agreed to. i know they made him in a lab, raised him in one, sold him to the world, and then left you to find out from a file. that’s not fatherhood. that’s theft.”
his mouth opens slightly, then closes. the shield shifts in his hand.
you see the words hit him one by one. not healing. nothing that clean. only reaching the place under the anger where the truth’s been pacing all day without a name.
“he’s mine,” he says. it sounds like hatred. or grief.
you shake your head. “he’s your blood. that’s not the same thing.”
his eyes flash. “blood means something.”
“yeah, it does,” you take a breath, then keep going before fear can make the words smaller. “it means homelander is tied to you in a way none of us get to pretend doesn’t matter. but it doesn’t mean he’s you. it doesn’t mean what he’s done belongs to you. it doesn’t mean whatever rotten thing vought built into him was sitting in you first.”
soldier boy looks away. the shield lowers by an inch. you notice because you notice everything about him. it’s one of the more humiliating things about being alive.
“you don’t know that,” his throat moves.
“ben…” you say, softer, and he doesn’t tell you not to this time. “he doesn’t represent you.”
the hallway holds still around the words.
for a moment, he looks young in a way that has nothing to do with age. not innocent. never that. but stripped down to something before the suit, before the shield, before vought taught him how to become a headline and a warning at the same time. confused. angry. scared enough to hate anyone who noticed. his eyes are still wet, and he turns his face a fraction away like the dark might hide it better.
you want to touch him so badly your hand actually moves.
you stop it at your side.
his gaze drops to the aborted motion. neither of you says anything about it.
then, because your mouth has never known when to leave a wound alone and because the alternative is standing there until one of you breaks worse, you say, “besides, if he were really you, he’d have better hair.”
the silence after that is enormous.
soldier boy looks back at you very slowly. “that your idea of comfort?”
“i said if.”
“his hair’s fine.”
you blink. “wow. that’s the part you’re defending?”
his mouth doesn’t pull into a smile. not really. but something in his face breaks by one degree. the smallest fracture. enough to let air through. enough to hurt. you take that for what it is and don’t ask it to become more.
“come to bed,” you repeat.
his eyes darken immediately. “watch it.”
“to sleep.” your face warms, but you keep your voice steady. “literally sleep. unconsciousness. eyes closed. no stupid decisions.”
“you made most of those.”
“and i’m taking accountability by offering a mattress instead.”
that earns you a look. a real one. flat. exhausted. insulted despite everything.
you lift one shoulder. “you can decide if this new mattress is just as shit as the other one.”
“that supposed to sell me?”
“i’m working with what i have.”
“what you have is a shitty mattress.”
“then come complain about it,” the words settle softer than you mean them to.
he looks at the door and you think that that’s it. that you got close enough to almost matter, and almost wasn’t enough. maybe he’ll leave anyway. maybe he needs to. maybe staying inside this house with files and pity and butcher’s mouth and your sorry eyes is worse than whatever waits outside.
you promised you wouldn’t stop him, so you step aside. you give him the path.
his eyes flick to the open space you leave, and something in his face tightens as if the choice itself is crueler than a locked room would have been.
“if you go, i won’t follow.” his jaw flexes. “but please don’t go.”
the second please is worse than the first. quieter. stripped of panic now. only want, which is harder to survive.
soldier boy looks at you for so long you feel every bruise you have left, every place he’s touched and hurt and wanted and held back. then his hand drops from the lock.
he doesn’t say yes. he doesn’t have to. you turn before your face can do anything embarrassing.
the house remains asleep around you, though part of you knows mm probably wakes at every shift in the air and may already be listening from behind his door. no one comes out. no one asks. you open your bedroom door and step inside first, because letting him follow matters more than you expected.
the room looks exactly as you left it and somehow too intimate with him in the doorway. your bed is narrow enough to make the offer ridiculous and wide enough to make refusing to touch each other possible if both of you are very disciplined, which neither of you has been ever.
soldier boy stands just inside the room, fully armored and wrong for the space.
you look him over once. shield, suit, gloves, boots. “are you sleeping in all that?”
“might.”
“seems comfortable.”
“you got a problem?”
“with metal in my bed? weirdly, yes.”
he gives you a look that would have worked better if his eyes weren’t still red around the edges.
you sit on the mattress, giving him something else to look at while he decides what parts of soldier boy he can take off without feeling stripped.
he sets the shield down first with a quiet, heavy shift that makes the room feel different the second it’s no longer attached to him. his gloves come next. then his boots. each removal is practical, irritated, almost aggressive, but you understand the trust inside it anyway.
he pauses at the armor.
“i’m not putting moves on you,” you say.
his eyes lift. you immediately wish you’d phrased that any other way. “good,” he says. “you’re bad at it.”
“i got you on the couch.”
his mouth twitches before he can stop it. “you got yourself on the couch.”
“details.”
“big details.”
“take the armor off, ben.”
the name lands between you. he doesn’t correct it again. after a second, he reaches for the fastenings with short, annoyed movements, unstrapping enough of the suit to be able to lie down without turning your mattress into a weapons rack.
when he’s done, he’s still dressed, still guarded, still too large for the room, but less like a monument and more like a man who’s run out of places to stand.
you crawl under the blanket first. you leave space beside you. more than instinct wants. the mattress dips when he finally sits, and for a second he only stays there on the edge with his back to you, elbows resting on his knees, hands loose between them. the curve of his spine beneath the dark shirt makes your chest hurt in a way that has nowhere useful to go.
“i should hate you,” he says.
you stare at his back. the words aren’t what surprises you. it’s the fact that he says them here. “yeah,” you answer, because lying would be worse.
his head turns slightly. “that all you got?”
“i’m not going to argue you out of it.”
a rough breath leaves him. “first time for everything.”
your mouth almost smiles. it doesn’t make it. “i’m trying something new, remember?”
he stays sitting there. then, quieter, “i actually don’t,” he sounds angry about it. like the failure to hate you is another thing his body has done without permission. “but i’m still mad.”
“you should be.”
“don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“agree with me like that.”
your fingers curl lightly against the blanket. “i don’t know what else to do.”
he looks over his shoulder then. there are things in his face you aren’t allowed to touch yet. maybe not ever.
the motel room is still there. so is last night. so is the door he almost walked through and the son vought made from him and the call no one else knows about. but there’s something else too, something tired and raw and almost insulted by its own need.
“don’t do anything.”
you nod.
he lies down beside you like it costs him. the mattress dips badly toward his side, and under any other circumstances you would make a joke about him being dense in more than one way. you lie on your back, staring at the dark ceiling while he settles stiffly beside you, close enough that the air changes between your bodies, far enough that neither of you has to admit you came here for comfort.
the silence isn’t easy. but it’s shared.
after a minute, he says, “mattress is shit.”
your laugh comes out so quietly it almost disappears into the pillow. “i knew you’d have notes.”
“springs are fucked.”
“i’ll file a complaint with the safehouse committee.”
“tell them to get beer that doesn’t taste like piss too.”
“anything else?”
he’s quiet for a second. then, “no.”
you turn your head slightly. he’s staring at the ceiling too, jaw tight, eyes open. in the dark, without the shield, without the suit, without anyone watching from the kitchen, he looks less impossible. not smaller. never smaller. only closer to something breakable, which is almost harder to look at.
“i won’t tell them about the call,” you say.
his eyes shift toward you. “i know.”
you blink. “you know?”
“you would’ve done it already.”
that shouldn’t feel like trust. it does anyway. you look back at the ceiling before your face can betray you. “okay.”
the room settles around you. pipes in the wall. a low rattle from the window. the strange new house making strange new sounds you still don’t know how to read. beside you, soldier boy breathes like a man trying to keep himself awake because sleep is one more place he can’t control.
you don’t touch him. but, god, you want to.
the first touch comes from him. not his arm around you. not his hand pulling you close. nothing big enough to become a promise.
after a long time, when the silence’s thinned, his fingers find the hem of your hoodie in the dark. barely there. catching the fabric near your hip with the lightest grip he’s ever put on you. not pulling. not asking with words. only holding on to proof that you’re still beside him.
your throat tightens until breathing becomes something you have to remember how to do. you keep your eyes on the ceiling. you keep your body still, because moving too quickly might scare the moment back into hiding.
the new mattress is terrible. the house doesn’t know either of you well enough yet. homelander’s alive somewhere with soldier boy’s blood in his body, and vought has your face, and noir’s still a shadow waiting at the edge of every plan. none of that disappears. but in the dark, with two fingers hooked carefully in the fabric of your hoodie, soldier boy lets himself stay.
lowdown ☆ after a sleepless night, you wake up to your face on national television. however, vought knowing your name turns out to just be the first bad thing exposed.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2848 ride style ☆ tense
danger on the trail ☆ emotional distress, morning-after tension, references to previous sexual content, public smear campaign, doxxing/identity exposure, false accusations of terrorism, soldier boy shutting down, revelations that don’t follow canon, cliffhanger!!
liv's log ☆ in honor of today's angst, the first mlt drabble will be coming out in a couple of minutes 🤭
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
morning finds you before sleep does.
not kindly. not even gently. it drags itself through the curtains in thin strips and lies across the floor, exposing the shape of your room, the twisted blanket near your knees, the hoodie tossed over the chair, the beer bottle you carried back and forgot to finish before collapsing into bed like a person trying to outrun her own skin. oh, if only that were possible.
you haven’t slept. you’ve drifted. maybe lost minutes here and there. long enough for the body to go heavy, but not long enough for your brain to stop replaying the living room in pieces: the tv flickering over soldier boy’s face, his hand around your ankle, your knees braced on either side of his thighs, his mouth swollen from yours, his fingers inside you, his voice rough near your ear.
“got me under some kind of spell, don’t you?”
your stomach twists at the memory of his face changing after he said it. your body going cold while everything else stayed hot. the way you scrambled off his lap so fast your knee nearly made you slip. the way he caught your elbow and let go the second you told him not to touch you.
that had made it worse. a part of you wished he hadn’t. that he’d kiss the shock out of both of you. that he’d handled you rough but cleanly. like he used to before.
you lie on your back and stare at the ceiling until your eyes start to burn. stupid, stupid, stupid—
someone passes your door in the hall. your body reacts before you decide to—shoulders tense, breath held. for one pathetic second, you think it’s him. you’re still getting used to the new safehouse. to the way the pipes complain differently in the night. to the way the floor creaks differently depending on who’s crossing to the living room, but you haven’t had the chance to give it a pattern.
the floor whines again, lighter this time, and then knuckles tap softly against your door. not him.
“hey,” annie says from the other side, voice soft and quiet. “you awake?”
you close eyes. “yeah.”
she pauses, head probably leaning against the chipped wood. considering if she should say the next thing or let you in the safety of those four walls. then, heavier, “you should come see this.”
nothing good has ever followed that sentence.
you sit up anyway. the shirt you slept in is twisted around your waist. your shorts sit crooked on your hips, and you fix them with more force than necessary before dragging a hoodie over your head. you don’t check your reflection. whatever’s happening out there doesn’t need a prettier version of you.
annie is waiting in the hallway when you open the door. she looks like she slept about as well as you did, hair tied back messily, face too pale beneath the early light.
“what is it?” you ask.
she hesitates. that’s answer enough.
the television is on in the living room. everyone’s already there. mm stands near the arm of the couch with his arms crossed and his face set into something hard. hughie sits forward on the edge of a chair, one hand pressed to his mouth. kimiko’s beside frenchie at the table, where his laptop is open and connected to two drives by a mess of cords. he’s the only one not staring at the screen. butcher leans in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand, expression sharp in a way that means he’s enjoying himself and is furious at the same time.
soldier boy stands by the counter, half-turned toward the television. he doesn’t look at you when you enter. you don’t look at him either. your body notices him anyway.
firecracker’s face fills the screen, bright and smug under studio lights, hair arranged into the kind of patriotic waves that look flammable. a banner crawls beneath her in violent red letters: vought event attacked by starlight radicals. beneath that, smaller: suspected terrorist associate identified.
then your face appears beside hers.
you stop walking.
it’s not a good photo. that’s your first thought, which is ridiculous enough that you almost laugh before the rest of it arrives. it’s a still from the civic center, grainy and overlit, your catering shirt bright beneath the fluorescent hallway glow. your head is turned halfway, mouth slightly open, eyes caught between focus and movement.
then the graphic changes. your full name. your age. the town where you grew up.
something cold slides beneath your ribs.
firecracker smiles. “now, folks, this is what they don’t want you to see. a seemingly ordinary young woman radicalized by starlight’s extremist network, infiltrating a patriotic vought event under false credentials and fleeing the scene with none other than soldier boy.”
your mouth parts as the graphic shifts again, a new still flashing onto the screen—grainy but unmistakable. soldier boy’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, pulling you down the hallway, your body half-turned toward him as he drags you toward the exit. your skin instantly heats up at the memory now eternalized thanks to firecracker’s hillbilly show.
“holy shit,” hughie says softly.
firecracker leans toward the camera. “and i don’t know about you, but when a girl that pretty from a nice place like that ends up running around with america’s number one traitor and starlight’s little terrorist club, i start asking questions.”
a sound leaves you. not fully a laugh. not sane enough for that. startled, ugly, almost delighted despite the fact that your life has just been turned into a headline. you point at the screen. “did she just call me pretty?”
mm turns to you immediately. “don’t look so fuckin’ proud.”
the laugh dies in your throat.
he nods toward the tv. “that’s your name. your face. where you’re from. everybody who knew you before this is about to have reporters, vought freaks, or worse knocking on their doors.”
the room settles heavily around the truth.
firecracker keeps talking behind him, voice bright and poisonous. “citizens are urged not to approach. if you see this woman, contact vought security or local authorities immediately. do not engage. these people are dangerous, unstable, and working directly against the safety of the american people.”
you stare at the screen until your own face blurs. dangerous. unstable. you want to laugh again but you fear you might be sick first.
butcher takes a drink from his mug. “well. congratulations, love. you made telly.”
“shut up,” annie snaps.
“what? she did.”
you look away from the screen because looking at yourself like that feels too much like standing outside your own body. “i need coffee.”
the coffee machine is behind soldier boy. naturally, the universe has developed comic timing and decided to use it against you. you don’t let that stop you.
you walk into the kitchen and stop beside him. “move.”
he glances down at the very narrow space between his body and the counter. “there’s room.”
“you’re blocking the coffee.”
“reach.”
you stare at his profile. “i’m not reaching around you.”
his mouth shifts by almost nothing. “‘s that a new rule?”
heat snaps up your neck so fast you nearly forget there’re other people alive in the room. “you need to actually shut the fuck up,” you mutter, wishing your voice had actually been low enough to not carry through the room.
his eyes flick toward you then. not your face first. your mouth. quick enough to show he’s thinking about it too. “quiet morning voice. cute.”
you grab the empty mug nearest to him. “keep talking and i’ll pour it down your lap.”
“where would you sit then?”
the words tumble from his lips so smugly that your brain actually malfunctions. your eyes widen, cheeks flush, mouth left parted and empty where a pretty insult should stand. instead, you’re speechless.
mm makes a sound from the living room. “both of you, not today.”
soldier boy actually shifts half a step. like that does anything.
you pour coffee with a hand that wouldn’t be steady enough to fire a gun. the mug fills too close to the brim. you lift it carefully and burn your fingers anyway, which feels appropriate.
from the table, frenchie mutters, “mon dieu...”
eyes flick toward him. he’s not gawking at the sbow you and soldier boy just put on. he’s not shocked from listening to the nonsense in firecracker’s segment. frenchie’s eyes are glued to the screen of his laptop, face serious. the room changes.
butcher’s eyes sharpen. “what is it?”
frenchie turns the laptop so the rest of the room can see. “the civic center servers were connected to vought medical archives. not public files. internal research. trial reports.”
“for what?” annie asks.
frenchie hesitates, then says, “v24.”
temp v.
your coffee turns sour before you even have the chance to taste it. hughie looks down. annie sees. everyone sees.
frenchie scrolls with stiff fingers. “the damage is cumulative. repeated exposure causes neurological lesions, organ stress, tissue breakdown. vought recorded fatal collapse between three and five doses. sometimes sooner.”
silence presses into every corner of the safehouse. fatal collapse between three and five doses.
firecracker’s show continues on the tv, but someone must’ve muted it because her mouth keeps moving without sound. your face remains on the corner graphic, frozen mid-turn.
annie’s voice is small and furious. “hughie.”
he rubs both hands over his face. “i’m okay.”
“how many?”
“annie—”
“how many times did you fucking take it?”
he doesn’t answer quickly enough.
butcher sighs. “not the time for lovers’ arithmetic.”
mm’s stare cuts to him and he doesn’t raise his voice. he just looks at butcher like he’s trying to give him one last chance to do the right thing without being forced. “then we’ll do yours. how many?”
butcher looks bored. that means he’s hiding something. “enough.”
mm’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking near his temple, and when he speaks again it’s slower, each word pressed out with effort, “say the number.”
“two,” hughie says quietly.
annie closes her eyes.
butcher lifts a shoulder. “same neighborhood.”
frenchie’s voice is strained. “this is not a cold, monsieur. this is brain damage. organ damage. death.”
“yeah, gathered that from fatal collapse, french,” butcher raises a brow.
kimiko signs sharply over frenchie’s shoulder. frenchie translates, eyes still on butcher. “she says you are an idiot.”
butcher points his mug toward her. “tell her ive been told.”
you hear them, but the room has gone strange around the edges. three to five doses. hughie has two. butcher has two, maybe more. you have one. one.
you look at the muted television. your own face stares back at you from under firecracker’s red headline. vought has your name, your town, your face, your connection to soldier boy. the deep knows you. homelander might know by now. noir is still alive because soldier boy chose the hallway where you were cornered instead of the mission he came here to finish.
your fingers tighten around the mug, as math works faster than fear and your mouth lets the thought escape without permission. “then i’m the safest one to take another dose.”
everyone turns. the words hang in the kitchen, awful and neat.
soldier boy’s head moves slowly toward you. “that’s off the table.”
your jaw tightens. “that wasn’t a question.”
“didn’t sound like a smart idea either.”
“if noir shows up again—”
“you’re not taking that shit again.”
“i’m not asking permission.”
his expression hardens so fast you know the hit is coming before he speaks.
“yeah,” he scoffs, dry and mean. “noticed you’re real good at that.”
it lands exactly where he aims and you go quiet. not because he wins. because he's right, and you hate that he’s earned the cruelty.
butcher watches with interest he doesn't bother hiding. “for what's worth, she’s not wrong.”
soldier boy turns on him. “it’s worth shit.”
“math checks out.”
“butcher,” mm warns.
“what? if somebody has to take another dose, better her than hughie’s brain leaking out his ears.”
hughie flinches. “jesus christ.”
“nobody is taking anything,” annie says. “not her. not you. not hughie. nobody.”
“sweet,” butcher says. “then we’ll all hold hands and ask homelander to please stop being such a cunt.”
mm steps forward. “we’re done with secret doses. frenchie keeps digging. nobody touches another vial unless the whole room knows exactly what choice is being made.”
choice. the word passes through the kitchen and finds every sore place.
frenchie’s chair creaks. “there is more,” he says.
butcher closes his eyes. “naturally.”
frenchie looks back at the laptop. “the v24 files connect to older vought archives. payback. nicaragua. military research. genetic storage.”
frenchie scrolls once, then stops. kimiko leans closer to the screen. her face changes.
mm's the first to speak. “frenchie?”
frenchie doesn’t answer.
butcher moves behind him and reads over his shoulder. for once, the joke doesn’t come.
“what?” annie asks.
frenchie swallows. “this is not about temp v.”
soldier boy’s voice is flat. “spit it out.”
frenchie looks at him, then at the screen again, like the laptop has become something indecent. “homelander’s development file. early laboratory documentation. not the public asset record.”
butcher finishes it for him. “homelander’s your boy.”
the world loses sound. you understand the words in pieces. homelander. soldier boy. genetic source. vought. son.
soldier boy doesn't move.
for one long second, he stands beside the coffee machine with his hands empty and his face locked so tightly that you almost miss the impact. there’s no softness there. no wonder. no sudden fatherly light. only something deeper than anger trying to find somewhere to go and failing because there’s nowhere big enough.
