Heeeey everyone! Figured I’d do a mass post that I have changed my username from @deansbbyx to @jensensswthrt it’s pretty much my username for most of my fandom spaces/social media! I’m tagging all of my fave authors/writers so when it comes to tagging me in future fics this is me now! Hehe! @prettyinpeaches @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @godmadeaterribleerror @wvffles @teamackles96 @chevroletdean @bruisedfig @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @honeyyxxbee @bluemerakis @kaleldobrev @deanbrainrotwritings @pieandflannel @jollyhunter @deansposessive
I may be forgetting some writers if you have my older user on your tag list pls add my new one!
bringing back this version of neighbour!beau , because we all missed him...
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: smut , neighbour!beau x fem.reader , dbf!beau , pussywhipped!beau , age gap [beau.40s] , established relationship , secret relationship , indecent exposure , messy cunnilingus , orgasm denial , corruption kink , 18+
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1080
#𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: literally no clue what this ended up being but ... can be read as a stand-alone , it’s based off neighbour!beau series i wrote about ages ago , because sheriff beau is making a come back :p
who knew messing with neighbour!beau would be this addictive...
everyone in town saw beau arlen as the perfect southern gentleman— courteous, protective, always putting the townspeople first. but behind closed doors, he had spent months methodically unraveling you with that slow, velvet-smooth charm and calculated hunger until you were utterly addicted, wound tight around his finger.
today, with your dad’s truck long gone, you decided to test just how tightly you could make said grown man snap.
beau was in his backyard, preparing to mow on the sweltering afternoon. he looked unfairly devastating in faded khaki shorts and a thin white t-shirt plastered to his broad chest, the fabric darkening with sweat along the collar. his baseball cap sat low, shadowing his eyes, but the sharp cut of his stubbled jaw and the dark hair dusting his calves were impossible to ignore.
you stepped outside in nothing but a skimpy string bikini, the fabric leaving almost nothing to the imagination. you caught his eye just as he reached for the mower’s pull-cord.
“hi’ya, mr. arlen,” you said sweetly, rising onto your tiptoes. before he could respond, you leaned over the wooden fence and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing his sun-warmed, scratchy stubble. his body tensed instantly. just the sight of you had already thickened him; that innocent little kiss made his cock swell heavy against his shorts.
“there’s my girl,” he hummed, cradling your face in his large palms and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
you shifted on your feet, holding up the sunscreen bottle. “i was hoping you could help me with this? i can’t reach back here.” your voice stayed soft, but your eyes sparkled with wicked mischief as you turned, offering him the untouched expanse of your back. “and… i missed having your hands on me.”
beau’s gaze locked onto the way the tiny bottoms had wedged between your ass cheeks. a glistening sheen of sweat traced down your lower back, sparkling under the brutal sun like an open invitation.
his mouth went dry. his tongue darted out to wet his lips as one broad hand dropped to the front of his shorts, palming the thick, growing bulge and dragging it upward with a greedy squeeze.
“well now,” beau drawled, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly hunger he barely bothered to hide. “it’d be a damn shame to let skin this tempting burn, wouldn’t it?”
before you could step away, his big hands slid up your waist, palms dragging possessively along your bare sides. he pulled you flush against him until the heavy, throbbing length of his cock nestled perfectly against the curve of your ass.
beau dipped his head, trailing slow, heated kisses along the side of your neck. his rough stubble scraped deliciously over your skin as his lips found the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
you let out a shaky laugh and glanced up at him with mock innocence. “sheriff, be good,” you whispered, voice dripping with playful defiance.
“let ‘em look,” beau murmured against your jaw. “ain’t nobody else touchin’ what’s mine.” he finished the words with a firm slap to the plump flesh of your ass.
you sank onto your belly on the warm towel. beau clicked open the bottle and poured a generous line of cool lotion down your spine. his broad palms smoothed over your shoulder blades in firm, unhurried strokes, thumbs digging deep into the muscle with delicious pressure.
“mmm, you’re so good at that,” you sighed into the towel, melting beneath him.
beau chuckled lowly. “ain’t the first time you’ve told me how good my hands feel, darlin’.” his palms slid lower, coating your ass in slick lotion. his thumbs pressed into the soft flesh, spreading your cheeks as he worked the cream in. “though, last time there was a whole lot less fabric in my way.”
you rolled onto your back with a soft sigh. beau shifted between your parted thighs, the leaking bulge of his cock dragging hot and heavy against your skin. his tongue traced a wet path from your navel downward, making your toes curl into the grass.