“bullshit,” he says.
frenchie turns the laptop slightly. “it’s in the file.”
“no.”
butcher’s voice is unusually low. “they used your material.”
the phrase makes your skin crawl.
soldier boy’s eyes flick to him. “when?”
frenchie scrolls. “samples were collected before your disappearance. stored under military research. transferred into the homelander program after—”
“after they got rid of me,” soldier boy concludes and nobody corrects him.
on the tv, firecracker’s muted face smiles beside yours. your name sits beneath hers like another file.
soldier boy steps toward the laptop.
everyone shifts without meaning to. giving him room. giving the bomb room. he looks at the screen for just long enough. then he asks, “who knew?”
you see the name land ugly. noir who walked away yesterday. noir who might’ve known what vought built from him. noir who might’ve carried this secret while soldier boy rotted in russia.
mm moves slightly. “take a breath.”
soldier boy looks at him. “move.”
“soldier boy—” you take one step before you decide to. you don’t know where you’re going. toward soldier boy, maybe. toward the thing in him that just got opened. toward the old, stupid instinct that thinks pain is a problem you can put your hands on and solve.
mm’s eyes cut to you. “not now.” you stop. he looks at you for another second. not unkindly. not soft either. “give him space.”
your throat tightens. you want to argue. you want to say you weren’t going to. you want to say something that makes you less obvious. but mm is right, and that makes your mouth close. this isn't about you.
soldier boy walks out of the kitchen without looking at anyone. the house seems to hold its breath after him. you move again, barely. not enough to follow. only enough to betray that you want to.
mm says your name once.
you stop at the edge of the kitchen and nod because anything else might come out wrong.
the room doesn’t recover. annie turns away from hughie like she needs space from one disaster before she can face another. hughie stares at the muted television, where your face is still pinned beneath the word terrorist. butcher sits down slowly, mug untouched now. frenchie keeps looking at the file as if the letters might rearrange into some other truth that doesn't completely ruin this team.
finally, the room settles enough to let you retreat. you slip into your room quietly. down the hall, a door doesn't quite close. you shouldn’t listen. still, you listen enough. a filtered female voice says, clipped and professional, “hold for connection.” there's static. then a click.
silence holds for a moment before a voice everyone in america knows, stripped of crowd noise and cameras and stage lights until it sounds smaller than it should.
“is this really you?” homelander. the question hangs there, almost young.
soldier boy doesn’t answer right away.
you stand frozen in the hallway, vought’s version of your face glowing silently from the tv behind you, frenchie’s files still open in the kitchen, and the whole world balanced on the space before soldier boy speaks.
then his voice comes through the half-closed door. low. rough. changed. “the situation’s changed.”
lowdown ☆ sleep doesn’t come easy. at three in the morning, you take over the living room.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3845 ride style ☆ the enemies are back to lovers ( smut !! )
danger on the trail ☆ insomnia, emotional tension, crude/sexist comments from soldier boy, alcohol, guilt, rough kissing, explicit sexual content, dry humping/grinding, fingering, dirty talk, emotional cruelty
liv's log ☆ fucking warnings!!!
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
three in the morning belongs to people who can’t sleep and things nobody wants to say in daylight.
the new safehouse has finally gone quiet by then. which isn’t the same thing as peaceful. you’ve learned that lesson enough times to resent the difference. the hallway sits dark behind you. every closed door carries its own version of exhaustion: annie’s careful breathing somewhere down the hall, hughie probably lying awake beside her, frenchie and kimiko tucked into a room with too many wires and stolen files stacked near the floor, mm sleeping lightly because men like him don’t really surrender all the way to rest. butcher is either unconscious, plotting, or doing both with his boots still on, always ready to move, punch someone and ask questions later.
soldier boy is behind another door. that’s not your problem. you tell yourself that twice on your way to the kitchen, barefoot and cold, wearing sleep shorts and an old shirt soft enough to make you feel briefly less armed.
the bruises under your jaw have faded into ugly little ghosts, gone if the light is kind. your wrist aches where his hand had closed around it earlier, but not badly enough to matter. not badly enough to touch. you’ve been very committed to not touching it.
the kitchen light stays off. you know where the fridge is. you know where the beer is. you take one bottle, then stare at the rest for a second before shutting the door with your hip.
one beer is fine. one beer at three in the morning while your chest feels too tight and your brain keeps replaying soldier boy’s voice saying i made a mistake is completely normal.
you don’t think about that. instead, you move into the living room and claim the couch with the stiff seriousness of a woman establishing territory. the room is dim, lit mostly by the weak blue glow of the television after you find the remote wedged between two cushions. the couch isn’t sagged in the middle like the one left at the old safehouse. this one doesn’t carry the shape of too many nights. this couch is firmer, colder, unfamiliar beneath your legs when you curl them under yourself.
you turn the tv on low and flip through channels until you find something aggressively stupid. a love island rerun. a neon villa, pretty people with shiny skin and terrible emotional boundaries. women in bikinis sitting by a pool while men with abs and the conversational depth of soap stand around pretending to have thoughts. perfect. meaningless. nobody on screen has ever had to run from black noir through an alley or stab a man to save hughie or make soldier boy kneel with a sentence.
a blonde girl is crying because a man named mason or jaxon or some other asshole-guy-name kissed her friend after saying he was “open to exploring connections.”
you take a sip of your beer.
“idiot,” you mutter at the screen. the blonde keeps crying. the man says he didn’t want to hurt anybody. you hope a palm tree falls on him.
for a while, that’s enough. the low voices from the tv. the rain thinning against the windows. the bottle cold in your hand. the house finally still around you.
then the hallway floor creaks. your shoulders tense before you can stop them.
you don’t turn. you know those steps. heavy, unapologetic, impossible to mistake even when he’s trying to be quiet, which he never really is. the sound moves closer, pauses near the kitchen, then continues toward the living room. a shadow fills the doorway.
soldier boy stops when he sees you.
you look at him then, because not looking would be worse. he’s in an old shirt and sweats, hair messy from whatever version of sleep he didn’t get, jaw rough, eyes sharp even in the low light. he looks too awake. too solid. too much like every bad thing you’re trying not to feel.
you glare at him.
he stares back.
you roll your eyes and look at the tv again.
from the doorway, he exhales through his nose. not a laugh. not quite a scoff. something irritatingly close to both.
he doesn’t leave. leaving would mean you moved him out of a room by existing in it, and soldier boy would rather walk into traffic than hand you that.
he crosses to the kitchen without a word. the fridge opens. glass clinks faintly. it shuts again. his footsteps return.
you take another drink and keep your eyes fixed on the blonde girl, who’s now decided to forgive mason-jaxon-whatever because he called her “special” beside a fire pit. humiliating.
the couch dips on the opposite end. soldier boy sits with a full cushion between you and then some, body angled toward the tv, beer loose in one hand. not close. not far enough either. the space between you feels staged. childish. two people refusing to leave the same room because both of them are too stubborn to admit the room changed when the other entered it.
the woman on screen walks toward the pool in a bikini small enough to leave little to the imagination. which is kind to say. her lips are glossy and overfilled, chest bouncing with every step.
soldier boy lasts exactly twelve seconds. “jesus,” he says. “look at the tits on that one.”
you make a disgusted sound before you can stop yourself.
his eyes flick toward you. “what?”
“nothing,” you take a slow drink.
the answer doesn’t satisfy him. “that was somethin’.”
“just forgot you’re a walking harassment lawsuit.”
“lawsuit?” he repeats, as if personally insulted by the concept. “i complimented her.”
“you stared at a stranger’s chest and announced it to the room.”
“only room’s you.”
“tragic for me.”
his mouth twitches. you make the mistake of glancing his way and catch it. something ugly surges. shame. hurt. regret. the words are on the tip of your tongue. make the moment softer. fix things. explain. make it right.
“listen…” the word trembles pathetically on its way out. “i—”
he knows what you’re doing. still, he doesn’t flinch. instead, his eyes stay on the tv. he talks over your weak attempt. “you watching this crap for the plot?”
a soft scoff leaves your lips. “yes. i’m deeply invested in whether chastity forgives a man with the personality of damp cardboard.”
“she the one with the rack?”
“obviously.”
“then he should be apologizing harder.”
you turn your head slowly and stare at him. “you are so unbelievably old.”
he looks back with infuriating innocence. “and yet… still right.”
“women could vote when you were born, right? just checking.”
“don’t start.”
“i’m trying to understand where history failed you.”
he takes a drink from his beer, gaze returning to the tv. “women used to have standards.”
“men used to die from infected paper cuts. maybe progress is fine.”
his mouth does it again. the almost-smile. smaller this time, buried before it can become anything generous. you look away.
the show keeps going. someone receives a text and the entire villa reacts as if god has spoken through an iphone. a man in a linen shirt says he feels “tested”. another woman cries. a brunette with lashes large enough to create wind resistance says she’s “not here for drama” while actively walking toward drama with both hands open.
for five minutes, neither of you speaks. the silence isn’t comfortable. it has too many teeth for that. but it’s not the silence from earlier either, the one in the kitchen after he said he made a mistake and left the words inside you to rot. this one is stranger. quieter. full of old muscle memory and new caution. the couch knows too much even if the walls don’t.
you can feel him beside you. not even close enough for his body heat to reach your legs properly. still, he’s there, taking up space like he always does, one arm spread along the back of the couch, beer balanced against his thigh, attention pretending to belong to the tv.
eventually, he grunts a reluctant “can’t sleep?”
you don’t look at him. “you conducting wellness checks now?”
“heard you moving around.”
your mouth tightens around the next breath. “didn’t know you still listened.”
the tv murmurs between you. some poolside nightmare says she needs to protect her peace. you need to protect your peace, too.
soldier boy is quiet long enough that you have to physically restrain yourself from staring at him.
“hard not to,” he says. something inside your chest reacts stupidly. then, after a beat, he adds, “you walk loud.”
you turn your head just enough to glare at him. “go fuck yourself.”
and he grins. actually grins. not the cruel curl from earlier. not the mean, empty thing he wore while holding butcher against the wall or your wrist in his hand. this is quick and sharp and horribly familiar, there and gone before you can decide whether seeing it hurts more than missing it did.
you kick his leg. you kick his leg with your foot. not hard. not enough to hurt even if he were human, which he isn’t, and that’s apparently something you can’t stop reminding him of tonight. it’s childish. petty. the kind of thing you do because your mouth has already said go fuck yourself and your body is too restless to let the insult be the end of it.
his hand closes around your ankle before your foot can drop back to the couch. firm. fast. not tight enough to hurt. tight enough to stop you.
the tv keeps flickering over both of you, blue and pink and stupidly cheerful, some woman on screen crying into a plastic champagne flute because her best friend whom she met 73 hours ago is after her man.
your foot is caught in soldier boy’s hand, your heel resting against his palm, his fingers wrapped around the bone just above it, and for one suspended second the whole room feels too small for the shape of that touch.
you look at his hand. then at his face. his grin is gone.
“you need to stop touching me,” his voice is low. flat. not loud enough to wake anyone down the hall, but sharp enough to make the air between you change.
your throat tightens before you can stop it. something mean rises to cover it. something colder than the want sitting under your ribs, colder than the guilt that’s followed you from room to room for days, wearing your skin better than you do.
“you’re all about consent now, huh?”
you know it’s ugly the second it leaves your mouth. you know it’s unfair in a way that feels good for maybe half a heartbeat before it feels rotten. because the thing between you isn’t clean enough for a line like that to land anywhere simple. because you were the one who said stop and made his body listen. because you were the one who took choice from him in a motel room with your voice shaking and power still hot in your blood. because there are things you can throw at him, and there are things that come back with teeth.
soldier boy’s eyes go still. his grip on your ankle tightens by one degree. “careful.”
“or what?” you ask, and the words are stupid. stupid, stupid, stupid, because your pulse is in your mouth now and your face feels too warm and your foot is still in his hand. “you’ll tell me to stay away again?”
his jaw shifts. you should stop.
“you’ll call me a liability?” you continue, voice quieter now, rougher around the edges. “tell me i’m a mistake? what’s next, soldier boy? you got a list?” the name lands hard. not ben. not anymore. you use it because he told you to. because it hurts less if you pretend the difference is respect and not punishment you agreed to by accident.
he stares at you for a long second.
then his hand pulls. sharp. warning.
your leg unfolds with the motion before you catch yourself, body sliding a few inches across the couch, beer bottle wobbling near your thigh. your free hand catches the cushion. the distance between you shrinks by half.
soldier boy doesn’t let go. “your mouth keeps getting you into trouble,.”
your laugh comes out too thin. “and yet you keep poking.”
his eyes drop to your mouth. that’s the first honest thing either of you has done all night.
heat cuts through you so fast it almost feels like anger. maybe it is. maybe there’s no difference anymore. not with him. not after everything. you want to pull your foot back. you want to kick him again. you want to crawl into his lap and bite that stupid, mean line off his mouth before he can use it on you twice.
you hate that wanting him has survived this. you hate that it doesn’t even feel weaker.
his thumb shifts against your ankle. a small adjustment of grip. practical. possessive. a warning pretending to be nothing.
“let go,” you say.
“get out”
the words land between you with a weight neither of you misreads. your lungs forget how to work for one second.
the tv laughs for you. canned, bright, humiliating. some girl on screen says she just feels really “disrespected, babe”, and under any other circumstances you might’ve found that funny. under any other circumstances, you might’ve made a joke. under any other circumstances, soldier boy’s hand around your ankle wouldn't have felt like the last weak thread of restraint in the room.
you push yourself upright, every movement slow enough to pretend you’re still thinking.
his gaze follows. “don’t start something you can’t finish.”
the old rhythm is there, buried under fresh damage, under the motel room, under butcher’s voice saying give her another dose, under your own voice telling him to shut up and his body obeying. still there. sickeningly familiar. a wound with a pulse.
you tilt your head. “you first.”
his hand pulls again. harder this time. and this time, you go with it. easy. too easy. the way he taught you, back when the worst thing between you was pride. follow force instead of fighting it. use the pull. close the distance. don’t waste motion trying to prove you can overpower something stronger than you.
your knee lands beside his thigh. one hand hits the back of the couch near his shoulder. the other grabs the front of his shirt, fingers curling in old fabric before you decide to let them. his beer hits the side table with a dull clink, abandoned. your body ends up over his lap, not fully settled, not yet, hovering at the edge of a choice both of you have already made by the time your faces are close enough for his breath to touch your mouth.
for a second, neither of you moves. there’s still time not to. that might be the worst part.
then he kisses you. or you kiss him. it happens too fast to divide the blame cleanly.
his mouth hits yours hard enough to knock the breath out of you, and you make a sound you’ll hate yourself for later, small and furious in the back of your throat. he swallows it. his hand leaves your ankle and grabs your waist instead, fingers digging into you like he can pull the last few days out by force. your other knee finds the couch on the outside of his thigh, and then you’re in his lap properly, too close, too hot, your beer forgotten somewhere near the cushion, your hands in his shirt, then his hair, then the side of his neck.
teeth catch. his lower lip drags between yours. your fingers tighten in his hair until he makes a rough sound against your mouth, and the sound goes straight through you, bright and awful. he grips your waist harder. you grind down before pride can stop you, more anger than rhythm at first, just a mean little press of your hips into his because you want him to feel what he still does to you. you want to punish him with it. you want to punish yourself more.
his body answers immediately. his hand slides up your back, dragging your shirt with it just enough for the cool air to touch your skin. you shiver and bite his mouth for noticing. he catches your jaw in one hand, just enough to hold you there, enough to angle your face so he can kiss you deeper, dirtier, until the stupid tv sounds far away and the only thing you can hear is your breathing and his and the rough drag of fabric where your hips move against him.
“does this count as out?” you say against his mouth, because you’re committed to ruining everything with words.
he huffs something almost like a laugh, then kisses you hard enough to shut you up. the sound you make is swallowed whole. his grip on your waist turns bruising as he pulls you down fully into his lap, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his thighs. the heat of him is immediate, solid, the thick line of his cock already pressing up against you through his sweats. you grind down without thinking, a slow roll of your hips that drags a low groan out of his chest.
“fuck,” he mutters, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your sleep shorts. he squeezes, encouraging the motion, guiding you into a filthy rhythm against him. “all that mouth and you still climb right into my lap.”
you bite his bottom lip in retaliation, but it only makes him buck up harder, grinding his cock right against your clit through the thin layers separating you. the friction is too good, too much, and you’re already wet enough that the fabric clings. his other hand slips under the waistband of your shorts from behind, palm hot against bare skin, then lower.
he finds how wet you are and goes still for half a second. just long enough to make it worse. his eyes lift to yours, dark and mean and too satisfied. “look at that.”
“shut up,” you breathe.
“no.” his fingers drag through you, slow and filthy, spreading the slick mess he finds there. “you don’t get to kick me, crawl all over me, soak through your fucking shorts, and then act like i’m the problem.”
your hips move before you can stop them, chasing the pressure, and his mouth curves against your jaw.
“there she is,” he says, rough and low. “knew you were still in there.”
the words hit too close to something tender. not sweet. not gentle. tender in the way a bruise is tender. tender because there was a version of you he used to pull out with his hands and his mouth and that awful voice, a version of you that didn’t flinch from wanting him, that didn’t have to measure every touch against what you did in the motel.
she’s still in there. apparently. still stupid enough to answer when he calls.
his fingers press against your entrance, and you hate the sound you make. small. broken. honest enough to humiliate you. he feels the way you shift into it, the way your thighs tense around his hips, the way your body gives him permission your mouth is too proud to shape.
“yeah?” he asks, close to your ear. “that what you want?”
he pushes two fingers inside you, slow enough to make you feel every inch, rough enough to make your forehead drop against his shoulder. the stretch steals the air out of your lungs. your nails dig into the back of his neck, and his free hand tightens at your waist, holding you there while his fingers work into you with the same cruel patience he used to have on the training mat.
“always got something to say,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear. his thumb finds your clit through the slick, messy heat between your thighs, circling hard enough to make your hips jerk. “running your mouth like you’re in charge. but look at you now… falling apart on my hand in the middle of the fucking living room.”
his fingers thrust deeper, curling just right, and you clench around them, a broken sound escaping before you can stop it.
“got me under some kind of spell, don’t you? can’t seem to stay the fuck away even when i should.”
the second the word tumble out, the both of you freeze. not because of the words exactly. but your body knows. his body knows. the room knows. the phrase lands with the shadow of power behind it even though there’s none left in your blood.
soldier boy’s face changes beneath yours. not fear. not full anger either. something guarded, instant and reflexive, his eyes sharpening as if some part of him still has to check whether his mouth will obey him.
that’s what breaks it. you push off his lap so fast your knee slips on the couch.
his hand catches your elbow before you can stumble. you jerk back like the touch burns. “don’t.”
he lets go. immediately. no fight. no pull. no mean little grip to keep you there. his hand drops away, fingers curling once against his own thigh instead. it leaves you standing there with all your heat and all your shame and nowhere to put either of them.
your mouth feels swollen. your breathing sounds too loud. your shorts sit crooked, wet, on you. your shirt twisted where his hand dragged it up your back. you fix none of it. fixing it would mean admitting there’s something to fix.
soldier boy looks up at you from the couch, eyes dark, jaw tight, mouth red from yours.
for one stupid second, you want to go back. the thought horrifies you enough to make you cruel. “that didn’t mean anything,” you say.
his face closes. he leans back by half an inch, slow, like he’s giving himself room to look less affected. “sure looked like something.”
your hands curl at your sides. your fingers still remember his hair. your thighs still remember the shape of him beneath you. your body is a traitor, every inch of it, warm and awake and confused enough to mistake being wanted for being absolved. you don’t deserve absolution from him. you’re not asking for it, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting things you have no right to want.
soldier boy’s gaze drops once to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “running?”
you laugh, but it comes out wrong. “from you?”