“you’ve been avoidin’ me lately, sweetheart,” he murmured against the delicate skin of your hip, leaving faint lovebites in his wake while his hands kneaded your thighs. “been waitin’ for you to come knockin’… and nothin’.”
he took his time, savoring every responsive twitch of your body. another slow, deliberate kiss landed directly over your covered clit. the scorching heat of his mouth seeping through the thin fabric made you tense and squirm desperately beneath him.
you whimpered his name, hips bucking, but his strong forearm pinned your lower belly down, trapping you under his weight.
“see? that’s what happens when you stay away too long,” he drawled, kissing you there again— working his mouth over the fabric molded tightly to your pussy lips. “gotta take my time remindin’ this pretty cunt who it belongs to.”
with a quick tug, he hooked your bikini aside and spit directly onto your bare heat, watching the thick, warm glob land on your clit and drip down your slick folds. then his mouth descended.
he alternated between deep, greedy licks and flicks over your clit, one thick finger teasing your clenching entrance— pressing hard against the fluttering opening, threatening to stretch you open but always pulling back at the last second, leaving you empty.
the coil in your belly wound impossibly tight. your back bowed off the towel, thighs clamping around his head as you teetered right on the edge. his fingers finally curled deep inside you while his tongue worked your clit in relentless, messy circles.
“beau — please, i’m gonna—” you gasped, fingers twisting desperately in his chestnut hair.
but beau knew exactly what he was doing. he pulled his fingers free at the last possible second, leaving you empty and throbbing in protest. your hips jerked upward, chasing his mouth with a needy whine.
before you could beg, he surged up and claimed your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, letting you taste the sweet tang of your own arousal on his lips and tongue.
“yea, not yet, darlin’,” he spoke against your mouth, leaving no room for argument. “if you want me to finish what i started, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to sneak that pretty little ass into my bed tonight.”
beau was always one step ahead of you— and fuck, you loved losing to him.
freak!!!! thank you for the older bf beau cowboy hat 😭😭 I’m glad you liked my prompt, thank you for sharing your work with us 🫶🏼
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 MONDAYS ; dbf!beau arlen
Beau is less than thrilled to find that his friend's daughter has been arrested by one of his co-workers.
pairing: dbf!beau arlen x fem!reader
warnings/tags: age gap (reader is 18+) .ᐟ dad's best friend beau .ᐟ you getting arrested .ᐟ older man younger woman .ᐟ mentioned shoplifting .ᐟ car sex .ᐟ make-out .ᐟ grinding .ᐟ fingering .ᐟ unprotected piv .ᐟ uses of 'darling' and 'sweetheart'
fandom: big sky
word count: 3k
author’s note: hi anon i hope its not a problem that i used this ask for the other prompt i got from u!! just thought it would be easier to find it this way!! i've had an idea for a short film that had a subplot with a similar premise anyway so im so happy i got this request!! wouldve posted this earlier if i was writing more but outlast trials dropped the coyle trial update and perhaps i got too caught up in that... and in artfight too... rushed the ending but i hope its nothing too awful! my ask box is open in case anybody else wants to feed into my jensen brainrot lol, title from the ethel cain song, enjoy!! xoxo
masterlist. 𝜗ৎ profile navigation.
The fluorescent, yellowing lights of the police station flickered weakly above your head, the metallic cuffs feeling cold around your wrists. It’s been an hour now, probably the middle of the night, barely anybody lingering around the station at this time.
Of course, you weren’t planning to get caught, let alone expect your friends to ditch you and go ahead with the plan of attending a party while letting the local cops arrest you. Minor shoplifting, a bottle of alcohol, but of course with no prior experience in committing crimes, one misstep was all it took for your group to get caught, and they made sure that they weren’t the ones who took the hit — letting you take on that instead.
The lock on the cramped interrogation room clicked open, a weary-looking man with a beer belly peeking inside.
“You’re free to go,” he muttered as he stepped inside, golden badge glinting in the faint light as he fished a key out of his pocket, unlocking the handcuffs. The metal loosened around your skin before he flipped them open enough for you to pull your hands out of it.
One question remained: who bailed you out? You were supposed to stay the night, or a few days at least — since in the end no harm was done so no real charges were filed —, so your early escape was definitely the work of somebody else.
This debate echoed in your mind as the officer led you out of the interrogation room, turning the corner to arrive at the main lobby.
“Sheriff,” he spoke up, words addressed to the tall man standing there. Glancing up, you see him too, eyes widening as you take in his presence, face and stance, recognizing him instantly.