“looks like it.”
for a second, you just stand there. the tv keeps playing behind you, bright and stupid and impossible. someone by the pool says trust is really important to me, and you almost laugh because the universe has a sick sense of humor.
you pick up your beer from the couch cushion. it’s warm now, useless. you hold it anyway. “this was a mistake,” the words come out before you can stop them.
soldier boy’s expression hardens so completely it feels like watching a door shut.
you feel it then. the echo. his voice from earlier. the way it carved through you and left you standing in the kitchen with your face held together by pride alone. you didn’t mean to give it back to him. maybe you did. maybe that’s the ugly part.
his eyes stay on yours. “seems to be going around.”
hurt lands in you with a dull, familiar weight. you nod once, like you earned that. because you did. “yeah,” you say, quieter now. “guess so.” the softness in your own voice disgusts you.
you turn before he can hear any more of it. before your face does something stupid. before you can look at him long enough to remember the exact sound he made when your hands were in his hair. the hallway waits dark beyond the living room, and you head for it with your beer still in hand and your pulse still wrecked.
behind you, soldier boy says nothing. no stop. no insult. no old nickname tossed at your back to make you turn around. the silence follows you down the hall anyway, hot and mean and alive.
lowdown ☆ after the failed civic center mission, soldier boy turns his anger on butcher and demands you’re taken off the team.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2916 ride style ☆ we've left angst town and now it's just tense
danger on the trail ☆ physical confrontation, choking/pinning, bruising, emotional cruelty, arguments
liv's log ☆ ya'll thought this was gonna be smut huh? 🤭
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the new safehouse doesn’t have enough space for this much anger.
that’s the first thing that crosses your mind when you get out of the van and the rain follows you inside in little cold flecks, clinging to your hair, your lashes, the stiff white collar of the catering shirt you never got the chance to change out of.
everyone moves at once, but not quickly enough to feel organized. frenchie comes in breathing hard, one hand still pressed over the staff badge clipped to his shirt. kimiko is rifht behind him. hughie nearly trips over a duffel someone left near the entrance. annie pulls her cap off and drops it on the counter, rainwater darkening the ends of her hair. mm starts checking the windows without being asked.
butcher’s last through the door. he doesn’t slam it. instead, he closes it quietly, calmly, like the whole civic center isn’t currently crawling with vought security because the deep recognized your face and soldier boy knocked him flat instead of letting him pass. like noir isn’t still out there. like homelander wasn’t moved before anybody got close enough to make the risk worth something.
for a second, nobody says anything.
the safehouse hums around the silence. the old refrigerator. the rain ticking against the kitchen window. somebody’s phone vibrating once inside a bag and then going quiet. your wrist still feels warm where soldier boy dragged you to safety.
“well,” butcher rolls the word on his tongue enough that it almost sounds obscene, “that was a spectacular fuckin’ waste.”
soldier boy’s head turns slowly. you see it happen before anyone else does. not the anger—that’s been sitting in him since the van, tight and ugly beneath his ribs. you see the moment he gives it somewhere to go. his shoulders square. his jaw locks. the wet line of his hair sticks near his temple, and he doesn’t wipe it away.
mm notices half a second after you. “don’t.”
soldier boy ignores him completely, ready to continue what couldnt be finished in the van, “you had one job.”
butcher lifts his brows. “that right?”
“keep your team in line and her from getting made.”
the room shifts around the word her. like you’re a piece of evidence on the table between them, damp and breathing and inconvenient.
your fingers curl at your side.
butcher’s mouth curves, but there’s no humor in it. “interesting. could’ve sworn the job was to get noir.”
soldier boy steps closer. “she shouldn’t have been in that hallway.”
“she was where the plan put her.”
“the plan was shit.”
“plan was workin’ fine until you redecorated the south corridor with fish boy’s teeth.”
“he was going after her,” the words come out too fast. too blunt. the words hit the room with enough force that hughie’s eyes flick toward you and away again.
butcher’s expression changes by almost nothing, which is always how you know he’s found something sharp enough to keep. “aw,” he taunts, low and almost song-like. “would you look at that.”
soldier boy’s eyes narrow. “watch it.”
“what? you want me to pretend that wasn’t sweet?” butcher tosses the coat onto the back of a chair. “you had noir close enough to smell the rubber on his little ninja suit, and you chose runnin’ after our girl instead.”
the temperature of the room drops. you breathe in once. our girl. butcher says it to hurt him. to hurt you. to make ownership sound communal enough that nobody can punch him for it without proving his point.
soldier boy’s mouth twitches. “keep talking.”
“why? you embarrassed?” butcher asks. “don’t be. happens to the best of us. bloke sees a pretty thing in trouble, forgets the mission, goes runnin’ with his shield swingin’ and his prick making all the decisions.”
annie’s voice cuts in, sharp. “butcher—”
“no,” soldier boy says, and now he’s smiling, all his teeth hidden. “let him finish.”
butcher leans back against the edge of the table, bruised mouth still marked from the last time soldier boy decided talking had gone on long enough. “you wanna blame someone because noir walked, fine. blame me. blame the deep. blame the bloody catering company if it helps you sleep. but don’t stand there actin’ like this is about strategy when we all saw what it was.”
soldier boy moves. there’s no dramatic buildup, no chair scraping, no one getting enough time to shout. one second he’s standing in the middle of the room with anger locked behind his teeth, and the next butcher’s slammed back against the wall.
annie lights up immediately. gold spills under her skin, small but bright. kimiko steps off the wall. hughie makes a sound that might be soldier boy’s name or a terrified vowel. frenchie’s hand twitches toward the equipment bag and stops when mm points at him.
soldier boy’s hand is wrapped in the front of butcher’s shirt, fist twisted tight under his throat. not choking him. not yet. close enough that butcher’s chin tilts up beneath the pressure. “she’s off the team.”
“wha—” your whole body goes still.
butcher’s eyes sharpen. “say again?”
“you heard me.”
“did i?” his voice scrapes slightly where fabric presses against his windpipe. “because it sounded like you thought you were in charge.”
soldier boy drags him an inch higher against the wall. “the deep knows her face. vought knows her face. every supe in that building’s gonna have her picture by night.”
“and?” butcher’s lack of ability to keep his trap shut could almost be impressive if the entire room wasn’t holding their breath. “homelander wants all of us dead. noir’s followin’ us through alleys. deep’s got beef with annie too, if we’re makin’ a little social calendar of grudges.” butcher’s mouth curls faintly even with soldier boy’s fist against his collar. “you think fish boy holdin’ a grudge makes her special?”
his grip tightens. “she blew the mission.”
“you blew the mission.”
soldier boy jerks him forward and slams him back again. the wall gives a little behind butcher’s shoulder. plaster dust falls in a thin pale line.
“ben—” the name leaves your mouth before you decide whether you’re allowed to use it.
“leave it,” mm says, voice firm. “both of you.”
butcher ignores him too, because nobody in this house values survival as much as they should. his eyes stay on soldier boy, but the edge of his smile is for you. “you really want her safe? give her another dose.”
the room breaks open around that.
butcher doesn’t look at anyone else. “girl gets made by vought, we don’t bench her. we make sure next time she can do more than run.”
soldier boy’s face empties. your stomach drops because you know that expression now. you’ve seen him furious. crude. cruel. jealous. wounded enough to put teeth into every word. this is different. this is the part of him that existed before you ever walked into a safehouse and called him butcher’s commie toy. the part that sat under restraints and learned that a body could become a room with no doors.
“you give her that shit again,” he says, each word quiet enough to scare even you, “i’ll rip your spine out through your mouth.”
butcher’s eyes flicker. finally. a little. “quite the gesture, innit?”
soldier boy’s free hand draws back.
you move before anyone else does. maybe you shouldn’t. maybe after everything that’s happened, after his hand around your throat, after telling you not to call him ben anymore, after your own voice turned his body against him, maybe you should know better than to put yourself between soldier boy and something he wants to hit.
but butcher’s standing there with his mouth full of gasoline. soldier boy’s holding the match. and your survival instincts have never learned to mind their own business.
you cross the room fast and shove soldier boy in the shoulder with both hands.
he doesn’t move. not even a step.
pain jumps through your palms from the impact. something old flashes between you so quickly it nearly steals the air from your lungs: your fist meeting his face in that first safehouse, the total failure of it, the smile he gave you after. only now, there’s no smile.
soldier boy drops butcher. you didn’t move him. he just decides butcher can wait. butcher hits the floor with one knee first, coughing once as his hand catches the wall. before you can shove soldier boy again, his hand snaps around your wrist. hard. your whole body stops short. his fingers close around the narrow bones with brutal precision, not enough to break, but tight enough that the pressure bites straight through your skin and into memory. your breath catches before you can hide it.
annie takes one step. “soldier boy—”
“stay out of it,” the words scrape your throat on the way out. the bruises there are mostly faded now, disappearing beneath your jaw, but the skin still remembers.
you try to pull your wrist back. nothing. not even the satisfaction of making him adjust his stance. you might as well be yanking against a locked door.
“take your hand off me,” you demand, forcing your chin high.
his eyes return to yours. “big girl now?”
“always was. you’re just juiced up.”
silence lands so fast it almost makes the room smaller. hughie’s mouth parts. annie’s eyes widen by a fraction. frenchie looks at the floor like he wants to be anywhere else and also can’t stop listening. butcher coughs out something that might have been a laugh if soldier boy hadn’t just nearly put him through drywall.
soldier boy’s eyes narrow. the old thing shows. the ugly spark. the part of him that likes your mouth even when he wants to shut it. especially then. his hand tightens by one cruel degree. you refuse to wince.
“that right?” he asks.
“yeah.” your free hand presses against his chest and shoves again. useless. humiliating. “if you were human, i would’ve put you on your ass by now.”
his gaze drops to your palm against his chest, then lifts slowly to your face. “you think so?”
“i know so.”
“you couldn’t take me.”
“you’re bulletproof and steroided by nazi kool-aid. forgive me if i don’t find your advantage personally impressive.”
butcher makes a low sound from the floor. “christ.”
soldier boy ignores him. you have all his attention now, and you hate how familiar it feels. hate the heat of him in front of you. his hand around your wrist. the way your body remembers being caught by him in other rooms, under other lighting, when his grip meant pull closer.
that memory turns your anger mean. “let go.”
his mouth twitches. “you gonna command me again?”
everything goes quiet at the mention of the wound underneath the fight.
your pulse stumbles once. for half a second, guilt rises so fast it nearly folds your anger in half. you see him on his knees in the motel, one hand braced against the carpet, sweat at his temple, eyes so full of betrayal you still can’t recall it without wanting to tear your own voice out.
then his fingers dig into your wrist again, and the present comes back.
your voice lowers. “no.”
he leans closer. enough for his words to land where only you should hear them, though everyone else does anyway. “funny. didn’t bother you last time.”
hurt flashes through you. still, you smile without meaning. “i can be sorry and still tell you to go fuck yourself.”
the line hits somewhere. maybe because you don’t deny it. maybe because you don’t beg. maybe because for days, you’ve walked around this house wearing guilt like a muzzle, and he’s gotten used to the quiet it bought from you. no more.
you step closer even with your wrist caught. “i’m sorry for what i did to you. i’ll be sorry for it longer than you’ll probably believe. but my guilt is not a leash either.”
his eyes sharpen at the word.
“you don’t get to use it to shut me up,” you continue. “you don’t get to use it to bench me. and you sure as hell don’t get to stand there calling me a liability because you made a choice you don’t know how to live with.”
soldier boy goes very still.
behind him, butcher pushes himself up fully, one hand rubbing at his throat. “careful, love.”
you turn your head toward him. “no, you be careful.”
butcher lifts his brows.
you yank once against soldier boy’s grip. he still doesn’t let go, but you don’t need him to. your stare stays on butcher now, anger finding a second target and liking the symmetry of it. “don’t stand there acting like you’re defending me when your intentions have always been far from noble.”
butcher’s expression flattens.
“all of you want to make this about what i am when it’s useful. liability. weapon. bait. leash.” your voice tightens. “pick a better word and it still means the same thing coming from all of your mouths.”
kimiko watches you from beside the couch with her hands still half-curled, ready for a fight that keeps changing shape before anyone can enter it.
you look back at soldier boy. “you want me off the team because you’re scared. and he wants me on it because i’m useful. neither are my problem.”
his grip shifts. for a second, you think he might shove you away. instead, he pulls you closer. not a lot. not close to make your bodies touch. enough that your arm bends between you, wrist still caught in his hand, his strength dragging you into the edge of his space with no permission asked and no apology offered.
the motion is rough enough that annie glows brighter.
your heart kicks hard.
soldier boy looks down at you, voice low. “you think this is a game?”
you laugh once, ugly and breathless. “no. i think you’re pissed because noir is alive and i’m standing here.”
his expression lashes shut. “you don’t know shit.”
“i know you chose.”
his jaw flexes. “i made a mistake.”
for one second, the room loses sound. something in your chest folds inward. it hurts in a way you don’t want anyone to see, so you make your face harder around it. that’s what he’d do. and maybe that’s the worst part—how much of him you’ve learned.
butcher breaks the silence because he’s never respected anything sacred in his life. “touching as this little domestic is, we’ve still got a problem.”
soldier boy’s head turns slightly. “you’re still talking?”
“amazingly, yeah.” butcher’s voice is rough from being held against the wall, but his eyes are bright. “because while you two are workin’ through whatever the fuck that is, noir’s gone, homelander’s tucked away somewhere vought thinks is safe, and the deep’s probably cryin’ into a lobster tank about his concussion.”
“shut up, butcher.” mm doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to. “we got made at the civic center. vought’s adjusting. noir knows we’re moving around him. homelander’s security just got tighter. and we’re standing here arguing about whether one member of this team gets treated like a person.”
the words land differently from yours. steadier. less bloody at the edges.
he doesn’t look away from soldier boy. “she stays on the team if she chooses, just like you.” mm says. “no more temp v unless she chooses. no more secret doses. no more deciding for each other because we’re scared.”
soldier boy’s mouth curls. “easy for you to say.”
mm’s stare hardens. “no, it ain’t.”
that shuts even butcher up for a second.
because mm knows. maybe not the same way. not the motel room. not your voice under his skin. but he knows what it means to have a body left behind in someone else’s war. he knows what soldier boy costs. what butcher costs. what every violent man in this room keeps asking everybody else to pay.
your wrist is starting to ache.
it’s almost like soldier boy notices. his eyes drop to the place his fingers remain locked around you briefly. something crosses his face so quickly you almost miss it. not an apology. not even regret clean enough to use. just the awareness that he’s still holding you.
his hand opens all at once. he releases you like the touch itself disgusts him, fingers snapping away, leaving the ghost of pressure burning in a ring around your wrist. your arm drops to your side. you keep it there. no rubbing. no shaking it out. no giving him the satisfaction of seeing how much it bit.
there are so many things in soldier boy’s face you don’t want to name because naming them might make you weak. things that your brain clocks despite your needs—fury, betrayal, resentment, the leftover shape of fear dressed up as command. something else too. buried so deep he’d probably put his own fist through a wall before letting it surface.
“you get grabbed again,” he says, voice low, “that’s on you.”
you nod once. “okay.”
his eyes narrow, like he expected a fight and hates that you didn’t give him one.
you turn before your face can do something stupid. before the ache has time to leak out. before the old version of you can look at him and ask if the mistake was choosing you or not choosing noir. you don’t want the answer. not tonight. maybe not ever.
lowdown ☆ the new safehouse begins settling around you, even if you and soldier boy do not
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2123 ride style ☆ angsty
danger on the trail ☆ emotional distance, vought propaganda, mission planning
liv's log ☆ so... yeah... i don't even know gang. i'm inside the angst and i can't find a way out. can someone come get me pls? 🙂
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the next morning, you reach for two mugs. that’s the first stupid thing.
not the worst. not even close. there are far uglier things sitting inside this house now. bruises under your jaw, a closed door at the end of the hallway, a man who used to sleep in your bed and now doesn’t want you close enough to breathe near him. but the mugs are what catch you off guard because they’re small, and small things have no right to hurt this much.
your hand’s already inside the cupboard before your brain catches up. one mug in your left hand. your right fingers curling around the handle of a second. black coffee. no sugar. no milk. the kind he drinks because apparently sweetness is an insult to the republic, or whatever ancient masculine bullshit he would use if you asked.
you freeze. then you put the second mug back. your fingers recoiling like the handle burned. quickly. quietly. like the cupboard might tell on you.
the new safehouse kitchen is narrow enough that every movement feels witnessed. annie’s at the table with her laptop open. hughie sits beside her, pretending to read a file while actually worrying the corner of one page between his fingers. frenchie’s asleep with his forehead on an open notebook and a pen still tucked behind his ear. kimiko sits on the counter, swinging one foot slowly, watching everything with the kind of quiet awareness that makes lies feel embarrassing before they leave your mouth.
nobody comments on the mug.
you pour coffee for yourself only. your throat pulls when you swallow, the bruising beneath your jaw making every sip feel like a reminder your body refuses to stop delivering. annie’s eyes flick toward the marks once. controlled anger wearing the face of concern because she knows you’ll leave the room if anyone looks too directly at the injury.
“you want toast?” she asks instead.
“no.”
“i wasn’t asking.”
you stare at her over the rim of your mug, one brow raised. “that was exactly a question.”
“it was the polite version of eat something before i become annoying.”
kimiko signs without looking up from the banana she is peeling. you catch it as her meaning that annie’s already annoying.
you almost smile. the muscles remember the shape and then give up halfway. “rude.”
“accurate,” hughie mutters, then immediately looks guilty for speaking at all.
you glance at him. he looks like he hasn’t slept either. guilt sits on his face plainly, deeper than the shadows beneath his eyes, heavy enough that you want to be angry with him just to give the whole thing someplace clean to go. you can’t. not yet. maybe not ever. he looks at you, then at your throat, then away so fast it nearly hurts.
from the hallway, a door opens. the room shifts before soldier boy appears.
that is the thing about absence. it teaches everybody where to look.
he walks into the kitchen with his shield nowhere in sight but the shape of violence still sitting in his shoulders. hair slightly damp, jaw rough, eyes flat. he looks like he slept badly or not at all.
your hand tightens around your single mug. his gaze touches the cupboard. the coffee pot. your hand. it’s like he instantly knows. for half a second, something moves through his expression—not sadness, not guilt, nothing soft enough to help either of you. resentment maybe. or the ugly satisfaction of catching proof that a habit existed and now doesn’t.
then it’s gone. he reaches past you without touching you and takes his own mug from the cupboard.
you step back too quickly. enough space that nobody can pretend not to notice. soldier boy notices most of all. his mouth tightens, and the look he gives you says he finds the retreat ridiculous, which is almost funny, considering he’s the one who told you to stay the fuck away from him. apparently, even distance has rules you’re expected to guess.
he pours his coffee. black. no sugar. no milk. then he walks out of the kitchen without looking at you again.
the safehouse keeps moving. the world doesn’t have the decency to pause because you broke something intimate and can’t figure out where to put the pieces.
mm and frenchie spend the morning bent over manuals and warehouse manifests, rebuilding the map of vought’s next move from half-burned paper trails and shipping numbers. butcher disappears before noon.
soldier boy exists on the other side of the house as if the last few weeks did not happen. no couch. no late-night weight beside you. no arm over your waist. no hand catching the back of your shirt when you pass him in a doorway. no rough voice in your room complaining about your mattress while making no attempt to leave it.
he’s still there. that’s the cruelty of it. he sits at the kitchen table during briefings. he answers questions when butcher asks about old vought layouts, old payback safe routes, old security habits. he makes crude little comments when hughie says something too careful. he calls frenchie frenchie with the exact same irritation as always.
only with you, there’s nothing. not even cruelty most of the time. just a wall where a man used to be.
by late afternoon, butcher brings the room to attention by dropping a folder onto the table hard enough to wake frenchie from a half-doze. “got our next opening,” he says.
mm looks up first. “what kind of opening?”
“big one.” butcher flips the folder open and slides two printed pages into the middle of the table. “vought’s putting homelander on stage in two days.”
annie’s posture changes immediately. “where?”