Beau Arlen. The local sheriff, who also just so happened to be your dad’s best friend. In short, the most off-limits person you could’ve had a crush on. That didn’t stop you, of course.
He’s been around for many years, spawning during barbecues, fourth of july celebrations, game nights, when your dad called him over for a beer, or just on random afternoons when he had nothing better to do.
There really wasn’t a problem, like, ever, until recent years. For all these years, he really was just your dad’s best friend, a dude who you’d see sometimes, and greet before disappearing back into your room or before he turned back to converse with your dad. You weren’t sure when the turning point was, or what triggered it, but lately — for the past year or two —, things seemed to have… shifted?
You used to just be jolly when he pulled you into his lap, sitting idly and without a care in the world, but when he jokingly asks you to sit there nowadays, your stomach immediately knots, and you’re sitting there with a bloodred face and wet panties.
Your face went hot every time he stood so close to you that you could smell his woody cologne, and you’d be lying if you said you never touched yourself to the thought of him. Was this the reason you didn’t have a boyfriend, or just an interest in boys your age in general? All your friends were seeing it as their life’s mission to hook up with some dude, all looking the same to you, unkempt hair and awfully uninterested faces, and you frowned at them almost instinctively. Did Beau really ruin your taste in men?
“Thank you,” Beau nodded as the officer — a coworker and friend of his — let you go, Beau closing the distance between you in a single step. His gaze swept over you, serious and tense, his uniform stretched taut across his shoulders as he stopped before you
“Let's go to the car,” he said in a gravelly voice. He wasn't shouting or angry, yet there was definitely a hint of something you couldn’t quite pinpoint. He placed one large, warm hand gently but firmly on the small of your back to guide you out of the police station’s lobby. The heat of his palm seemed to burn your skin, even through your clothes. Your stomach instantly knotted.
Outside, the cool night air hit you instantly. Beau’s beaten pickup was parked by the entrance, its engine humming softly. He was definitely alerted of your arrest off-shift, otherwise he would’ve come with the pristinely cleaned white SUV.
He opened the passenger door for you, waited until you got in, then walked around the car and slid behind the wheel. He didn’t drive off right away. There was a moment of silence, the man perhaps considering whether to even ask why you got arrested in the first place, to hear it from your mouth and not from a cop’s summary, but he instead just let out a soft sigh as he began to drive off, out of the station’s limited parking lot.
He turned off the radio, clasped his hands over the steering wheel, and let out a long, silent sigh as his fingers began to tap rhythmically against the leather.
“Your dad thinks you’re sleeping at a friend’s place,” he finally broke the silence, slowly turning his head toward you. In the darkness, his eyes seemed even darker, even more piercing. “I didn’t call him. I thought it was better to keep this between us for now. But listen... What the hell were you doing tonight?”
Your eyes immediately drift over to the window, eyes locking onto the landscape moving by, barely anything visible in the midnight darkness. This whole arrest thing didn’t feel half as embarrassing when you were talking to a cop you didn’t even know. Beau, on the other hand…
“Not much,” you reply bluntly.
Beau let out a quiet, mocking laugh, though there was no mirth in his voice. With a routine movement, he flicked on the turn signal and pulled the car over to the side of the road, beside a dark, deserted line of trees. He killed the headlights. The car’s interior was suddenly bathed in the dashboard’s faint bluish glow, casting sharp shadows across his rugged features.
Beau unbuckled his seatbelt, letting out a low huff before turning to face you. The movement made his shoulders appear even broader in the cramped space, and the scent of his woodsy cologne grew almost suffocatingly heavy.
“Not much,” he repeated your words. “I see. So, sitting in handcuffs at the local station with a bottle of stolen booze in your hand, while your 'friends' are already out partying, falls into the 'not much' category for you?”
Fuck. So he knows, and is ready for interrogation right here.
“Don’t play games with me, sweetheart,” he said more quietly, almost in a whisper, but that tone only made your stomach knot up even tighter. “I’ve known you long enough. I know when you’re lying, and I also know you aren’t the type to just walk into a shop and steal. Whose idea was it?”
Slowly, you turn to face him. There was no point in avoiding him and his questions, it wasn’t that serious anyway.
“Just one of my friends,” you admit quietly. “They just thought it’d be nice if we went with a gift, ‘cause you know, hospitality and all, but we didn’t have money on us. That’s it,” you turn your gaze back to your lap, still just wanting this questioning to be over. Having to look him in the eye only made your face more red, and the last thing you needed was for him to realize how much you’re flustered by his closeness.