“civic center downtown. live broadcast. family-friendly little flag-wavin’ circle jerk.” butcher taps the page. “heroes for america: truth, strength, unity. christ, even the name’s got teeth rot.”
“that’s a public event,” hughie says.
“well done. gold star.”
mm pulls the page closer. “security?”
“heavy out front. worse backstage. but not tower-level.” butcher’s smile is sharp and unpleasant. “and those starlight obsessed groupies are already planning to make noise.”
“starlighters,” annie corrects with bite.
“big rally across the street,” butcher continues. “officially a protest. unofficially, a distraction.”
“we’re not using them as shields,” annie says.
“didn’t say shields. distraction.”
“there’s a difference only if we make sure there is.”
“then make sure.”
the room tightens. annie holds his stare a second too long before looking back at the folder.
frenchie leans forward, rubbing sleep from one eye. “what do we need inside?”
“access,” mm says before butcher can answer. his eyes move over the page, already working. “camera blind spots. route maps. security timing. if homelander’s on site, noir might be too.”
soldier boy, standing near the far wall with his arms crossed, perks up at that.
butcher notices. “that get your attention?”
soldier boy’s eyes stay on the folder. “noir’ll be close if homelander’s there.”
“that’s the hope.”
“hope,” mm repeats, unimpressed.
“educated hope.” butcher pulls out another page. “we’ve got a way in. catering company’s been contracted through a vought subsidiary, but the actual staff’s local. low vetting. one of annie’s people knows a woman managing the schedule.”
annie’s mouth tightens. “my people?”
“your groupies.”
“they’re activists.”
“fine. your activists with merch.”
hughie gives annie a cautious look. “i mean… there is merch.”
she points at him. “not helping.”
for one tiny second, the room almost breathes. then mm says, “two days isn’t enough.”
“it is if we stop wasting time arguing with the furniture.” butcher looks around the table. “we get in, we confirm whether noir’s with him, we take whatever shot makes itself available.”
“against homelander?” hughie asks.
butcher’s eyes flick toward soldier boy. “that’s why we brought the nuclear option.”
soldier boy’s face doesn’t change.
yours does. only a little, but enough that annie sees it. enough that soldier boy might have, if he was looking at you.
mm closes the folder slowly. “we plan first. no improvising. no temp v surprises. no hidden backup moves. everybody gets told everything, or we don’t move.”
the silence after that lands with intent.
butcher’s jaw works once. “fine.”
“i mean it,” mm says.
“heard you.”
“then act like it.”
soldier boy looks at butcher then. the room drops a few degrees around the motion.
butcher meets his stare with a blood-dark bruise still fading near his mouth. “don’t start preenin’, soldier boy. rule applies to all of us.”
“you first.”
“boys,” annie says sharply.
nobody asks you anything. maybe that’s kindness. maybe punishment. maybe everyone is simply exhausted by the amount of catastrophe that seems to happen whenever your name becomes part of a plan.
you sit near the end of the table with your hands wrapped around your cooling mug and let the details move around you: entrances, crowd density, vought uniforms, staff badges, possible rally timing, escape routes. it should feel important. it is important. homelander in one place. noir close enough to finally draw out. vought distracted by cameras and flags and their own need to look holy on a live broadcast. this is big. bigger than a warehouse. bigger than a snitch at the docks. bigger than another stolen file.
when the briefing breaks, the hour when you would usually train arrives without invitation. your body notices before you do—it’s stupid, muscle memory turning grief into a schedule. your hands itch faintly for wraps. your feet want the mat that doesn’t exist here. you find yourself near the living room doorway, looking at the cleared space between the couches like it might become useful if you stare long enough.
soldier boy is by the window, checking the edge of his shield with a cloth. not because it needs cleaning. because his hands need something to do and he would rather die than admit that.
the words are on the tip of your tongue as your heart races under your chest. are we training? you want to know. you want to train. you want him to look at you with anything other than resentment and hatred and anger. you want to be around him. to feel his hand on your stomach as he turns training into something soft.
instead, you clamp your mouth shut. you’re not that pathetic. even if your heart is beating off rhythm from a possible yes. you’d take him fighting you for real. you’d take him having his hand around your neck again. pathetic. and unhealthy.
you walk away before you can humiliate yourself further.
night comes with rain tapping lightly against the windows and the safehouse smelling like instant noodles because hughie panicked while cooking and made enough for a family of twelve. nobody comments when soldier boy takes one end of the couch with a beer and an old war movie already playing. nobody comments when you enter ten minutes later, pause without meaning to, then sit on the other couch.
not beside him. not across his lap the way his hands used to invite without asking. not tucked into his side while the television spits out gunfire and historically inaccurate speeches neither of you believes. just the other couch and a bowl of noodles.
soldier boy usually announces that the movie is shit within the first five minutes with such specific disgust that even mm listens despite himself. tonight, he says nothing. he watches men in clean uniforms pretend war happens in neat emotional arcs and keeps drinking slowly.
a soldier on screen salutes the wrong way. you almost look at him. he almost looks at you. neither of you does.
you stay on your couch until the ache in your throat becomes too difficult to ignore. then you stand quietly and walk toward the hallway.
behind you, the movie keeps playing. someone on screen says something noble about sacrifice. the line is terrible enough that, three weeks ago, you would have heard soldier boy scoff and mutter something crude beneath his breath. you would have nudged his thigh with your foot. he would have caught your ankle and held it without looking at you while the corner of his mouth twitched into fondness.
tonight, there’s only the television. only rain. only the quiet scrape of your own footsteps down a hallway that doesn’t know you yet.
on the couch, soldier boy tells himself that this is better. clean. no warm body pressed against him. no half-asleep voice murmuring his name into his shirt. no soft little habits built in the dark and then turned into evidence against him when the lights came on.
the seat beside him stays empty. he tells himself that this is what he wanted. the lie tastes enough like anger that he almost believes it.
lowdown ☆ butcher takes you somewhere without warning soldier boy. he doesn't appreciate it.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3002 ride style ☆ something's-wrong-fluff
danger on the trail ☆ possessive behavior, territorial soldier boy, mild interrogation, paranoia beginning to creep in, secrecy, butcher being suspiciously butcher-shaped
liv's log ☆ can yall hear the music getting louder? 🤭
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the safehouse settles slowly after butcher’s interruption.
the stolen drive gives mm and frenchie something useful to pull apart at the kitchen table, hughie spends an unreasonable amount of time asking whether the seal is going to be okay after witnessing a violent crime, and butcher starts making calls with one hand tapping impatiently against the stack of shipping records as if the documents might confess something faster under pressure.
you appear in the kitchen five minutes after he knocks, hair still slightly messy and expression carefully arranged into something that should survive casual inspection. it doesn’t survive annie’s. her eyes lift from the mug in her hands, move over you once, then settle somewhere around your face with a quiet awareness that makes your body heat beneath your clothes all over again. you sit beside her and refuse to acknowledge it.
“everything all right?” butcher asks without looking up from the papers. the question is innocent only if a person has never met butcher.
“perfect,” you say.
“good.” he turns one page, mouth twitching faintly around whatever private amusement he’s enjoying far too much. “wouldn’t want to interrupt anythin’ important.”
annie takes a slow sip of tea to hide the smile threatening the corner of her mouth. hughie studies the floor. frenchie becomes deeply invested in the stolen drive. kimiko looks between you and the hallway, then signs something subtle enough that you only catch the shape of her hands after frenchie’s shoulders start shaking.
you narrow your eyes. “what did she say?”
frenchie clears his throat with the dignity of a man already failing to preserve it. “nothing.”
kimiko signs again.
“she said nothing,” frenchie repeats, less convincingly.
“traitors,” you mutter.
soldier boy doesn’t return to the kitchen immediately. that’s probably for the best. your body’s still far too aware of every place his hands have recently been, and you need at least ten minutes to become a person capable of sitting in a room without thinking about the expression on his face after you accidentally threw him off a bed.
“right,” butcher says, finally tapping two fingers against the table. “frenchie, marvin, keep diggin’. rest of you can stop loiterin’ around lookin’ decorative.”
hughie lifts his head. “were we dismissed?”
“you were barely invited.”
the group begins breaking apart in pieces. kimiko remains near frenchie, shoulder brushing his. mm pulls the laptop closer and starts taking notes. hughie trails after annie toward the kitchen, still discussing harbor-seal trauma with the seriousness of a man who has apparently decided this is now his cause. butcher folds one of the paper manifests and tucks it beneath his arm.
then he looks at you. “need a hand with somethin’.”
“mine?” his brows lift slightly. you immediately regret the question. “nevermind.”
“grab your jacket.”
“where are you going?” annie asks.
butcher answers before you can. “out.”
“helpful,” she says dryly.
“been told, sweetcheeks.”
you push away from the table, grab your jacket from the back of the chair, and follow butcher toward the door. it doesn’t occur to you to explain anything else. there’s nothing to explain. butcher needs something. butcher always needs something. the entire team has spent months accepting that following him outside without sufficient context is simply another poor lifestyle choice everyone keeps making voluntarily.
the lock turns behind you. the safehouse moves on. for a while.
soldier boy doesn’t ask where you went immediately. that would imply he cares enough to ask, and the whole problem with whatever’s happened between the two of you is that it has begun involving increasingly inconvenient forms of expectation. expectations belong to people who discuss things. people who sit down and define terms and ask tedious questions about feelings. they don’t belong to a man who dragged you into an empty bedroom because another touched your back, fucked you against a wall, spent the morning with his face between your thighs, then got launched onto the floor while butcher stood on the other side of the door pretending the entire safehouse hadn’t heard the bedframe complain.
so soldier boy does what any emotionally stable man would do. he ignores it. he drinks his beer. changes the channel twice. watches ten minutes of a western he’s already called historically inaccurate on three separate occasions. listens to mm and frenchie murmur over the laptop while kimiko steals pieces of dried fruit from a bag beside frenchie’s elbow. lets twenty minutes pass without looking toward the front door more than once. then he gets up.
frenchie barely glances away from the screen when soldier boy crosses the room and disappears down the hallway. kimiko watches him go, one brow lifting faintly.
the safehouse creaks around his footsteps until they stop near your room. your door is cracked. he pushes it open without knocking because knocking has never once occurred to him as a serious option. the room is empty. the bed is still unmade, blanket tangled around the center, one pillow sitting crooked near the headboard. your shirt from last night has been thrown over the chair beneath your folded vest. the stack of old magazines remains on the dresser with the deep’s humiliating poster hidden badly underneath them, one glossy blue corner peeking out like evidence too embarrassing to dispose of properly.
the problem is… he expected to find you here.
maybe sitting on the edge of the bed with your phone in hand. maybe trying to fix your hair after the morning’s interruption. maybe changing your shirt, which would have been useful. maybe glaring at him because he walked in without knocking and pretending you hadn’t already let him make himself at home in this room often enough that the argument would have no real weight behind it.
instead, there’s only the shape of where you boht were and the deeply irritating fact that he doesn’t know where you are now.
soldier boy stands in the doorway for another second before turning away. when he reaches the living room, frenchie’s still typing. kimiko is sitting beside him with one leg folded beneath her, absently flipping through a printed manual she’s not reading.
soldier boy stops near the couch and looks toward the table. “where is she?”
kimiko looks up.
frenchie’s hands pause over the keys. “bonjour to you also.”
soldier boy’s expression doesn’t change. “where’d she go?”
kimiko signs something short and easy.
frenchie watches her hands, then looks back at him. “with butcher.”
the answer lands strangely. there’s no visible shift anyone could accuse him of. but his shoulders settle into a stillness that has never once meant calm. “where?”
kimiko signs again.
“they did not say,” frenchie translates. “butcher asked for help. they left maybe twenty minutes ago.”
soldier boy looks toward the door. “and nobody thought to mention that?”
frenchie leans back in his chair slowly. “she is an adult woman, mon ami. she does not require permission to leave the house.”
“didn’t say she needed permission.”
“you are asking questions with a very permission-is-required face.”
kimiko’s mouth curves. she signs again, smaller this time.
frenchie looks at her, then at soldier boy. “kimiko says you look grumpy.”
his eyes narrow. “tell her i always look grumpy.”
kimiko signs without hesitation.
frenchie’s smile threatens to grow. “more than usual.”
soldier boy stares at both of them for one long second. then he drops onto the couch with enough weight to make the cushions shift and turns the television volume up two clicks, which is not an answer and doesn’t need to be.
frenchie returns to the laptop. kimiko doesn’t return to the manual immediately. her eyes linger on soldier boy for a moment longer, thoughtful and amused in equal measure, before she lowers her gaze to the page.
the movie continues. soldier boy watches none of it.
twenty minutes become thirty. thirty becomes forty-five. the beer empties without helping. another replaces it. the safehouse sounds remain stubbornly ordinary: keys tapping, pages turning, pipes knocking faintly inside the walls. somewhere down the hall, hughie laughs at something annie says, then immediately apologizes for laughing too loudly near people working. frenchie tells him to live freely. mm tells everyone to shut up. soldier boy doesn’t look at the door every time the building creaks. only most of the time.
the lock finally turns a little over two hours after you leave.
butcher walks in first with three pizza boxes balanced badly in one hand, cigarette smoke clinging to his coat and a satisfied little curl at the corner of his mouth. you follow behind him carrying a plastic bag filled with drinks, paper plates, and enough napkins to suggest somebody involved in the errand remembered the people in this house eat in ways that resemble the manners of toddlers.
the cold outside has pinkened your cheeks. your hair is wind-tangled around your face. you’re saying something to butcher beneath your breath as you close the door with your heel, and butcher answers with a quiet scoff that ends the conversation before either of you fully enters the room. not suspicious. nothing about it should be suspicious.
soldier boy’s gaze fixes on you. you notice immediately. you always do now.
“food,” butcher announces, dropping the boxes onto the table beside mm’s laptop and earning an irritated noise from him when the cardboard nearly crushes one of the manuals. “try not to weep with gratitude.”
hughie appears from the hallway as if he had been summoned. “you got pizza?”
“no, mate. brought three boxes of confidential documents covered in grease.”
“it’s called having nutritional standards,” annie says as she comes in behind hughie.
“it’s called ruining pizza.”
the room shifts toward the table. frenchie closes the folder. kimiko clears a space between the printouts. mm rescues the manuals from the immediate radius of the food with the agitated concentration of a man who’s accepted that nobody else will protect his blood pressure and ocd.
you set the bag down and begin pulling out drinks.
soldier boy doesn’t move from the couch.
your eyes flick toward him. “you want a slice?”
“where were you?”
the question cuts cleanly through the room. not loud. not angry enough to earn a reaction if someone wants to pretend not to notice. still, hughie’s hand stops halfway toward the top pizza box. annie glances between you both with the strained neutrality of someone trying very hard not to become involved in a domestic dispute happening ten feet away.
butcher lifts one brow as he reaches for a slice. “miss her, did you?”
butcher bites into the pizza, visibly delighted by the opportunity to become unbearable. “touchy.”
you stare at soldier boy for a beat, somewhere between amused and irritated. the explanation is simple enough that his mood feels almost absurd. possessive, maybe. territorial in the inconvenient aftermath of everything you have both spent the past two days doing behind closed doors. not something sharper than that.
“butcher needed help,” you say.
“with what?”
“a job.”
“what job?”
your eyebrows lift. “are you interrogating me?”
soldier boy’s eyes stay on you for another second before he looks back at the tv, face closing by degrees. the question disappears behind the same blank irritation he wears when he wants the whole world to stop asking what lives beneath it. he sets the empty beer bottle on the coffee table and leans back into the couch.
“pizza’s getting cold,” he says.
the tension loosens just enough for hughie to open the box again. frenchie reaches for a plate. kimiko steals a piece before anyone can hand her one and takes a bite with the satisfied expression of someone enjoying dinner and a private joke at the same time.
you grab a slice of pepperoni, walk over to the couch, and hold it toward soldier boy.
his eyes move from the pizza to your face.
“peace offering?” he asks.
“you are being very dramatic about a food run.”
“i’m not being dramatic.”
“you just interrogated me in front of everybody.”
“asked a question.”
“you asked three.”
“you counted?”
“hard not to. you made it weird.”
the words land close enough to an older echo that his mouth twitches despite himself. he takes the pizza from you eventually, fingers brushing yours briefly around the edge of the plate. “thanks,” he mutters.
you smile despite yourself, brow raising in tease. “you’re very welcome.”
you return to the table without looking back. conversation begins moving again around the boxes, slowly at first, then more naturally. nothing else happens. that should be the end of it.
instead, later that night, after the laptops close and the pizza boxes have been stacked badly near the trash, after frenchie and kimiko disappear down the hallway together and hughie spends ten minutes checking that noone doesn’t need anything before following annie to bed, soldier boy walks into your room.
you’re already beneath the blanket with your back against the headboard, phone in one hand and one knee pulled up loosely under the fabric. the lamp beside your bed is on low, turning the room warm around the edges. you look up when the door opens but don’t seem surprised to see him. that bothers him too. differently.
“c’mere,” you as you pat the bed beside you.
he shuts the door behind him and crosses the room without answering. the bed dips when he sits, then shifts further when he stretches out beside you with the entitlement of a man who’s complained repeatedly about your mattress and returned to it every night anyway. one arm folds behind his head. his other hand rests loosely against his stomach.
you watch him for a second over the edge of your phone. “you done sulking?”
“wasn’t sulking.”
you lower the phone slightly. “you were pounting and all.”
his mouth pulls faintly at one corner. not enough to become a smile. “you always this annoying before sleep?”
“you keep coming back.”
that quiets him.
the line isn’t flirtatious when you say it. not exactly. it’s too simple for that. too true in a way neither of you has fully touched yet. he keeps returning to your bed. you keep letting him. the whole thing has happened without permission, without explanation, without any conversation brave enough to give it edges.
you put the phone aside.
for a moment, the only sound is the old pipe knocking once inside the wall and the soft buzz of the lamp near your shoulder. soldier boy stares at the ceiling, expression unreadable from the angle, jaw shadowed, hair still slightly damp from the shower he must’ve taken earlier.
you shift lower beneath the blanket. “butcher needed help with something,” you say after a while. “that’s it.”
his eyes stay on the ceiling. “yeah?”
“mhm.”
“what kind of something?”
you sigh. not angrily. more tired than anything else. “a job. boring conversation. overpriced pizza. extremely glamorous afternoon.”
he turns his head enough to look at you. you hold his stare for a second. there’s no guilt in your face. no nervous little flicker. no sign that the answer is anything except the truth.
because it is. just not all of it.
it pisses soldier boy off that he can’t seem to tell anymore.
you reach over and tap two fingers lightly against his chest. “stop making that face.”
“what face?”
“the one where you act like butcher kidnapped me.”
“wouldn’t put it past him.”
“i can handle butcher.”
soldier boy looks at you for another second, then turns his gaze back toward the ceiling. “didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“you implied it.”
“you hear a lot of shit i don’t say.”
the familiar line almost makes you smile. you settle beside him instead, shifting close enough that your shoulder presses into his side. your head finds the place against his chest it has started finding with embarrassing ease, and after the smallest hesitation, your body relaxes there.
his arm moves around you automatically. that’s the worst part. not because the contact feels wrong. it doesn’t. his palm settles against the middle of your back, broad and steady over the thin fabric of your shirt, holding you close without either of you having to admit he’s doing it. your hand comes to rest loosely against his ribs. your breathing begins evening out within minutes, exhaustion pulling slowly at the tension in your shoulders.
his body trusts you before his mind finishes deciding whether it should.
you make a small sound against his chest, somewhere between a breath and a sleepy complaint. “you’re still tense.”
“go to sleep.”
“bossy.”
“tired.”
“you or me?”
“both.”
your mouth moves faintly against his shirt. “goodnight, ben.”
the name still catches somewhere beneath his ribs. it always does. too close to the human part of him you keep finding without asking permission and touching without making a performance out of it.