Leaning forward, he grasped your chin gently with his large hand — which until now was resting on the console —, forcing you to lock eyes with him. The warmth of his fingers seared your skin, and your pulse instantly began to hammer in your throat.
“You’re running around with idiots who wouldn’t hesitate for a second to sacrifice you just to save their own skins,” he said in a low voice, while his thumb slowly, almost unconsciously, stroked the line of your chin. “I don’t want you ending up in a situation like this again. Girls like you deserve better. I don’t want those nobodies ruining your life. We clear?”
Your pulse was pounding so loudly in your ears that you feared he, too, could hear it.
“I-it's clear…” you whispered, your voice faltering. You tried to turn away, to retreat and fix your gaze on your own lap, but his hold was firm. He didn't squeeze, yet he wouldn't let go.
Beau’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the flush on your face in the darkness, and his tense expression suddenly shifted into something else entirely. His gaze slowly drifted down to your slightly parted lips, then back to your eyes.
Instead of looking away, however, your gaze involuntarily drifted down to the hand holding your chin, and then straight to his lips. Your face was burning, your breathing had quickened, and every fiber of your being was reacting to him.
Beau noticed the change immediately. He assumed the police matter and the interrogation were what had frightened you so much.
“What's wrong?” he asked in a lower voice, his tone far gentler than before. He slowly released your chin, but his hand remained in the space between you.
“If this conversation’s upsetting you this much... you need to know I didn’t mean to be harsh,” he said, trying to catch your eye to reassure you. “I’m not angry with you. Really, I’m not. I just want you to be safe.”
But you didn’t answer. It wasn’t the police or the fear of getting caught that had put you in this state, and you certainly weren’t afraid of a scolding. You slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook your head from side to side, signaling that the topic of conversation wasn’t the problem at all.
Beau’s eyes narrowed as he watched your denial. The pieces finally fell into place for him.
He didn’t say a word. The realization seemed to visibly sweep across his features: his eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and the last barriers of reason within him gave way. Slowly, inch by inch, he leaned closer to you. There was no turning back, and you didn’t want to escape, either.
Instinctively, you leaned forward too, closing the final sliver of space between you until your lips finally met. At first, the kiss was tentative, almost incredulous, as if you were both testing whether this was truly happening. But the taste of forbidden fruit and the tension that had been building for months instantly ignited the moment. Beau surrendered with a low, deep growl, and the kiss quickly deepened into something more passionate.
His hand cupped your chin again — this time holding your face firmly — while his other hand clasped the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to pull you even closer. His lips were hungry and demanding, leaving all earlier tenderness behind. You clung to his shoulders, gripping the stiff fabric of his coat, while the meeting of your tongues shut out the rest of the world entirely.
Beau broke the kiss for a split second with a low, stifled growl just long enough to catch his breath. His eyes had gone dark with desire, his gaze fixed on your flushed, parted lips. He wasted no time. Reaching across the gearshift with powerful hands, he gripped your waist and pulled you through the narrow gap between the seats and straight onto his lap.
As you settled between his thighs, the fabric of your skirt shifted, and the sudden friction instantly pressed your cunt against the rock-hard length of him straining beneath his pants. That drew a soft sigh from your throat, a sound Beau immediately swallowed as he claimed your mouth once more.
Now that you were sitting on his lap, the height difference vanished, in fact, you were slightly higher up, allowing you to lean your full weight against his broad shoulders. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your fingers raking through his thick hair as the kiss grew deeper and wilder.
One of Beau’s hands settled on your ass, pressing your hips firmly against him so you could feel the effect you had on him with every movement, while his other hand traced the length of your back, sliding beneath your shirt to press his palm directly against your bare skin. Every inch of you burned with pleasure, and the knowledge that your father’s best friend was losing all self-control over you right there on the side of the road only stoked the fire in your body even more.
Instinctively, you begin to move your hips slowly, grinding rhythmically against his cock straining beneath his trousers. Your movement instantly makes your underwear even wetter, and the friction between the layers of clothing sends a wave coursing through your body.
A hoarse, almost animalistic growl tears from Beau’s throat in response. His jaw tightens, and your kiss breaks for a moment as he throws his head back against the headrest. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips.
“God…” he gasps in the darkness, his warm breath washing over your face. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me, sweetheart…”
But instead of stopping you, his hands begin to dictate the pace. He grips your ass, pulling you firmly back against him with every movement. His hips instinctively thrust upward to meet yours, he slides one hand up your inner thigh, moving ever closer to your slick pussy.
His palm slid confidently up the inside of your thigh, slipping right beneath your clothes. As his large, rough fingers made contact with the fabric of your thoroughly soaked panties, that touch wrung a stifled gasp from your throat.
“You’re so damn wet for me…” he murmured hoarsely against your lips, while his thumb began to massage your clit firmly through the thin fabric. That movement sent a jolt like an electric shock racing through your body. Your back arched, and your hands clung desperately to his broad shoulders, bunching up the fabric of his coat.
Beau suddenly stopped stroking, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He hooked two fingers gently into the edge of your panties and, with a single movement, pulled the fabric aside.
As his fingers finally made direct contact, your body reacted instinctively. You pressed yourself against his hand — involuntarily, almost desperately — driving your hips deeper into his grasp as if trying to devour his touch entirely.
A growl tore from Beau’s throat. His fingers immediately sprang into action, plunging deep into the heat radiating from you. Under the rhythmic, wet strokes and that direct stimulation, your head fell back and your eyes fluttered shut as you gasped for air as waves of pleasure sent shockwaves through you.
“Fuck, sweetheart…” Beau panted against your face, his hips instinctively mirroring the pace of his hand, while the hardness straining against his trousers rubbed relentlessly against your thigh.
After one particularly deep stroke, Beau suddenly stilled his hand, though his fingers remained resting between your legs, throbbing with desire. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his fingers digging into your back as he tried to draw a single steady breath.
He lifted his head and gazed into your clouded, longing eyes in the darkness. He wasn't thinking about stopping. Instead, he glanced back toward the dark, spacious cargo area and folded-down rear seats, where the car offered plenty of room.
“Let's go to the back,” he commanded quietly but firmly, placing his hands on your hips, ready to help you climb over into the more spacious rear section.
You let Beau lift you by the hips and, as if you were light as a feather, pull you across the folded-down rear seats. Once you reached the back, he made you lay on the soft upholstery with your back facing him. In the darkness, you heard only the rustle of his clothes and the faint clink of his belt which he unbuckled with a single motion and tossed it, along with his trousers, into the corner of the vehicle.
His palms clamped onto your hips, pulling your body back against his hips. As the barrier of his trousers and underwear vanished, his throbbing cock drove straight between your thighs, right where your panties had already been pushed aside. You gasped involuntarily at the contact. The overwhelming sense of fullness tore a loud moan from your throat, a sound Beau acknowledged with a triumphant growl against your ear.
“Somebody’s gotta teach you how to behave… actions have consequences, doll…”
Every firm thrust echoed deep within your body, and the mounting pleasure crashed over you. Sensing your insides begin to tighten around his manhood in spasms, Beau stopped.
With a single careful movement, he turned you onto your back against the soft surface. He loomed over you and braced his hands on either side of your head as he entered you again, this time face-to-face. The change in position allowed him to thrust even deeper, and the sight of you, staring up at him in the darkness, wide-eyed and breathless, shattered the sheriff’s self-control completely. His gaze bored straight into yours, he wanted to witness every single tremor of your body.
“Look at me, sweetheart…” He panted, jaw clenched against the pleasure he was holding back.
His hips thrust forward with a few final, heavy movements. Ecstasy washed over your body, your eyes squeezing shut as you surrendered to the climax with a loud whisper as Beau groaned, too, and he released deep within you.
He pressed his heavy body against yours, resting his forehead against your neck, and for long minutes, only your intertwined panting echoing in the confined space bore witness to what had just happened.
Slowly, as your heart rates settled, the silence of reality hit. Muttering a quiet curse, Beau pulled away, gathered his coat and clothes in the dark, and began to dress in silence. You, too, quickly adjusted your clothes, while the lingering scent of woody cologne in the air and the heat on your skin served as a silent reminder that the boundary between you and your father’s best friend had been crossed once and for all, and beyond any hope of return.
Summary: Your dad works for Beau Arlen and desperately needs a raise. One night at a bar, you decide to nudge Beau in the right direction, with more than just words from your mouth.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, oral sex (m!receiving), face-fucking, rough oral sex, public oral sex, pet names (sweetheart, darling), swallowing, crying, mentions of spit, slight manipulation, sexual tension, mentions of alcohol, age-gap (user is mid 20s), reader-insert, no use of y/n.
wc: 3.5k | another one of my most requested fics… enjoy <3
The bar is alive on the Friday evening; men gather around tables, drinking and hollering, the football game playing on the televisions scattered throughout, live music thrums through the old place, and you’re sat at a table, beside your damn dad.