“night,” he mutters.
you fall asleep slowly. your fingers shift once against his side. your breathing stutters, steadies, then settles into the softer rhythm he’s started recognizing.
soldier boy stays awake for a while.
the lamp remains on for another twenty minutes before he reaches over carefully enough not to wake you and clicks it off. darkness settles across the room, broken only by a narrow strip of hallway light slipping beneath the door.
his hand stays where it is against your back.
he looks toward the ceiling and tells himself there’s nothing to think about. butcher needed help. you went with him. you came back with pizza and wind in your hair and no new bruises beneath your clothes. you answered every question. you climbed into his side at the end of the night like you had nowhere else you needed to be. the truth should feel complete.
instead, he lies there with your cheek warm against his chest and your body fitted trustingly along his side, trying to decide why it still sounds like there’re missing pieces.
lowdown ☆ soldier boy discovers a deeply effective way to ruin your ability to form a coherent sentence. butcher discovers a deeply effective way to ruin everything else.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2574 ride style ☆ smut!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, pet names, hair-pulling, thigh-gripping, light restraint, possessive behavior, soldier boy being smug beyond reason, accidental supe yeeting
liv's log ☆ ya'll are getting fed. you're welcome 🤒
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
“jesus fucking christ, ben.”
your voice breaks around his name, which is humiliating enough without the low sound of satisfaction that answers it.
morning has been trying to happen outside the room for a while now. thin light slips through the blinds in pale, uneven lines, catching the heap of discarded clothes on the floor, the belt hanging half-off the chair, one boot abandoned near the edge of the bed like it made an attempt at escape and failed.
somewhere beyond the walls, the safehouse has started waking in pieces—pipes knocking, footsteps passing faintly down the hall, a cupboard opening and closing in the kitchen. none of it matters. not with soldier boy between your thighs, committed to making sure you never contribute a useful thought to society again.
he’s been down there for what feels like forever and somehow not long enough. the sheets are pulled over his head and shoulders, turning him into a broad, shifting shape beneath the fabric. you can feel every movement—the slow drag of his tongue, the press of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way his big hands hold your thighs open to prevent you from closing them.
you fist the pillow above your head, back arching when he licks a slow, filthy stripe from your entrance up to your clit and sucks gently.
the wet heat of his mouth is obscene.
he groans against you like he’s the one getting devoured, the vibration shooting straight up your spine.
“ben—” you gasp, hips twitching.
he doesn’t answer with words. instead he slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his tongue flicks fast and relentless over your clit. the dual sensation makes your toes curl.
you bite your lip hard enough to sting, trying not to moan too loud, but it’s useless. the sound slips out anyway, breathy and broken. under the covers he makes another low, satisfied noise. he’s fucking enjoying this. you can tell by the way he keeps pressing closer, nose buried against you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough. his shoulders shift as he works you open, fingers thrusting slow and deep while his mouth stays glued to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that has your thighs trembling around his head.
“you taste so fucking good in the morning,” he mutters, voice muffled under the sheet. he drags his tongue through your folds again slowly, collecting every drop of wetness. “could stay here all goddamn day.”
you reach down blindly and grip his hair through the fabric, tugging. just enough to tell him you’re losing your mind. he chuckles darkly and rewards you by sliding a third finger inside, stretching you open while his tongue circles your clit faster.
your legs shake harder. the coil in your stomach winds tighter with every wet stroke, every curl of his fingers against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes.
you’re panting now, chest heaving, free hand clutching at the sheets beside you.
he senses it. soldier boy already knows exactly when you’re about to fall apart. he doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and humming while his fingers fuck you deeper, faster, slick sounds filling the quiet room.
your body tips over the edge with an ugly, breathless gasp you barely manage to bury against the back of your wrist. every muscle draws tight at once, then breaks apart beneath the force of it. the sheets twist under your fingers. your head pushes back into the pillow. your legs clamp around his shoulders before you remember that breathing is generally considered useful.
ben keeps you there through it.
not stopping. not letting you squirm away even as you’re twitching and oversensitive, he keeps licking slow, lazy stripes through your soaked folds, fingers still buried inside you. gentle now, but insistent. like he’s not ready to let the moment end.
“ben… fuck, i can’t—” your voice is wrecked.
his mouth brushes your thigh once more.
“you can,” he answers, voice rough and smug under the covers. “give me one more, baby. i’m not done with you yet.”
you stare at the ceiling, hair messy against the pillow, chest rising hard beneath the shirt you never bothered pulling off. “you are so incredibly pleased with yourself right now.”
he pushes the sheet back just enough to look up at you. his hair is a mess, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark with pure hunger. the sight alone makes your stomach flip. he looks like he’s having the time of his life down there, cheeks flushed, stubble wet with you.
“you say that like i didn’t earn it.”
you let your hand fall over your face. “i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
he presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your soaked folds before crawling up just enough to rest his chin on your lower stomach. the sheet pools around his shoulders now, revealing the broad expanse of his back, the thick muscle shifting as he settles between your legs again.
you peek at him from beneath your arm, still trying to catch your breath. your body feels liquid, humming, but the ache is building again under his gaze. soldier boy looks up at you through his lashes, green eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening with your release. he looks obscene. beautiful. entirely too proud of himself.
he turns his head and presses a slow kiss to the inside of your left thigh. his stubble scrapes gently against the sensitive skin, sending a shiver racing up your spine. then another kiss, higher this time, closer to where you’re still throbbing and slick. his rough thumbs stroke soothing circles on the backs of your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you exposed.
you can’t look away.
his eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, watching every flutter of your lashes, every small twitch of your mouth. it feels more intimate than it should—the way he studies your face while his mouth worships your skin. like he’s memorizing how you fall apart for him.
“ben…” you whisper.
he answers by dragging his tongue in one long, slow stripe up your inner thigh, tasting the mess he’s already made of you. then he dips lower again, nose brushing just above your clit as he kisses the crease where your thigh meets your body. his breath is hot against your soaked center.
you feel yourself clench around nothing, aching for more.
finally, he lowers his mouth again. this time it’s gentler. almost reverent. his tongue slides through your folds in one smooth, unhurried drag, collecting the fresh wetness that’s leaked out of you since your first orgasm.
he groans quietly.
his thumbs keep stroking your thighs, rough pads pressing into soft skin, grounding you while his mouth works you open again.
you let out a shaky breath, fingers threading back into his hair. he hums in approval and pushes his tongue inside you.
the sensation is overwhelming in its softness. he fucks you with his tongue in slow, deep strokes—pushing in, curling slightly, dragging back out. wet, filthy sounds fill the room as he laps at you, savoring every drop. his nose nudges against your clit with every forward thrust, giving you just enough friction to make your hips twitch.
“fuck, ben…” you moan softly.
his eyes flick up to yours again. they’re half-lidded, drunk on the taste of you. he holds the eye contact as he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two thick fingers, sliding them in easily. then his mouth returns to your clit, licking slow, broad circles around the swollen bundle of nerves. the combination is devastating.
he doesn’t rush. every movement feels luxurious. his fingers pump in and out of you in a steady rhythm while his tongue traces lazy patterns over your clit—circling, flicking, then pressing flat and dragging up. every time your breathing hitches, he adjusts, finding the exact angle that makes your thighs start to tremble again.
you’re so wet it’s embarrassing. you can hear it. the slick glide of his fingers, the obscene sounds of his mouth devouring you.
your arousal coats his chin. drips down toward the sheets. soldier boy doesn’t seem to mind. if anything, it makes him more eager. he groans deeply when a fresh rush of wetness meets his tongue, like the taste of you is driving him insane.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against your pussy, voice thick. “give it to me, baby. let me feel you gush.”
his words send heat flooding through you. you roll your hips against his face, chasing the building pleasure. he lets you use him, eyes never leaving yours, watching with dark satisfaction as you start to lose control again.
his free hand slides up your body, pushing your shirt higher until he can palm one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between rough fingers. the added stimulation makes you cry out softly, back arching. the floorboards creak in the hallway. he pinches lightly, then soothes with his thumb, all while his mouth stays working between your legs.
you’re trembling harder now. the second orgasm is building slower than the first but deeper—a heavy, coiling heat low in your belly that threatens to drown you. your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging harder. soldier boy moans in response, the vibration making your toes curl.
he curls his fingers inside you again, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust. his tongue flicks faster over your clit, matching the rhythm of his hand. the floorboard outside the bedroom door creaks a second time. closer. you can feel yourself getting wetter, slick sounds growing louder as your body prepares to give him exactly what he wants.
“ben—fuck, i’m close again,” you pant, voice breaking.
he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he presses closer, burying his face deeper between your thighs. his shoulders flex as he works you harder, fingers pumping faster, tongue relentless. his groans are constant. low and hungry, like he’s getting off just from the way you’re falling apart on his mouth.
your thighs start shaking uncontrollably around his head. your breathing turns ragged. the pleasure coils tighter and tighter until it feels almost unbearable. you’re right there— right on the razor’s edge, muscles locking up, vision starting to blur at the edges—BANG BANG BANG!
the sound tears through the room hard enough to punch every thought clean out of your head.
you jolt.
not gracefully. not in any way your body will forgive once the adrenaline wears off. one second, you’re hovering right on the edge of something devastating, fingers twisted in soldier boy’s hair, every muscle pulled tight around the promise of release. the next, panic fires through you on instinct and your legs clamp shut around his shoulders before shoving outward with considerably more force than either of you expects.
the sheet shifts violently.
the mattress jerks beneath you.
soldier boy disappears.
there’s a heavy thud beside the bed, followed by a silence so complete it feels medically concerning.
your eyes widen. your chest is still rising too fast, skin flushed, legs trembling from an orgasm you were approximately three seconds away from having before the universe decided you had experienced enough joy for one morning.
outside the door, butcher speaks with infuriating calm. “need you in the kitchen, love. five minutes.”
you stare at the empty space between your thighs where ben’s head had been moments ago.
then you lean cautiously over the side of the mattress.
soldier boy is on the floor. actually on the floor. one broad shoulder is pressed against the rug. the sheet has followed him halfway down and is now tangled around his waist in a undignified knot. his hair’s wrecked, mouth still wet, expression blank with the pure disbelief of a man who has survived bullets, explosions, decades of torture, and the collapse of several governments only to be thrown out of bed by a startled woman with questionable reflexes.
for one horrible second, neither of you speaks.
his eyes lift slowly to yours. “what… the fuck?”
you wince, still breathing hard, thighs trembling from the ruined orgasm. soldier boy is sprawled on the floor like a disgruntled greek god who just got kicked out of olympus. the sheet is barely covering his hips, doing nothing to hide the very obvious, very angry erection curving against his stomach.
“i panicked!” you whisper-shout, sitting up on your elbows. “butcher knocked like he was trying to break the damn door down.”
soldier boy pushes up on one elbow, glaring at you with pure betrayal. “you threw me.”
“i didn’t throw you.” you try, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.
he completely ignores you. “with your legs. i was two seconds from making you come so hard you’d forget your own name and you launched me like i was a fucking football.”
“you’re the one with super strength! how was i supposed to know i could actually move you?”
“i was distracted,” he growls, gesturing sharply at his glistening chin and the very obvious evidence of how thoroughly he’d been enjoying himself. “my face was buried in your pussy.”
your face burns despite the fact that modesty left this room a long time ago. “yes, benjamin. i was there.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
“oh, please. you survived.”
“barely.”
you stare at him. “you’re bulletproof.”
“not the point.”
outside the room, butcher’s footsteps retreat down the hallway. soldier boy pushes himself upright with the offended dignity of a man attempting to pretend he didn’t just get launched—nay, yeeted—off a mattress in nothing but a tangled sheet. he stands, muttering under his breath while he searches for his clothes.
you bite the inside of your cheek. “you know, training really has paid off.”
his head turns slowly. “don’t.”
“hips first,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “shoulder follows. fist last. apparently, legs are also very effective.”
“keep talking.”
“maybe tomorrow we can work on your balance.”
he catches his shorts from the floor and drags them on with an irritated movement. “you caught me off guard.”
“grandma at bingo all over again.”
his eyes narrow. “you think this is funny?”
you look at the sheet still hanging crookedly from the bed, then at his wrecked hair. “a little.”
“unbelievable,” he mutters, bending to retrieve his shirt. “my girl throws me off the goddamn bed seconds away from seeing heaven, and thinks it’s funny.”
the words pass so naturally beneath the rest of his complaining that you almost miss them. your mouth parts, but he’s already pulling his shirt over his head, too busy being insulted by the entire morning to notice the silence that follows. by the time his face emerges again, you have rearranged your expression into something far safer.
“butcher’s waiting,” you remind him.
he looks at you for a beat. then he steps back toward the bed.
“ben.”
“relax.”
one hand catches the back of your neck. he kisses you before you can argue, rough and unhurried enough to make your breath catch. the taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, warm and indecent, and the smug bastard knows exactly what he’s doing when he deepens the kiss for one lingering second before pulling away.
his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw. “we’re evening the score later.”
then he walks out, leaving you flushed, disheveled, and staring after him while butcher calls your name from the kitchen again.
lowdown ☆ soldier boy discovers a deeply effective way to ruin your ability to form a coherent sentence. butcher discovers a deeply effective way to ruin everything else.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2574 ride style ☆ smut!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, pet names, hair-pulling, thigh-gripping, light restraint, possessive behavior, soldier boy being smug beyond reason, accidental supe yeeting
liv's log ☆ ya'll are getting fed. you're welcome 🤒
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
“jesus fucking christ, ben.”
your voice breaks around his name, which is humiliating enough without the low sound of satisfaction that answers it.
morning has been trying to happen outside the room for a while now. thin light slips through the blinds in pale, uneven lines, catching the heap of discarded clothes on the floor, the belt hanging half-off the chair, one boot abandoned near the edge of the bed like it made an attempt at escape and failed.
somewhere beyond the walls, the safehouse has started waking in pieces—pipes knocking, footsteps passing faintly down the hall, a cupboard opening and closing in the kitchen. none of it matters. not with soldier boy between your thighs, committed to making sure you never contribute a useful thought to society again.
he’s been down there for what feels like forever and somehow not long enough. the sheets are pulled over his head and shoulders, turning him into a broad, shifting shape beneath the fabric. you can feel every movement—the slow drag of his tongue, the press of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way his big hands hold your thighs open to prevent you from closing them.
you fist the pillow above your head, back arching when he licks a slow, filthy stripe from your entrance up to your clit and sucks gently.
the wet heat of his mouth is obscene.
he groans against you like he’s the one getting devoured, the vibration shooting straight up your spine.
“ben—” you gasp, hips twitching.
he doesn’t answer with words. instead he slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his tongue flicks fast and relentless over your clit. the dual sensation makes your toes curl.
you bite your lip hard enough to sting, trying not to moan too loud, but it’s useless. the sound slips out anyway, breathy and broken. under the covers he makes another low, satisfied noise. he’s fucking enjoying this. you can tell by the way he keeps pressing closer, nose buried against you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough. his shoulders shift as he works you open, fingers thrusting slow and deep while his mouth stays glued to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that has your thighs trembling around his head.
“you taste so fucking good in the morning,” he mutters, voice muffled under the sheet. he drags his tongue through your folds again slowly, collecting every drop of wetness. “could stay here all goddamn day.”
you reach down blindly and grip his hair through the fabric, tugging. just enough to tell him you’re losing your mind. he chuckles darkly and rewards you by sliding a third finger inside, stretching you open while his tongue circles your clit faster.
your legs shake harder. the coil in your stomach winds tighter with every wet stroke, every curl of his fingers against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes.
you’re panting now, chest heaving, free hand clutching at the sheets beside you.
he senses it. soldier boy already knows exactly when you’re about to fall apart. he doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and humming while his fingers fuck you deeper, faster, slick sounds filling the quiet room.
your body tips over the edge with an ugly, breathless gasp you barely manage to bury against the back of your wrist. every muscle draws tight at once, then breaks apart beneath the force of it. the sheets twist under your fingers. your head pushes back into the pillow. your legs clamp around his shoulders before you remember that breathing is generally considered useful.
ben keeps you there through it.
not stopping. not letting you squirm away even as you’re twitching and oversensitive, he keeps licking slow, lazy stripes through your soaked folds, fingers still buried inside you. gentle now, but insistent. like he’s not ready to let the moment end.
“ben… fuck, i can’t—” your voice is wrecked.
his mouth brushes your thigh once more.
“you can,” he answers, voice rough and smug under the covers. “give me one more, baby. i’m not done with you yet.”
you stare at the ceiling, hair messy against the pillow, chest rising hard beneath the shirt you never bothered pulling off. “you are so incredibly pleased with yourself right now.”
he pushes the sheet back just enough to look up at you. his hair is a mess, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark with pure hunger. the sight alone makes your stomach flip. he looks like he’s having the time of his life down there, cheeks flushed, stubble wet with you.
“you say that like i didn’t earn it.”
you let your hand fall over your face. “i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
he presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your soaked folds before crawling up just enough to rest his chin on your lower stomach. the sheet pools around his shoulders now, revealing the broad expanse of his back, the thick muscle shifting as he settles between your legs again.
you peek at him from beneath your arm, still trying to catch your breath. your body feels liquid, humming, but the ache is building again under his gaze. soldier boy looks up at you through his lashes, green eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening with your release. he looks obscene. beautiful. entirely too proud of himself.
he turns his head and presses a slow kiss to the inside of your left thigh. his stubble scrapes gently against the sensitive skin, sending a shiver racing up your spine. then another kiss, higher this time, closer to where you’re still throbbing and slick. his rough thumbs stroke soothing circles on the backs of your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you exposed.
you can’t look away.
his eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, watching every flutter of your lashes, every small twitch of your mouth. it feels more intimate than it should—the way he studies your face while his mouth worships your skin. like he’s memorizing how you fall apart for him.
“ben…” you whisper.
he answers by dragging his tongue in one long, slow stripe up your inner thigh, tasting the mess he’s already made of you. then he dips lower again, nose brushing just above your clit as he kisses the crease where your thigh meets your body. his breath is hot against your soaked center.
you feel yourself clench around nothing, aching for more.
finally, he lowers his mouth again. this time it’s gentler. almost reverent. his tongue slides through your folds in one smooth, unhurried drag, collecting the fresh wetness that’s leaked out of you since your first orgasm.
he groans quietly.
his thumbs keep stroking your thighs, rough pads pressing into soft skin, grounding you while his mouth works you open again.
you let out a shaky breath, fingers threading back into his hair. he hums in approval and pushes his tongue inside you.
the sensation is overwhelming in its softness. he fucks you with his tongue in slow, deep strokes—pushing in, curling slightly, dragging back out. wet, filthy sounds fill the room as he laps at you, savoring every drop. his nose nudges against your clit with every forward thrust, giving you just enough friction to make your hips twitch.
“fuck, ben…” you moan softly.
his eyes flick up to yours again. they’re half-lidded, drunk on the taste of you. he holds the eye contact as he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two thick fingers, sliding them in easily. then his mouth returns to your clit, licking slow, broad circles around the swollen bundle of nerves. the combination is devastating.
he doesn’t rush. every movement feels luxurious. his fingers pump in and out of you in a steady rhythm while his tongue traces lazy patterns over your clit—circling, flicking, then pressing flat and dragging up. every time your breathing hitches, he adjusts, finding the exact angle that makes your thighs start to tremble again.
you’re so wet it’s embarrassing. you can hear it. the slick glide of his fingers, the obscene sounds of his mouth devouring you.
your arousal coats his chin. drips down toward the sheets. soldier boy doesn’t seem to mind. if anything, it makes him more eager. he groans deeply when a fresh rush of wetness meets his tongue, like the taste of you is driving him insane.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against your pussy, voice thick. “give it to me, baby. let me feel you gush.”
his words send heat flooding through you. you roll your hips against his face, chasing the building pleasure. he lets you use him, eyes never leaving yours, watching with dark satisfaction as you start to lose control again.
his free hand slides up your body, pushing your shirt higher until he can palm one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between rough fingers. the added stimulation makes you cry out softly, back arching. the floorboards creak in the hallway. he pinches lightly, then soothes with his thumb, all while his mouth stays working between your legs.
you’re trembling harder now. the second orgasm is building slower than the first but deeper—a heavy, coiling heat low in your belly that threatens to drown you. your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging harder. soldier boy moans in response, the vibration making your toes curl.
he curls his fingers inside you again, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust. his tongue flicks faster over your clit, matching the rhythm of his hand. the floorboard outside the bedroom door creaks a second time. closer. you can feel yourself getting wetter, slick sounds growing louder as your body prepares to give him exactly what he wants.