It happened on most Fridays. Your dad would head out with a few of his coworkers, drink downtown and rant about their job, and the relatable parts of it; the troubles that came with the job of working as deputy sheriffs. This time, you wanted to join, and it wasn’t for no reason.
He sat across from you, Beau Arlen.
Beau Arlen was the name that ran circles around your house, getting into the tiny crevices in your mind, all because of how much your dad spoke about him. It was never bad things, never a bitter word about the man, but your dad had mentioned something over dinner a few nights ago: a raise.
You knew your dad deserved a raise. He worked overtime, stumbling home late, working his ass off in ways that you couldn’t describe, and it bled into the family time you were supposed to be having. A little raise wouldn’t be asking for too much.
It wasn’t like Beau could simply give your dad a raise—nudging an admin above him could, though. And that’s all you want for him.
Your eyes follow Beau as he stands up from the table, his eyes gazing over at the bar and the sweet bartender behind it. You swallow hard and stand on your feet, gathering the courage to speak to the man, to hopefully persuade him; maybe a few bats of your lashes, or that look you give men at the convenience store when they charge you less for a pack of cigarettes. Maybe it would work on him, too.
“Honey,” your dad cuts in, a firm hand grabbing your wrist when he notices you wandering off. “Where’re you headed?”
“I just want another drink,” you lie and shake your head, not blowing the entire idea of getting your bold man a raise—he’d probably kill you if he knew what you were up to.
Beau is sitting at the bar, his head low, patiently waiting for another beer to be shoved his way, and you find yourself sliding in beside him, hesitantly sitting on the stool. He gives you a firm nod, eyes gazing back at the bartender.
“Sheriff Arlen,” you speak up softly, awkwardly moving your body against the stool, and he turns his head.
“You okay, darlin’?” He asks you, eyes narrowing in concern at your voice, expecting it to be some type of complaint, maybe referencing the group of guys your age whose heads turned the second you stood up.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” you shake your head, swallowing hard and keeping your eyes on him. “My dad, he works for you,” you say plainly, glancing over your shoulder at him; he’s laughing and nudging his buddies, and you look back at Beau.
“Ah, yes, saw you sittin’ at the table,” Beau mutters, nodding towards the congregating men. “Is there somethin’ you need?” he asks, his eyebrows raised, and he smiles as the cold beer is slid into his hand.
“Yeah, actually,” you nod, biting your lip in a way that would make any man second-guess himself; is she nervous, or trying to turn me on?
But it’s suddenly a little bit harder now that it’s Beau, and not some creepy guy at the corner liquor store. It’s a man with broad shoulders that hug his plaid shit, thick thighs spread across the wooden stool beneath him, and hair that’s slipping out of place as the night continues. He watches you, waiting for an answer, green eyes focused on you.
“I–” you mumble, shaking your head, suddenly realizing this was not going as planned.
Beau raises his eyebrows again. “You okay?”
“Yeah… yeah, I’m just… I’m here for a drink,” you lie, glancing at the bartender who looks to Beau, and he grins. You can feel sweat brimming at your forehead.
“Yeah, I can get you one if you’d like,” Beau offers with a shrug, bringing the beer to his lips, taking a long pull. “Your daddy talks about you quite a lot at the station; it’s like I know without ever meetin’ you,” he chuckles.
Beau swiftly orders you a drink when the bartender comes back around, and it’s in your hands just as quickly. You look down at the unfamiliar liquid and bring the glass to your lips, taking a long sip of sweet liquid that quickly turns bitter. Maybe this will ease the nerves.
“So,” you start, leaning closer to the wooden bar, your forearms resting against it. “Do you like your job?” you question, turning your head to look at Beau. He’s already looking at you.
“‘Course I do,” he nods, one hand nursing a beer, the other flat over the denim straining over his thigh. “Love helpin’ people, doin’ things that matter,” he continues, and you smile.
No wonder your dad says nothing but good things about his man. His stupid smile, the crinkles by his eyes, the way his thick fingers dampen from the condensation around the beer bottle. You just stare, nodding aimlessly, and he notices.
“You? You like… what you do?” Beau asks, not even sure what you do.
“Mhm,” you mumble, your eyes awkwardly drifting down to his biceps when he briefly looks away. “I like working at the diner… good hours, people are friendly.”
“Ah,” Beau nods, the beer pausing in mid-air. “Cherry’s?” he asks before taking a swig.
“Uh-huh, right on the corner,” you smile, an odd part of you liking the fact that he knows where you work now; Cherry’s Diner, the small shitshow in town.
“I go in there often,” he tells you, setting the beer back down. “What days you workin’?”
“Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays,” you explain, and he ticks his head.
“Drinkin’ when you have work tomorrow, sweetheart?” Beau asks, his eyes looking at the drink you’ve been chugging back. You pause, lips parting.
“I rarely do this,” you protest, and you’re trying not to smile. “Special occasion.”
“Drinkin’ with your daddy and his friends? That’s the special occasion?” he teases, looking forward again, taking a sip of the beer.
“No,” you shake your head. “You.”
Beau feels the muscles in his body tense at the confession, feeling a heat of his own blooming behind his chest, a strange feeling he isn’t used to. He is used to the awkward exchange between women his age, the odd flirting that isn’t really flirting, and here you are; young and wide-eyed, confession to the town’s Sheriff that the ‘special occasion’ on a Friday night is speaking to him.
Beau swallows hard. “Me, huh?”
“Yeah,” you say quietly and nod, and the bartender kindly refills your glass, with Beau's curiosity pointing towards it. “I’ve… always seen you around town, heard stories about you, kinda wanted to meet the man himself,” you continue, realizing the alcohol is loosening your lips.
Beau chuckles, his white teeth showing, and your eyes drift to them. He nods in understanding, bringing the beer to his lips again, taking a long chug, finishing off the beverage and turning to you.
“Stories? Makin’ me sound like I’m a superhero,” he drawls, his Texan accent coating each word. “Jus’… doin’ my job, sweetheart, nothin’ really special about.”
“My dad seems to think it’s special,” you tell him, coaxing Beau into believing your dad is some ‘fan’ of his. “Says you’re real good at the job, loves working with you.”
“That so?” He replies, his eyes glancing over to your dad again. “Well, he’s a real charmer—nice to work with,” he agrees, nodding.
You take another sip of the drink, letting the alcohol soothe the nerves, and you look back to Beau; your eyes are just a bit heavier, and he notices.
“Mhm… he says you’re a good man,” you mumble, leaning against the bar for some support. “That true? Are you a good man, Mr. Arlen?” You tease, and he smiles again.
“I’d like to think so,” Beau says, his eyes drifting towards your drink and the melting ice. “But why don’t you head back to the table, sweetheart? I’m sure your daddy wants to talk your ear off about me.”
“No,” you mumble a bit too quickly, shaking your head in protest. “I… I came to talk to you, not to hang out with my dad and his friends… I do that enough,” you explain.
Beau’s hand squeezes the beer bottle slightly, his thumb nudging the small label wrapped around the drink. He takes a long swig again, placing it down, and making a soft noise in satisfaction at the taste. It’s getting him a bit tipsy, too.
“Okay,” he murmurs, his eyes gazing at the back door. “You wanna head outside n’ chat? Kinda busy in here,” he offers, and he’s right.
It’s a Friday; most people are filing in as the night lingers, and more people join you at the bar, taking up the spaces that used to be empty, and you can see Beau glancing at them. You quickly nod to his question, and he grins, standing up from the stool and onto his feet.
That’s when you realize how truly big he is–he has to be, especially for his job. His shoulders are wide, and his frame is thick, his biceps almost showing through the sleeves of his shirt, and his hand effortlessly reaches for yours, helping you off the stool too. You swallow hard, realizing you haven't even brought the entire reason you joined him: your dad’s raise.
The pavement is wet outside, a few dingy lights hanging above, buzzing in the humid night. Your eyes glance down the empty alleyway, and Beau is following behind you, quickly joining you against the brick wall.
“You lookin’ for a job?” Beau then asks, and you realize he had snagged another beer when he was heading out of the place, and he holds it in his hand. His hands make the bottle look comically small, and you’re just realizing this now.
“I mean… I guess anything’s better than being a waitress,” you laugh, and he laughs too, nodding.
“Perfect for girls like you,” he says, and your lips part.
“What’s that mean?” you ask, tilting your head to the side, biting your lip again.
Beau laughs. “You’re young, pretty,” he starts, gesturing with the bottle. “Probably get more tips than you can count.”
The light is catching Beau’s eyes, that perfect green, a smooth glint in the night. You blink slowly, the words replaying in your head–he thinks you’re pretty, and all you can do is imagine how you can use it against him, your looks.
“Actually… no,” you lie, acting like men weren’t offering you twenties on a tab that cost less than five bucks. “Money’s been kinda tight, you know?”
Beau’s lips part, his eyes softening at your confession. The poor man thinks that you are poor, and that your family is struggling, all while your dad drunkenly orders the crew another round, blowing the ‘little’ money you have on booze. You feel guilty when he lifts his hand, pushing back your hair and behind your ear.