“ben—fuck, i’m close again,” you pant, voice breaking.
he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he presses closer, burying his face deeper between your thighs. his shoulders flex as he works you harder, fingers pumping faster, tongue relentless. his groans are constant. low and hungry, like he’s getting off just from the way you’re falling apart on his mouth.
your thighs start shaking uncontrollably around his head. your breathing turns ragged. the pleasure coils tighter and tighter until it feels almost unbearable. you’re right there— right on the razor’s edge, muscles locking up, vision starting to blur at the edges—BANG BANG BANG!
the sound tears through the room hard enough to punch every thought clean out of your head.
you jolt.
not gracefully. not in any way your body will forgive once the adrenaline wears off. one second, you’re hovering right on the edge of something devastating, fingers twisted in soldier boy’s hair, every muscle pulled tight around the promise of release. the next, panic fires through you on instinct and your legs clamp shut around his shoulders before shoving outward with considerably more force than either of you expects.
the sheet shifts violently.
the mattress jerks beneath you.
soldier boy disappears.
there’s a heavy thud beside the bed, followed by a silence so complete it feels medically concerning.
your eyes widen. your chest is still rising too fast, skin flushed, legs trembling from an orgasm you were approximately three seconds away from having before the universe decided you had experienced enough joy for one morning.
outside the door, butcher speaks with infuriating calm. “need you in the kitchen, love. five minutes.”
you stare at the empty space between your thighs where ben’s head had been moments ago.
then you lean cautiously over the side of the mattress.
soldier boy is on the floor. actually on the floor. one broad shoulder is pressed against the rug. the sheet has followed him halfway down and is now tangled around his waist in a undignified knot. his hair’s wrecked, mouth still wet, expression blank with the pure disbelief of a man who has survived bullets, explosions, decades of torture, and the collapse of several governments only to be thrown out of bed by a startled woman with questionable reflexes.
for one horrible second, neither of you speaks.
his eyes lift slowly to yours. “what… the fuck?”
you wince, still breathing hard, thighs trembling from the ruined orgasm. soldier boy is sprawled on the floor like a disgruntled greek god who just got kicked out of olympus. the sheet is barely covering his hips, doing nothing to hide the very obvious, very angry erection curving against his stomach.
“i panicked!” you whisper-shout, sitting up on your elbows. “butcher knocked like he was trying to break the damn door down.”
soldier boy pushes up on one elbow, glaring at you with pure betrayal. “you threw me.”
“i didn’t throw you.” you try, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.
he completely ignores you. “with your legs. i was two seconds from making you come so hard you’d forget your own name and you launched me like i was a fucking football.”
“you’re the one with super strength! how was i supposed to know i could actually move you?”
“i was distracted,” he growls, gesturing sharply at his glistening chin and the very obvious evidence of how thoroughly he’d been enjoying himself. “my face was buried in your pussy.”
your face burns despite the fact that modesty left this room a long time ago. “yes, benjamin. i was there.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
“oh, please. you survived.”
“barely.”
you stare at him. “you’re bulletproof.”
“not the point.”
outside the room, butcher’s footsteps retreat down the hallway. soldier boy pushes himself upright with the offended dignity of a man attempting to pretend he didn’t just get launched—nay, yeeted—off a mattress in nothing but a tangled sheet. he stands, muttering under his breath while he searches for his clothes.
you bite the inside of your cheek. “you know, training really has paid off.”
his head turns slowly. “don’t.”
“hips first,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “shoulder follows. fist last. apparently, legs are also very effective.”
“keep talking.”
“maybe tomorrow we can work on your balance.”
he catches his shorts from the floor and drags them on with an irritated movement. “you caught me off guard.”
“grandma at bingo all over again.”
his eyes narrow. “you think this is funny?”
you look at the sheet still hanging crookedly from the bed, then at his wrecked hair. “a little.”
“unbelievable,” he mutters, bending to retrieve his shirt. “my girl throws me off the goddamn bed seconds away from seeing heaven, and thinks it’s funny.”
the words pass so naturally beneath the rest of his complaining that you almost miss them. your mouth parts, but he’s already pulling his shirt over his head, too busy being insulted by the entire morning to notice the silence that follows. by the time his face emerges again, you have rearranged your expression into something far safer.
“butcher’s waiting,” you remind him.
he looks at you for a beat. then he steps back toward the bed.
“ben.”
“relax.”
one hand catches the back of your neck. he kisses you before you can argue, rough and unhurried enough to make your breath catch. the taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, warm and indecent, and the smug bastard knows exactly what he’s doing when he deepens the kiss for one lingering second before pulling away.
his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw. “we’re evening the score later.”
then he walks out, leaving you flushed, disheveled, and staring after him while butcher calls your name from the kitchen again.
lowdown ☆ soldier boy spends the ride home pretending he’s not jealous. he lasts approximately three minutes after the van doors open.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 4821 ride style ☆ smut !!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sex, rough wall sex, blowjob, possessive behavior, hand over mouth, bruised knuckles, jealousy, soldier boy being demanding, unsafe levels of tension in a crowded safehouse
liv's log ☆ took us +55k words but we're finally going at it!!
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the safehouse is loud before the van doors finish closing.
not the sharp, ugly kind of noise that follows somebody stumbling in with blood down their face or butcher dragging a new disaster over the threshold and calling it useful. this is different. relieved. restless. too many voices moving at once because the mission actually went well and nobody quite trusts that yet.
frenchie is talking before his shoes touch the floor, holding the black electroshock device up between two fingers with the pride of a man returning from war. “she performed beautifully,” he announces.
“you electrocuted the deep?”
hughie appears from the hallway so quickly he almost walks into annie. his hair’s messy, sweater sleeves pulled low over his wrists, eyes moving between frenchie, the duffel, you, and the very obvious red mark starting to rise across your knuckles.
“oui, petite hughie,” frenchie says.
“saw it with my own bloody eyes,” butcher confirms, entirely too pleased with himself for a man who spent the whole mission sitting inside the van at a safe distance. “fish boy’s probably still explainin’ himself to a seal.”
hughie blinks. “a seal?”
you barely have time to answer before annie catches your wrist carefully, turning your hand toward the kitchen light. “did you punch deep?”
“sadly, no,” you grin brightly. “some vought guy that was reaching for a radio. i’m saving kevin for a later time.”
annie gives you a look that says she’s too aware of your commitment to being difficult and is choosing not to rise to it. “sit down.”
“it’s fine.”
“sit.”
you sit at the edge of the couch because there’s no point pretending you’re going to win against annie when she uses that voice. the adrenaline is still buzzing beneath your skin, bright and uncomfortable, making your limbs feel lighter than they should. your knuckles throb when you flex them just enough to make the memory satisfying.
hips first. shoulder follows. fist last. clean hit. the vought employee went down hard enough that the clipboard flew out of his hand. you keep seeing it in quick, stupid flashes: the startled look on his face, frenchie’s grip closing around your arm, the two of you running while papers scattered across the dock and the deep twitched dramatically behind you.
no blood. nobody dead. nobody hurt enough that your brain has to crawl back into that warehouse and stay there for the night.
good mission.
annie disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a bag of ice wrapped inside a dish towel. you take it from her before she can press it against your hand herself. “i can manage.”
“clearly.”
hughie drops into the armchair opposite you, eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that makes him look almost boyish and innocent. “wait. go back. there was a seal?”
kimiko perches against the armrest beside him. frenchie settles near the table with the duffel, already dragging the stolen drive free while mm opens his laptop. butcher hovers behind them, cigarette tucked behind one ear, attention divided between whatever information they stole and the story he already heard through the comms but apparently intends to enjoy twice.
“the deep was giving relationship advice,” you say.
hughie’s face tightens. “to the seal?”
“yes.”
“about another seal?”
the question makes you tilt your head. “uh, i think so.”
“did it seem helpful?”
you look at frenchie. frenchie considers the question with grave seriousness. “the seal appeared emotionally resistant.”
“he brought fish to her cove after she asked for space,” you explain. “it was a boundary issue.”
annie’s mouth drops open slightly. “you’re kidding.”
“i wish i was.”
hughie stares at you for one silent second. then laughs. the sound catches you off guard badly enough that your own mouth moves before you can stop it. a small laugh slips out, then another when frenchie starts reenacting the deep’s expression with insulting accuracy, eyebrows pinched together in solemn marine concern.
the ice pack sweats against your knuckles. your shoulders loosen by a fraction.
you don’t look toward the hallway when heavier footsteps approach. soldier boy has been quiet since the van. you feel the shift in the room before you see him. the blunt weight of his attention.
frenchie is halfway through describing the snitch’s moustache in full detail when soldier boy appears near the living room entrance. he looks at you, jaw is tight enough to show beneath the rough shadow along it. his shoulders haven’t come down from the docks. something in his face still carries the same irritation he wore in the van, meaner now that there are walls around it and fewer immediate reasons to pretend it is only professional concern.
hughie follows your gaze and stops talking. annie looks over her shoulder. butcher, unfortunately, notices everything.
soldier boy grunts out a “need you.” that is it. not your name. not could i talk to you. not a glance toward the others suggesting privacy might be socially beneficial before announcing whatever this is. just need you, flat and direct, like he has already decided the rest.
you blink once. “right now?”
his eyes narrow slightly. “now.”
for one second, the room is so still you can hear the faint hum of mm’s laptop from the table. hughie looks down at his hands. frenchie turns toward the drive with sudden, passionate interest. mm doesn’t look up at all, which somehow makes his refusal to get involved more obvious. butcher’s mouth starts to curve around something deeply unhelpful.
annie takes the ice pack back from you slowly. “i’ll put this in the freezer.”
your face warms. “thank you.”
“mhm.”
soldier boy turns away before you stand. of course he does. apparently, the possibility that you might not follow has never occurred to him.
you catch butcher watching when you get up. his eyebrows lift by the smallest amount, cigarette still tucked behind his ear, expression rich with the private satisfaction of a man discovering a new form of leverage he absolutely doesn’t deserve.
you point at him as you pass. “don’t.”
“didn’t say anythin’, love.”
“your face did.”
“handsome face, that.”
“nightmare face.” he grins.
soldier boy is already halfway down the hall. he doesn’t take you to your bedroom. that would feel too familiar. too obvious after the nights he has spent there taking up your bed, complaining about your mattress, making himself at home in a place neither of you has been brave enough to call shared.
instead, he pushes open the door to the empty room near the back of the safehouse. plain walls. narrow bed. a chair shoved into one corner. a window with the blinds drawn against the afternoon light.
he steps inside. you follow. the door closes behind you with a quiet click.
you turn toward him. “well?”
soldier boy leans back against the door for half a second, eyes moving over you once. not the quick assessment from the van, searching for damage beneath the places another man touched. this is slower. your jacket. your shirt. the jeans sitting snug across your hips. your wrist where the deep grabbed you. your mouth.
“blue tide summer?” he says.
you stare at him. of all the ways this conversation could start, you should’ve known he’d choose the one most likely to make you consider violence. “are you serious?”
“dark blue wristband,” he continues, voice rough with disbelief. “little trident logo.”
you fold your arms. “you were listening very closely for someone who spent the entire mission pretending he didn’t care.”
“hard not to hear you giggling like an idiot through the comms.”
“i was distracting him.”
“you were having the time of your life.”
you laugh once, sharp and incredulous. “oh my god.”
“thirteen years ago and you still remember which fuckin’ color bracelet you wore.”
“i was fourteen.”
“fourteen-year-old you had shit taste.”
“fourteen-year-old me had limited options.”
“guy talks to seals.”
“he was helping a friend through a difficult breakup.”
soldier boy pushes away from the door. the movement is slow enough that you have time to register it. not enough time to decide what to do with your pulse when he crosses the room and stops in front of you. close but not touching. not yet.
“you think this is funny?” he asks.
you tilt your chin up. “a little.”
his mouth pulls to one side, but there is no real amusement in it. the frustration has followed him home intact, restless under his skin, searching for somewhere to go. “he had his hands all over you.”
“he touched my back.”
“grabbed your wrist.”
“for two seconds.”
“two too many.”
your chest tightens at the echo from the van. you shouldn’t enjoy this. the whole thing is absurd. the deep is not a threat to whatever strange, half-built thing exists between you and soldier boy. he’s barely a threat to himself near open water and an emotionally complicated seal.
but soldier boy looks furious anyway. not because he thinks you wanted the deep. because he hated watching someone else touch what he’s started thinking of as his before either of you have agreed to anything sensible.
you narrow your eyes. “you’re jealous.”
his stare turns flat. “of fish sticks?”
“you nearly climbed out of the van.” you breathe out through your nose, fighting a smile because smiling would only encourage him and apparently encouragement is no longer necessary. “you hated hearing me laugh with him.”
his jaw shifts. there it is. small. ugly. honest enough to be dangerous.
you wait.
he looks at your mouth when he answers. “i hated hearing him breathe near you.”
the room changes—no lightning strike, no sudden soft music—just a quiet loss of oxygen, your body reacting before your mind has the dignity to object.
soldier boy steps closer. the back of your shoulders meets the wall. the space between you disappears and leaves you with the blunt heat of his body crowded against yours. one hand’s braced beside your head, the other catches your waist. rough. familiar. possessive enough to make your stomach pull tight.
you breathe in. “you dragged me in here to complain?” his eyes stay on yours. “or are you planning to make a point?”
that does it. his mouth comes down on yours hard enough to knock the next breath out of you. you kiss him back immediately.
your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even though closer has become largely theoretical. his hand tightens around your waist, dragging you flush against him. his mouth moves against yours with the same rough certainty it did the night before, except there’s nothing restrained about it now. no last-second thought. no mission waiting in the morning. no line he intends to respect simply because one of you might regret stepping over it too quickly.
the kiss turns filthy almost immediately. tongue, teeth, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin when his mouth slips from yours and catches at the corner of your jaw. you tilt your head instinctively, giving him room, and his breath leaves him in a low sound that makes heat drag down your spine.
“fuck,” you whisper.
“getting there.”
you almost laugh. it dies when he bites lightly beneath your ear and your fingers tighten in his shirt. your bruised knuckles complain immediately.
his hand catches your wrist, dragging it away from his shoulder before you can put more weight against it. “quit using that hand.”
“i punched a man.”
“yeah.” his gaze drops briefly to your knuckles. something satisfied passes through his face. “saw.”
“and?”
his mouth finds yours again before he answers properly. “clean hit.”
the praise lands somewhere deep and embarrassingly tender beneath the heat. you don’t get time to examine it. soldier boy hooks your uninjured arm around his shoulders instead, positioning you the way he wants you, then catches both your hips and lifts.
you gasp against his mouth.
your back presses into the wall. your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, jeans pulling tight between your bodies while he settles you against him like your weight is nothing. his mouth drags down your throat. your head tips back against the plaster hard enough to make the blinds rattle faintly beside you.
“someone’s going to hear,” you whisper, though your body has apparently decided this isn’t a meaningful concern.
“then be quiet.”
his hand slides beneath the edge of your shirt. hot palm. rough fingers. skin against skin. the contact makes your whole body jolt. soldier boy’s mouth curves against your neck when he feels it, smugness finally slipping through the anger. he drags his hand upward slowly, learning the line of your waist and the soft warmth of your stomach with the same shameless entitlement he brings to everything else. his thumb presses into your side. his fingers spread wider.
“still laughing?” he asks near your ear.
“still jealous?”
his hand tightens. “careful.”
you know better than to ask. you do it anyway. “or what?”
his eyes lift to yours. green gone darker in the thin light coming through the blinds. his mouth is swollen slightly from kissing you. hair messy from your fingers. expression rough enough to make your pulse jump.
“you really need everything explained to you?” he asks.
you pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him again instead. he makes a low, approving sound and drives his hips against you. the friction punches a moan out of your mouth before you can swallow it. soldier boy’s hand leaves your stomach and closes over your mouth. the movement is quick. firm enough to stop the sound dead against his palm while his eyes stay fixed on yours. your breath catches through your nose.
“you gonna be good for me, doll?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy near your ear.
your entire body goes hot. you glare at him.
his mouth twitches. “if only you were always this obedient.”
you bite lightly at the heel of his hand.
“brat,” he says, almost fond and not remotely soft.
his palm slips away just long enough for his mouth to take yours again, swallowing the smaller sound you make when he rolls his hips between your thighs. there’s no patience left in either of you. not after the night before. not after the dock. not after an entire van ride spent refusing to look at each other for too long because butcher was sitting close enough to weaponize eye contact.
your fingers drag beneath his shirt. muscle and warm skin, solid under your palms. his body feels unfairly built, every inch of him hard where you’re soft, heat collecting quickly beneath your touch. you push the fabric higher. he breaks the kiss only long enough to drag the shirt over his head and throw it somewhere near the bed.
then he’s back—mouth at your throat. hands at your waist. broad chest pressing into you while your fingers find his shoulders and cling there, careful of your bruised knuckles this time.
his hand moves to the button of your jeans. the button comes loose. your zipper follows. “lift,” he says against your mouth.
you do. he gets your jeans and underwear down far enough to make the entire situation feel suddenly, brutally real, fabric caught awkwardly around one ankle until you kick the rest away and nearly lose your boot with it. soldier boy laughs once under his breath, rough and mean. “smooth.”
“shut up.”
“you always this graceful?”
“you’re welcome to leave.”
“not a chance in hell.”
his hand slides between your thighs. your breath catches so sharply it almost becomes a sound. he looks at your face when his fingers find you wet already, his expression shifting into something dark and deeply satisfied.
“think fish sticks could do this to you?”
his thumb circles slowly, once, and the shape of whatever insult you meant to throw at him disappears before it reaches your mouth. “fuck,” you breathe.
“yeah,” he says, eyes fixed on your face. “thought so.”
you grip his shoulder with your good hand when his fingers press into you, the stretch immediate and sharp enough to make your legs tense around his hips. he works you open with none of the delicate patience another man might use to prove something about himself. soldier boy is rougher than that. direct. watching every change in your expression while his thumb keeps dragging over you until your breathing turns unreliable and your head tips back against the wall again.
“quiet,” he reminds you.
you bite down on your lower lip. he watches you do it and swears beneath his breath.
somewhere beyond the closed door, a cabinet shuts in the kitchen. footsteps move faintly through the hallway, then fade again. the safehouse remains full of people. mm and frenchie are probably already pulling apart the stolen drive. butcher is almost certainly standing near the table with a look on his face that makes future humiliation inevitable.
soldier boy’s fingers curl inside you. you forget all of them.
your hand catches at his wrist. “ben.”
his eyes snap to yours. the name does something to him every time. you know that now. it moves beneath his expression like a bruise pressed too hard, pain and want twisted too closely together to separate. his mouth finds yours again. slower for half a second. then harder.
he pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you breathe out something embarrassingly close to a whine.
“impatient,” he mutters.
“stop teasing.”
his eyes narrow. you have enough time to regret saying it before he sets you down just long enough to undo his belt. the metal buckle clicks loudly in the small room. your mouth goes dry.
you kick your jeans the rest of the way free while he shoves his trousers and underwear low enough to free himself. the sight of him should be unfair at minimum. thick, hard, already leaking at the tip.
you stare.
his hand closes around his cock. one slow stroke. eyes on your face. “problem?”
“unfortunately, i’m only human.”
his mouth twitches. his hands return to you. hips. thighs. lifting you back against the wall. your legs lock around his waist. his cock presses against you. both of you stop breathing properly. soldier boy looks at your face. not softly. not asking something he can’t say. just giving you the second you need.
you tighten your legs around him and pull him closer. “do it,” you whisper.
he pushes into you.
the stretch knocks every thought out of your head at once. your mouth opens around a sound that doesn’t make it far because his hand closes over it again immediately, palm warm and broad across your lips while his other arm braces hard beneath your thighs to hold you in place.
“quiet,” he says through clenched teeth, voice rougher now.
you breathe hard against his hand.
he gives you a second. barely enough for your body to adjust around him, but enough for the ache to turn into something hotter, fuller, impossible to ignore. then he draws back and thrusts into you again, deeper this time, the force driving your shoulders harder against the wall.
your fingers dig into him.
his forehead nearly drops toward yours. breath mixing hot against your face while his hips move with an unforgiving rhythm that makes your legs tighten around him and your body jolt against the wall with every thrust.
the room narrows down to pressure and heat and the rough drag of his cock inside you. the muted sounds trapped behind his hand. his breath turning harsher every time your body clenches around him. his eyes fixed on yours as if looking away would cost him something.
“fuck,” he mutters. “that’s it.”
you make another sound against his palm.
his gaze sharpens. “you like the whole goddamn house hearing you?”
you shake your head quickly.
“could’ve fooled me.”
his hand leaves your mouth only long enough to kiss you, hard and messy, catching every broken breath before it becomes too loud. you kiss him back with whatever coordination remains, nails dragging down his shoulder, body moving with his.
his hand slips between you again. your entire body tenses when his thumb finds you. “oh, ben—”
his palm covers your mouth again. “what did i say?”
you stare at him, furious and breathless and so close to losing every remaining scrap of control that it feels humiliating. soldier boy looks entirely too pleased by that.
“there she is,” he murmurs. “mouthy until it matters.”
you bite his palm again. harder this time.
his hips snap forward with enough force to make your eyes roll shut. “fuckin’ brat.” the words hit low.
so does the next thrust. and the next. each one rougher than the last as his control frays, his hand firm over your mouth, his other arm holding you against the wall like he could keep you there forever if he decided the rest of the world could wait.
the pressure builds too quickly. your body already overstimulated from his fingers, from last night, from the whole horrible day of wanting and waiting and listening to him pretend jealousy is just another form of irritation.
your thighs shake around his waist. he feels it. “look at me.”
you open your eyes.
his breathing is wrecked now. face tense. hair falling forward. jaw tight with the effort of staying quiet himself while his thumb circles harder and his cock keeps dragging deep enough to make every thought fracture apart.
“come on,” he says, voice low. “give it to me.”
your body breaks around him.
the orgasm hits hard enough to make your back arch off the wall, every muscle drawing tight at once while the sound tears against his palm and dies there. your vision blurs. your fingers clutch at his shoulders. heat rolls through you in sharp waves, knees pulling tighter around his hips while he keeps moving through it, rough and relentless, dragging the pleasure out until it tips almost painfully sensitive.
“ben,” you cry against his hand.
his forehead drops near yours for half a second. his breathing comes apart completely now, every inhale rough and uneven, his chest moving hard beneath your palms as he tries and fails to keep quiet.
you catch his wrist and pull his hand away from your mouth. “put me down.”
his eyes open properly. dark. unfocused at the edges. still hungry enough to make the words catch briefly in your throat. “what?”
“down.”
he stares at you for one second longer, like his brain has stopped cooperating with the rest of him. then his hands shift beneath your thighs and he lowers you carefully enough to be insulting after everything else. your feet meet the floor. your knees nearly fail you.
his hand catches your waist immediately. “easy,” he mutters.
you look up at him. his chest is still rising too fast. his mouth is swollen. there’s a flush climbing along his neck, disappearing beneath the line of his jaw, and the sight of it makes something hot curl low in your stomach all over again.
you keep your eyes on his as you sink to your knees.
the floor is hard under you but you don’t care. your legs are still shaking from the orgasm he dragged out of you, thighs slick, heartbeat loud in your ears.
soldier boy stares down at you. his cock is right there, thick and flushed dark, still wet from being inside you. it twitches when your breath ghosts over it.
“fuck, doll,” he mutters, voice wrecked.
you wrap your hand around the base first, giving one slow stroke just to watch his abs clench. then you lean in and lick a broad stripe up the underside, tongue pressing flat against the vein that runs along his length. he hisses through his teeth, one hand flying to the wall for balance.
you take your time at first. swirling your tongue around the head, tasting yourself on him, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just under the tip until his hips jerk forward. a fat drop of spit slides down your chin already.
you look up at him through your lashes as you open your mouth wider and slide him inside. he’s thick enough that your jaw aches after only a few inches, but you push further anyway, cheeks hollowing.
“shit—that’s it,” he groans, low and rough. his free hand finally lands in your hair, resting heavy there. like he needs the contact.
you bob your head, taking him deeper each time, saliva coating him, dripping messily down your chin and onto your shirt. the wet sounds are obscene in the small room. you relax your throat and take him further, until your nose brushes the dark hair at his base and your eyes start to water.
you choke. a small, wet sound that makes his grip tighten in your hair.
you pull back, spit wet on your lips, and stroke him with your hand while you catch half a breath. your mouth feels swollen already. your chin is damp. his cock shines with spit under your fist, and soldier boy stares at the sight like it might kill him.
“still jealous?” you tease.
his eyes snap to yours. a mistake. a wonderful one.
his hand on your hair pulls your mouth back to him. “open.”
your pulse kicks as you obey.
he slides back across your tongue, and this time, he doesn’t let you tease. his hand guides you down, firm and filthy, until your lips stretch around him and your throat starts to resist. you gag, soft and wet, nails dragging down the hard muscle of his thigh as your eyes sting.
“there you go,” he breathes.
your hand grips the base of him, working what your mouth can’t take, spit slipping over your fingers. he holds you there for a second too long, just enough to make the room blur at the edges, then lets you pull back with a messy inhale.
a string of saliva breaks from your lower lip to the head of his cock. his control takes visible damage. “look at you,” he says, voice thick. “all that attitude, and now you’re drooling on my cock.”
you dive back down, faster now. messy. greedy. your head moves in a steady rhythm while your tongue works the underside. soldier boy’s breathing gets louder, rougher. his hand shifts in your hair, fingers tightening, starting to guide you.
“yeah… just like that. good fucking girl.”
the praise hits low in your stomach. you moan around him and his control slips another notch. his hips start moving, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. he fucks your mouth with growing urgency, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat over and over.
you choke again, throat convulsing around him, tears slipping down your cheeks. spit drips freely now, soaking your chin, running down your neck. you don’t care. you dig your nails into his thigh harder and take everything he gives you.
“fuck—i’m close,” he pants. his voice is completely shot. chest heaving. abs tight. “gonna come in that pretty mouth if you keep—shit—”
you look up at him and hum, eyes watering but steady.
that does it.
his hand fists tight in your hair, holding you in place as his hips stutter. he comes with a broken groan, thick and hot across your tongue. pulse after pulse, salty and warm, filling your mouth until you have to swallow around him. he keeps thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, panting your name under his breath.
when he finally stills, you keep him in your mouth a second longer, sucking gently, milking the last drops. only then do you pull off slowly, gasping, lips shiny and swollen, chin a complete mess.
soldier boy stares down at you, chest still rising and falling hard. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, smearing the spit and cum there. something soft flickers across his face for half a second—too raw, too honest—before he tucks it away again.
you stay on your knees a moment longer, looking up at him. he hauls you up by the elbows, kissing you deep and filthy even though his taste is still in your mouth. his arms wrap around you like he’s not sure he’ll let go anytime soon.
the safehouse is still noisy outside the door. voices, laughter, the faint clack of keyboards. none of it feels real right now.
you press your face into his bare chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down, and try not to think about how much you like being held by him after he’s fallen apart. how dangerous that is.
he doesn’t say anything else. just holds you tighter, nose buried in your hair, like maybe he’s thinking the same thing and doesn’t know what to do with it either.
lowdown ☆ an actually simple job at the docks becomes significantly less simple when an old fish-themed problem recognizes your face.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3584 ride style ☆ mission tension!
danger on the trail ☆ suggestive flirting, wrist-grabbing, electroshock device, soldier boy experiencing emotions against his will
liv's log ☆ is kevin ever gonna catch a break??? poor guy 🪸
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
today’s mission is actually simple. which means everyone is already suspicious of it.
it isn’t labeled as easy, because that word got cut off the table weeks ago. but it’s also not simple in the butcher-simple way, where three people bleed and he insists the plan went fine because nobody was that severely injured that they needed a hospital visit. actual simple.
it’s not a gala. nobody is dressing you up and handing you champagne and asking you to flatter a supe with the emotional depth of a wet napkin. there are no crystal lights, no tiny appetizers, no rich people congratulating themselves for donating money to a problem they helped create.
so… docks.
specifically, a stretch of working harbor owned through enough shell companies to make frenchie’s eye twitch while explaining it. the water is dull and gray beneath the afternoon light, gulls screaming overhead with the confidence of creatures that have never paid rent, warehouses lined up along the concrete with peeling paint and rust spreading around the metal doors. forklifts beep behind chain-link fences. shipping containers sit stacked in crooked rows, red and blue and sun-faded white, each one large enough to hide some of vought’s best hidden secrets.
the objective is refreshingly boring.
one of vought’s dock employees developed a conscience shortly after discovering how much money butcher was willing to pay for one. he has shipping manifests, delivery schedules, and internal records for cargo that disappears between the official warehouse logs and whichever underground facility vought doesn’t want anybody asking about.
he wants cash.
you have cash.
frenchie makes the exchange. you stand nearby and make sure the nervous little traitor doesn’t suddenly decide personal integrity is worth less than keeping all his teeth. that’s it. no breaking locks. no sneaking through tunnels. no guards crawling out of walls. no knife necessary.
the knife stayed beside the safehouse sink. you looked at it once before leaving. clean and ordinary on the folded cloth where it has sat for over a week, blade angled away from the room, handle scrubbed so thoroughly there’s no visible trace of the warehouse left in the grooves.
today doesn’t require it. today is daylight, conversation, cash changing hands. nothing more.
frenchie walks beside you through the dockyard in a stained work jacket and a baseball cap pulled low enough to hide his features from the dubious cameras hanging around the lot. he carries a black duffel in one hand. you’re dressed plainly too: jeans, boots, old jacket zipped halfway against the wind coming off the water. your hair is pulled back. no lipstick. no make up. no need to become anyone particularly polished. you’re not bait today.
“our friend is waiting inside warehouse four,” frenchie murmurs, eyes forward. “office near the loading bay. nervous man with a tragic little mustache.”
“you met him already?”
“briefly.”
“and you trusted the mustache?”
“no. but i trust butcher’s dirty money.”
the van is parked across the street from the main yard, close enough to reach quickly if the exchange goes wrong and far enough away not to draw attention. mm sits behind the wheel with his laptop balanced near the center console. butcher is beside him, cigarette unlit between his fingers because mm threatened to throw it into the harbor if he smoked inside the van again.
soldier boy sits in the back. he’s not necessary. nobody asked him to come. nobody needs a walking explosion for a two-person exchange with an employee whose most dangerous quality is—apparently—facial hair. butcher told him that plainly while everyone loaded the equipment. soldier boy looked at him, pulled on his boots, and followed you outside anyway.
bored, he said. the safehouse couch became unbearable the moment you were leaving without him. you try not to think about that. you especially don’t think about last night: his weight above you beneath the blankets, his hand warm beneath your shirt, his mouth moving against yours. you don’t think about the way he stayed afterward either, taking up half your bed with the offensive confidence.
work. you are working.
static crackles softly in your earpiece.
“we got eyes,” mm says.
you keep walking, gaze moving casually over the warehouse doors.
“warehouse cameras,” mm clarifies. “exterior feed, loading bay, office hallway. quality’s bad, but i can see enough.”
“our guy inside?”
“nervously checking his watch every ten seconds,” mm says. “mustache confirmed.”
frenchie touches two fingers briefly to his chest like the confirmation means something profound. “a face one does not forget.”
butcher’s voice cuts through the comms. “make the switch. don’t linger.”
“yes, papa,” frenchie mutters.
“call me that again and i’m keepin’ your cut.”
you’re twenty feet from warehouse four when you hear a bark—not a dog. something wetter. heavier. followed immediately by the low murmur of a man speaking with the patient seriousness of somebody delivering life-changing advice.
you slow. frenchie slows beside you.
at the far edge of the dock, beside a row of thick wooden pilings darkened by the tide, the deep is crouched with both forearms resting over his knees, having a private conversation with a… harbor seal.
the seal floats near the concrete, head bobbing above the surface, whiskers twitching while the deep nods along with an expression of grave emotional investment.
behind him, a vought employee stands with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm and the exhausted stare of a man who’s been standing there far too long and has reconsidered every decision that led him to this career.
“no, buddy,” the deep says gently. “i hear you. i do. but showing up outside her cove every day after she asked for space isn’t romantic. it’s a boundary issue.”
the seal barks.
the deep’s eyebrows lift. “okay. don’t put that on me. i told you not to bring the fish.”
another bark. shorter this time. defensive.
“i know she likes mackerel. that’s not the point.”
you stare. frenchie stares.
through your earpiece, mm says, after a long and painful silence, “is he talking to the seal?”
butcher answers, “looks that way.”
the deep leans closer to the water. “listen, man… i’m saying this as a friend—you need to work on yourself before you try to fix things with her.”
the seal lets out a wounded little noise.
the deep sighs. “yeah. i know. heartbreak sucks.”
frenchie turns his head toward you slowly. you turn yours toward him.
“go,” you whisper.
his eyes move toward the warehouse door. then back to the deep. “and you?”
“i’ll handle it.”
“you always say this immediately before something becomes terrible.”
“frenchie.”
“oui. going.”
he peels away smoothly, duffel still in hand, walking toward warehouse four without rushing. the employee waiting inside is expecting two people, but one person carrying cash will do. the important part is getting frenchie through the door before—fuck.
the deep looks up and his eyes land on you. for one awful second, his expression empties. then tightens faintly around something uncertain. not recognition yet. the beginning of it. the faint scrape of a memory looking for the right place to settle.
your stomach drops. you react before he has a chance to say a single useful thing: your eyes widen, your hand flies toward your mouth as you let out a small, startled sound so painfully convincing that some private, dignified part of you quietly walks into the harbor. “oh my god!”
the deep blinks.
you step closer quickly, smiling before his thoughts can finish arranging themselves. “sorry. i’m sorry. are you—?”
his entire posture changes. suspicion loses ground beneath the familiar relief of being recognized in the correct way. his shoulders pull back. his face rearranges itself into something modest that isn’t modest in the slighrest.
“yeah,” he says, standing. “yeah. i am.”
“holy shit!” you laugh beneath your breath and touch his arm lightly, as if you cannot quite believe he exists outside a television screen. “i’m sorry. this is so embarrassing. i’m not usually this weird.”
in the van, silence. then soldier boy says, flatly, “what the fuck is she doing?”
mm does not sound impressed. “becoming a distraction.”
the deep glances down at your hand on his sleeve. then back to your face. “no, hey. it’s cool. happens more than you’d think.”
“i’m sure.” your smile brightens. horrifyingly sincere. entirely false. “god, i used to be obsessed with you.”
that gets him completely. “used to?” he asks, half-teasing.
you laugh again because apparently self-respect is a resource you are willing to burn for access to shipping records. “okay. wow. fair.”
the deep grins. behind him, the harbor seal barks. he turns toward the water. “one second, buddy.”
the seal dips briefly beneath the surface.
the deep turns back to you. “sorry. old friend. going through a rough breakup.”
“oh… poor thing.”
“yeah. they were together for almost three seasons.”
you nod solemnly. “right...”
in the van, butcher makes a sound that might be a cough or a laugh strangled halfway out.
you keep smiling. “i had the blue tide summer wristband,” you tell the deep, pushing before his brain circles back toward the question in his expression. “the one from your beach-cleanup tour. with the little trident logo.”
his face lights up. “no way.”
“i wore it until the plastic snapped.”
“that was, what, twelve years ago?”
“thirteen,” you answer immediately. “you did the tour twice, but the first year had the darker blue band.”
the detail is real. that’s the humiliating part. fourteen-year-old you had opinions. fourteen-year-old you saved allowance money for that stupid rubber bracelet, wore it until it left a faint mark around your wrist whenever the weather got hot, and argued online with strangers about which campaign photo was best. vigorously.
the deep looks genuinely touched. “people don’t remember that campaign.”
“impossible to forget.”
“we picked up, like, three tons of trash.”
you glance toward the dull water. “i remember.”
“it was actually closer to two and a half. vought rounded up.”
“still inspiring.”
in your earpiece, mm says, “frenchie’s inside.”
warehouse four sits behind the deep’s shoulder. through the open loading doors, you catch frenchie crossing the concrete floor toward a narrow office at the back. he doesn’t look at you. neither does the nervous employee waiting for him near the doorway.
“tell her to stop laughing,” soldier boy says.
mm clicks through the warehouse feeds. “she’s working.”
butcher replies, far too entertained, “thought you liked her mouth.”
“shut the fuck up,” soldier boy barks.
the deep shifts half a step closer. “what are you doing here?”
“helping my cousin.” you gesture vaguely toward the warehouse without looking directly at frenchie. “he’s delivering something. i came along because he gets lost in parking lots with more than three exits.”
“that’s nice of you.”
“i’m deeply selfless.”
the deep laughs. you join him, lighter than the joke deserves. his attention stays fixed on your face.
behind him, the vought employee with the clipboard checks his watch again. “sir, we still need to inspect the incoming containers before the afternoon truck leaves.”
the deep lifts one hand without turning around. “yeah. just give me a second.”
the employee’s mouth presses into a line.
your earpiece crackles softly. frenchie’s voice drops low. “he has the drive.”
“cash down?” butcher asks.
“down.”
“then get out.”
“on my way.”
the deep looks at you again. longer this time. a faint crease appears between his brows. “you look really familiar.”
your heart gives one hard beat. you tilt your head. “i’d hope so. i just admitted to wearing your merchandise on my wrist for an entire summer.”
“no, i mean…” his gaze drags slowly across your features. not flirtatious now. searching. “have we met?”
you let your expression become startled, then shy, then mildly amused in less than a second. “i feel like i’d remember that.”
his mouth lifts because he likes the answer. still, the furrow between his brows doesn’t fully disappear.
“maybe at a fan event?” you offer, touching his forearm again. “i used to go all the time when i was a teenager. once at a mall, waited two hours and my mother complained the entire drive home because you signed my arm in permanent marker and i refused to wash it.”
the deep smiles wider. “that sounds familiar.”
it doesn’t. none of it does. but it sounds like the version of his life he prefers, so he accepts it.
his hand comes to your lower back. casual. automatic. too familiar. the same entitled placement as the clownfish gala, palm settling against the curve of your body through your jacket like fame has always made personal space flexible around him.
your smile doesn’t move.
inside the van, something scrapes sharply against metal. soldier boy’s voice comes clipped. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
mm exhales through his nose. “stay in the van.”
you shift subtly, angling your body until the deep’s hand has less room without pulling away sharply enough to make him think. “so,” you say brightly, “are you here on a mission?”
the deep’s expression falls by half an inch. “not exactly. vought likes having me around the docks.”
“because of the water?”
“yeah.” he glances toward the harbor. “i know people.”
the seal resurfaces several feet away and barks.
the deep points toward him. “exactly.”
you nod like that answered anything.
through the open warehouse door, you see frenchie emerge with the black duffel still in his hand. it looks exactly as full as it did before because the cash has been replaced by a stack of copied records and the drive tucked safely inside. the snitch stays behind, already retreating toward the office with the speed of a man who would prefer not to exist in the same place as the consequences of his choices.
frenchie starts walking toward you. calm. steady. not too fast. ready to leave.
the deep looks at you again.
his hand leaves your back. that should feel better, but his expression has tightened around a thought that refuses to stay buried. “wait—”
your smile holds. “what?”
“no. seriously.”
your pulse jumps.
“i know your face.”
you laugh softly, forcing it to remain easy. “you already said that.”
“no.” his brow furrows. “not from a fan event.”
the employee with the clipboard straightens behind him, attention finally caught by the change in his voice.
the deep stares at you, and you watch the memory assemble itself badly but inevitably behind his eyes. a gala. too many drinks. clownfish. the alley. your mouth. a needle.
his expression changes. “you!”
your smile stays in place for half a second longer than it should. “me?”
“you were at the clownfish fundraiser.”
inside the van, a door jerks open with a metallic crack loud enough to bleed through the comms. mm says soldier boy’s name sharply. butcher swears.
you don’t look toward the road. you don’t need to. somewhere behind the warehouse fencing, soldier boy is already trying to get out of the van.
the deep grabs your wrist. not hard enough to injure. hard enough that your body tenses instinctively, which only confirms the thought assembling in his face.
“you drugged me.”
“that is a deeply serious accusation,” you say, because apparently your survival instincts have developed a sense of humor at the least convenient possible moment.
his grip tightens. “you kissed me.”
“if we’re getting technical here, you kissed me.”
the vought employee takes one uncertain step closer. “sir?”
the deep’s face twists. embarrassment first. anger second. always a dangerous sequence in men who have never learned where to put either one. “who the fuck are you?”
frenchie reaches you at exactly the right moment.
he doesn’t slow down. doesn’t announce himself. one second, he’s approaching with the duffel in hand; the next, he has a small black device pressed against the deep’s side.
it’s not a normal taser. normal tasers don’t look as though they were assembled from spare radio parts, a battery pack, exposed wiring, and frenchie’s personal resentment toward safety regulations. two short prongs sit at the end, electricity snapping brightly between them.
the sound is vicious. the deep’s entire body locks. his hand drops from your wrist immediately, mouth opening around a strangled shout that barely becomes noise before his knees buckle. electricity cracks through his clothes for one ugly second, then another, sending him down hard against the dock with every muscle twitching.
the clipboard employee stares.
frenchie stares at the device in his hand. “that worked better than expected.”
the employee reaches toward the radio clipped to his belt.
you hit him. no warning. no elegant wind-up. no time to think about it. your body moves cleanly, weight turning behind the punch the way soldier boy drilled into you until the sequence became instinct. hips first. shoulder follows. fist last.
your knuckles connect with the employee’s face and his head snaps back. the clipboard flies from his hand, papers scattering across the dock in a flutter of white, and he lands flat on his ass with a startled noise that would be funny under different circumstances.
you stare for half a heartbeat. that was a good punch.
frenchie grabs your arm. “run.” right.
the two of you bolt toward the gate while the docks erupt behind you. somebody shouts from inside the warehouse. workers turn toward the noise. one of the papers from the clipboard skids beneath your boot and nearly takes you down, but you catch yourself without breaking pace.
the harbor seal barks repeatedly from the water, either alarmed or invested in the downfall of its therapist.
behind you, the deep is already recovering enough to make a garbled, furious sound. “you—fucking—”
“faster,” frenchie says.
the van waits outside the yard with one back door thrown open. soldier boy is halfway out of it, one boot already planted on the pavement, shoulders set, eyes fixed past you toward the docks with an expression that makes the deep’s continued survival look increasingly negotiable.
“get in!” mm barks.
you reach the van first. soldier boy’s hand closes around your upper arm as you pass, hauling you the last step inside with enough force to send you stumbling onto the bench. not gentle. not quite rough enough to complain about while your heart is still beating somewhere close to your throat.
frenchie dives in behind you, black device still in one hand and the duffel clutched tightly in the other. butcher slams the door. mm hits the gas and the van jerks away from the curb hard enough to throw everyone sideways. frenchie catches himself against the wall, laughing breathlessly.
butcher braces one hand against the front seat and looks through the rear window as the docks shrink behind you. “well,” he says. “that went beautifully.”
“we have the drive,” frenchie says.
“you electrocuted the deep in broad daylight,” mm actually chuckles.
“also beautiful.”
“and she decked a bloke with a clipboard,” butcher adds.
you flex your fingers once. your knuckles sting faintly, but nothing feels wrong. no blood. no blade. just the satisfying ache of a hit landing where it was supposed to. “he was reaching for his radio.”
mm looks at you through the rearview mirror. “clean hit.”
the small flare of pride catches you before you can stop it. “yeah?”
across the van, soldier boy sits back down heavily.
he should look satisfied that the job worked. or irritated that frenchie handled the deep before he could. or bored, because boredom is the lie he chose when he climbed into this van without being invited.
instead, he looks pissed. his jaw stays tight. his shoulders don’t settle properly. his eyes move over you once, quick and thorough, checking your face, your wrist, your side. the places the deep touched.
your pulse reacts before the rest of you can decide what to do with the observation.
butcher’s gaze shifts between you both for less than a second before returning to the rear window, mouth curling faintly around something private and terrible.
you can’t help yourself. “what?”
his gaze returns to your face. “take your sweet time?”
you blink. then your mouth curves slowly. “i was working.”
“looked fun.”
you fold your arms. “aw,” soldier boy’s eyes narrow immediately. “were you listening to me laugh?”
his jaw shifts. “hard not to. you were laying it on thick enough to wake the fish.”
“the fish were already awake.”
his gaze stays fixed on yours long enough that the air changes by a fraction. then his eyes drop to your wrist again. “he hurt you?”
the question comes out flat. casual enough to deny. his posture says something else entirely.
you turn your hand over once. no marks. maybe there will be faint ones later. nothing worth naming. “he grabbed me for two seconds.”
soldier boy looks toward the doors at the back of the van, as if calculating whether there is still time to go back and correct the oversight. “two too many.”
your chest tightens around something warm and deeply inconvenient. you hide it beneath a scoff. “frenchie handled it.”
frenchie lifts the black device proudly. “catch and release.”
you hold his gaze for a second, then look away before your mouth can become reckless in a van with witnesses.
butcher huffs faintly from the front seat.
soldier boy doesn’t answer. he stays quiet for the rest of the ride home with his arms crossed tightly over his chest and jealousy sitting ugly beneath his ribs where nobody can accuse him of it.
lowdown ☆ you leave the door unlocked. soldier boy takes that exactly as seriously as he wants to.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2925 ride style ☆ bedroom tense
danger on the trail ☆ intense kissing, suggestive touching, soldier boy being possessive/crude
liv's log ☆ please, do not bring an angry mob to my door 🙂↕️ i don't know how to stop the slow burn
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the knife stays by the sink. your door stays unlocked. for tonight, that is as brave as you get.
you tell yourself that means nothing once you’re in bed, because denial has been carrying half this safehouse on its back for weeks and you see no reason to stop contributing now. the little metal lock sits untouched in the door, too loud for an inanimate object. you look at it once, then twice, then make yourself look away.
you are not waiting.
you’re in bed because you’re tired. because training left your arms heavy and your legs sore. because the safehouse has finally quieted down. even the tv in the living room is off for once, which feels unnatural enough that the silence seems suspicious.
so, bed. phone in hand. blanket pulled to your waist. clean shirt. damp hair from the shower drying against your pillow—normal. except your screen has been dark for three minutes and you’re still holding the phone like you’re busy with it.
you tap it awake. no notifications. no messages. no convenient distraction from the fact that your entire body keeps listening for footsteps in the hallway like a pathetic little surveillance system with feelings.
you hate this. you hate that you know the difference between everyone’s steps now. butcher’s uneven stomp. mm’s solid, practical tread. hughie’s lighter, hesitant shuffle. annie’s careful quiet. frenchie’s restless, almost musical movements when he’s thinking too fast. kimiko’s near-silence.
and his. soldier boy doesn’t creep. he doesn’t know how. he moves like the world is supposed to clear a path because most of the time, it does. even when he tries to be quiet, there’s weight to him. wood gives him away. old floorboards complain. air shifts.
so when the hallway finally answers, your stomach drops and lifts at the same time.
you keep your eyes on your phone.
one step. then another. a pause outside your door.
you scroll down a page you have not read.
the door opens without a knock.
soldier boy fills the doorway in an old shirt and sleep shorts, face set into that bored, irritated expression he wears whenever he is doing something very intentional and pretending it’s just happening to him. his eyes move over the room once. quick. bed, you, window, chair. then back to you.
you lift your brows. “ever heard of knocking?”
“door was open.”
“unlocked isn’t open.”
“ah, it’s close enough,” he waves you off.
you stare at him over the top of your phone. “that legal argument work often?”
“worked tonight.”
he steps inside and shuts the door behind him with his heel—final enough that your pulse makes a stupid decision about it. you don’t move. he crosses the room like he’s done it a hundred times, which, by now, he almost has. still, there’s a difference tonight. something in the way he doesn’t hover, doesn’t sit on the edge, doesn’t arrange himself like he’s staying because you might fall apart.
he just lifts the blanket and gets in. fully. under the covers.
your mouth opens. “excuse me?”
“what?”
“make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
he settles onto his back with a rough exhale, taking up an offensive amount of mattress, one arm behind his head, the other already stealing warmth from your side of the bed because apparently conquest begins at the blanket line. “been fucking my back and neck on this tiny-ass bed for a week,” he says. “you’re welcome.”
you blink at him. “for what?”
“my sacrifice.”
“your sacrifice is stealing half my bed?”
“and not smothering you for snoring.”
“i don’t snore.”
he turns his head just enough to look at you. “you also don’t drool, right?”
your eyes narrow. “you said we weren’t making that weird.”
“didn’t say i’d forget.”
“that’s cruel.”
you huff, but it almost becomes a laugh, small and reluctant at the back of your throat. his eyes catch it immediately. the room changes by a fraction, not softer exactly, but closer. his gaze drops to your phone.
“you using that?”
“yes.”
the screen is dark in your hand again. he looks at it. then at you.
you hold his stare with great dignity before his hand moves. he takes the phone from your fingers with the casual entitlement of a man who does not believe small objects deserve to stand between him and what he wants. you make a sound of protest, but it’s weak and both of you know it. he glances at the black screen, scoffs, and tosses it onto the bedside table.
“hey!”
“you weren’t using it.”
“i was pretending to.”
“badly.”
“you came in here for attention?” you ask, and immediately regret giving the sentence a voice because it feels too close to the middle of the room.
soldier boy’s mouth curves. “you offering?”
you should say no. it’s the obvious answer. safe, clean, sensible. one syllable that would put the phone back in your hand, put him back on his side of the bed, put tonight into a shape you can survive tomorrow.
instead, you look at him for half a second too long.
that’s all he needs.
he rolls toward you, not fast, not careful either, the mattress dipping under his weight as his hand comes to your waist over the blanket and drags you closer by a few inches, the movement, blunt and sure, like the unlocked door had already answered enough for both of you.
your breath catches. “entitled.”
“accurate.”
you laugh then. quietly. unwillingly. it slips out of you before you can make it sharper, and he watches it happen like he’s been waiting for that sound all night. his hand tightens at your waist, fingers pressing through the blanket.
“that better be appreciation,” he says.
“for your sacrifice?”
“damn right.”
“thank you for ruining your ancient spine in my bed.”
“there you go.”
“beautiful moment.”
“shut up.”
“you first.”
he kisses you before you can win.
the first kiss is slower than it has any right to be. his mouth meets yours with heat held back behind his teeth, almost testing, though soldier boy would rather walk into traffic than call it that. his hand stays at your waist, not soft, not gentle, but keeping you close. your fingers curl in the blanket between you because for one second, your body doesn’t know where to put all the wanting.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his breath brushes your mouth. you should say something. probably something mean. you don’t.
so he kisses you again.
this time, you move closer before he pulls you, knee sliding under the blanket, shoulder turning toward him. his hand comes out from under the covers and grips your waist properly, fabric bunching under his palm as he drags you into the space against him. your own hand catches the front of his shirt, not with panic this time, not to stop a blast, not to ground him through fear. just because you want him there.
that thought is dangerous. you kiss him harder to avoid it.
soldier boy makes a low sound against your mouth, rough enough to send heat straight through your stomach, and then his hand slides under your shirt.
his palm finds bare skin—warm, broad, rough against your stomach, fingers spreading over the place he’s been touching all week in training with excuses stacked higher than the manuals on mm’s table.
your whole body reacts and he feels it. of course the bastard feels it. his mouth pauses at the corner of yours, and you can feel the smugness before he even speaks. “that all it takes?”
“don’t flatter yourself.”
his hand presses once against your stomach, enough to make your breath hitch. “too late.”
“asshole.”
“there she is.”
you bite his lower lip for that. not hard enough to hurt, enough to make him pull in a breath through his nose and grip your waist tighter. his eyes darken when he draws back a fraction. “careful.”
“or what?”
his answer is his mouth on yours again, the restraint thinning out fast. the third kiss opens with tongue, and your body gives up the pretense of being reasonable. your fingers slide up into his shirt, catching at his side, his ribs, the warm hard line of him beneath cotton. he shifts closer, thigh pressing against yours under the covers, while his hand under your shirt moves from your stomach to your side, then back again like he’s memorizing what makes you forget to breathe.
and god, you do forget.
for a while, there is no knife by the sink. no blood under your nails. no freezer manuals. no warehouse. no ugly little fear waiting in every corner of the safehouse. there’s just his mouth and his hand, the heat of him under the blankets, the scrape of his stubble when he changes the angle of the kiss, the way he takes every small sound from you like he has earned it and intends to collect.
you moan into his mouth when his thumb drags higher under your shirt, skimming the lower edge of your ribs.
his hand stops. “quiet,” he murmurs, voice low enough to scrape. “or you trying to wake the whole damn house?”
your face heats. “maybe you’re just bad at keeping me quiet.”
his eyes lift to yours. wrong answer. or exactly the right one. “that right?”
you swallow. “maybe.”
he moves over you in one smooth, heavy shift, and the mattress dips beneath your back before your brain has time to organize a defense. suddenly, he’s above you, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand still under your shirt, palm flat over your stomach. too much in the best and worst possible way.
your breath goes thin. he looks down at you with that unbearable focus, hair falling slightly forward, mouth swollen from yours, eyes dark and alive with a kind of satisfaction that makes you want to shove him and pull him back at the same time.
“you gonna keep that mouth under control for once,” he says, “or do you want marvin kicking this door down and butcher making jokes until i kill him?”
you should laugh. you almost do. instead, your hand slides up his chest and hooks around the back of his neck, pulling him down the last inch.
“then do something useful with yours.”
his expression flashes.
the fourth kiss turns the room into something else entirely. his weight settles more firmly between your bent knees, not pushing too far, not crossing the line you both know is there, but making the existence of it very, very difficult to respect. the blanket tangles around his hips and your legs. your shirt rides higher under his hand. your back arches before you can stop it, and he uses the movement, palm sliding to your spine, dragging you closer while his mouth works yours open with rough, greedy patience.
his hand moves like he has been denied for too long. stomach, ribs, waist. a squeeze at your side that makes you gasp. a drag of his thumb just under the band of your shirt. his fingers pressing into your skin when your hips shift beneath him without permission. every touch says mine with the arrogance of a man who has no right to say it.
your fingers push into his hair. he groans at that, low and sharp, and the sound nearly ruins you. his mouth leaves yours, dragging along your jaw, not gentle, not sweet, teeth catching once near the edge of your throat before he pulls back just enough to breathe.
“fuck,” he mutters, and it sounds angry.
you blink up at him, chest rising too fast. “what?”
“nothing.”
“that didn’t sound like nothing.”
“sounds like you’re talking again.”
“maybe you’re slacking.”
his eyes narrow. “brat.”
his mouth crashes back onto yours, and this time you really do make a sound too loud to be safe. he catches it with the kiss, hand coming up from under your shirt to cover your mouth for half a second when he breaks away, eyes glittering with wicked amusement.
“what’d i just say?”
you breathe against his palm, eyes locked on his, and because you have learned nothing about survival, you lick the heel of his hand.
his expression goes still.
then his palm drops, and he kisses you again with enough force to push your head back into the pillow. your hands grab at him, his shirt, his shoulder, his arm, anywhere you can reach. he lets you pull, lets you scratch a little through the fabric, lets your knee hook around his side under the covers. he takes the contact like it is owed and gives back more, mouth rough, breath hot, body heavy above yours.
somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny practical voice tries to remind you there is a mission coming. vought. homelander. chamber parts. the knife.
soldier boy’s hand slides down to your thigh and pries it higher against his hip.
the practical voice dies immediately.
you break the kiss with a shaky inhale, head turning against the pillow. “jesus.”
“not even close.”
his mouth finds the side of your neck again, and this time you don’t stop the sound fast enough. it leaves you soft and broken, and he freezes for half a second, then exhales through his nose against your skin like he’s barely holding the leash on himself.
“you keep doing that,” he says, rough, “we’re gonna have a problem.”
your fingers tighten in his hair. “sounds like your problem.”
he lifts his head. there is no humor in his face now. there’s heat, yes, and arrogance, and that old entitlement he wears like it was issued with his shield and suit, but beneath it is something more focused. more dangerous because it’s not careless.
he looks at your mouth, your flushed face, the place your shirt is rucked up beneath his hand, then back to your eyes.
“tomorrow,” he says.
it takes you a second to understand. “what?”
“tomorrow matters.”
you almost laugh, except you’re breathing too hard and he’s still half over you. “are you giving me a mission briefing right now?”
“i’m saying not tonight.”
your body, traitor that it is, reacts with immediate offense. “excuse me?”
that gets the corner of his mouth to move. “heard me.”
“you start this and then pull strategy?”
“you need sleep.”
“oh, fuck off.”
“and i need you sharp.”
that shuts you up. not because it’s soft—it is. not because he says it kindly—he doesn’t. his voice is still rough, still edged with want, still low enough that it feels like another hand on you. but it lands with the same ugly tenderness all his almost-care does: badly dressed, uninvited, impossible to ignore.
you stare at him. he stares back, breathing hard through his nose like restraint is personally insulting him.
“you’re annoying,” you say, because anything else would expose too much.
“yeah.”
“and bossy.”
“mhm.”
“and in my bed.”
“yup.”
“under my covers.”
“got comfortable.”
you huff, trying not to smile and failing enough that his eyes drop to your mouth again. the heat is still there. not gone. absolutely not gone. it sits between you, waiting for one of you to be stupid enough to touch it again.
soldier boy shifts his weight off you slowly, and somehow the absence is worse. he rolls onto his side beside you, but his hand stays under your shirt, palm settling warm against your stomach like he’s decided that part remains his for the night.
you should move it. probably. you don’t. you turn onto your side too, facing him. the room feels wrecked though nothing is out of place except your shirt, your breathing, and possibly your entire common sense.
“so what,” you murmur, “you’re being responsible now?”
“don’t insult me.”
“sorry. tactical.”
“better.”
you snort, then yawn before you can stop it. his brows lift.
“don’t,” you warn.
“wasn’t gonna.”
“liar.”
“yeah.” his thumb moves once against your skin, absentmindedly. too intimate to survive if either of you names it.
you look toward the door. still closed. still unlocked. the safehouse remains quiet beyond it. nobody barges in. nobody ruins it. butcher doesn’t appear in a doorway with terrible emotional timing.
your eyes drift back to soldier boy. his face is close enough in the low light that you can see the faint shadow under his eye, the stubborn set of his jaw.
“you’re staying?” you ask.
his gaze flicks to yours. “you kicking me out?”
“i asked first.”
“i’m staying.”
your chest does something unbearably small. you ignore it with the strength of a woman who has ignored worse things and been wrong about all of them. “fine.”
“generous.”
“don’t drool on my pillow.”
his mouth twitches. “that’s your job.”
you shove his chest with one hand. he doesn’t move. not even slightly. instead, he catches your wrist anyway and tugs you closer, not enough to start again, but enough that your forehead brushes his collarbone. his hand returns to your stomach after, warm and heavy beneath your shirt, grounding in a way you refuse to unpack tonight.
but for now, his body is warm beside yours, his breathing slower than yours until yours starts copying it. you close your eyes and feel his thumb shift once, barely there, against your skin.
you still don’t touch the knife.
your sheath is still empty.
tomorrow is still coming.
but for the first time all week, you stop feeling it in your hand.