“Wouldn’t mind you workin’ a few shifts at the station,” he offers quietly, wetting his lips. “Probably get you a small position a few times a week; could pay you well,” he nods.
“Well… you know,” you start, batting your lashes, the same look you give the man who is about to ID you. “My daddy already works for you, and a raise wouldn’t be bad,” you giggle, biting your lip.
Beau scoffs through a smile, looking away, sucking in his breath through his teeth when he looks back at you. He blinks, taking a long sip of the alcohol, and he clenches his jaw.
“Your daddy usin’ you?” he questions, eyes narrowing, but it’s playful.
“What? No!” you laugh louder, obnoxiously leaning forward, lightly pushing his shoulder. “Just being a good daughter… I have to be good,” you tell him, and the seductive words make you want to laugh. You can't believe yourself.
“Mhm, gotta be good, I guess,” Beau drawls, shrugging, acting like he doesn’t feel the warmth lingering on his shoulder, right where you touched. “So? A raise for your daddy?”
“Mhm… talking to someone who can do that would mean a lot to him… and me,” you add on, casually lifting your hand and biting on your thumbnail. “Living up to your name; best Sheriff in town,” you smile.
Beau smiles too, looking around the empty alleyway, listening to the sirens in the faint distance, and then to the young girl before him. he swallows hard, clicking his tongue.
“How much?” he asks, his gaze turning stoic, serious.
“Eight percent,” you tell him, and he smiles sarcastically.
“Sweetheart,” Beau mumbles, and he notices you taking a few steps closer to him.
“Please? I want it more than he does,” you whisper, your drunk, hazy eyes looking into his. “I’ll even do something, you know? Maybe an exchange, or something.”
Beau furrows his eyebrows. “An exchange?”
The slight drunkenness, mixed with the odd arousal and lust in your brain, influences the next movement: slowly dropping down to your knees, easing down his body, and his eyes widen, lips parting in surprise. Beau looks around the alleyway, then down at you; eager and pleading, both hands resting on his thick thighs, and he swallows.
“Fuck, what are you doin’?” he asks, looking around again, a look of concern etched into his features–not rejection or distaste; he wants it, he just doesn’t want to get caught.
“Showing you that I’m good,” you mumble, your hands lightly sliding up his thighs, nimble fingers finding the thick belt he wears, swiftly unclasping the metal part, and letting it hang open.
“Jesus Christ,” Beau curses quietly, his hand naturally sliding down to tangle in your hair, his beer resting on the tiny lip against the brick wall, by a window. “You suck off every man you want somethin' from?”
“No,” you shake your head, working on the button of his jeans, then the zipper. “Just want you.”
Beau tips his head back, almost like he’s asking for god to jump in and stop whatever the fuck was about to happen; his employee's daughter on her knees, offering to suck his dick in exchange for a simple raise. It’s wrong, mostly unethical, but he’s giving in.
Hell, Beau hadn’t had something like this in a long time. Nights at the bar were drawn out, and he’d linger just long enough for a woman to saunter over, offering things he didn’t want, or giving him a look that he didn’t need. And here you were, offering it all, your eyes heavy and ready, and he’s hard.
“You sure about this, kid?” He asks quietly, pushing the strands away from your sweaty forehead. “Your daddy ain’t gonna be too pleased with you.”
“You’re gonna tell him you let his daughter suck you off?” You ask, your voice taunting, and you grin, nudging your nose against the outline of him. “Wouldn't be very… superhero of you, Beau,” you whisper, lightly mouthing at him.
He groans and his head tips back, feeling the warmth of your breath through the denim and thin fabric of his boxers, and lightly shifts his hips forward. It’s a quiet gesture, an urgent one that wants you to give in to the command, and you do.
Your fingers hook into his jeans, and you begin to tug them down along with his boxers, letting them hang just low enough. He’s hard, throbbing; the tip is already leaking, a slick, white drip aching from him. You glance up at him, and his eyes are just as dark as yours.
“You’re big,” you mumble, and he moves, nudging the head against your cheek, and you grin. “Too big.”
“And you’ll take it, cause you’re so good, ain’t you?” Beau mumbles, using your words against you.
“Used to interrogating people?” You ask quietly, and he shrugs, and doesn’t hesitate to push himself past your pretty lips, forcing that light stretch, and your eyes flutter shut.
Beau holds the top of your head; thick fingers are tangled into your hair, gripping the strands, keeping you close, and he’s doing something that catches you off guard; he’s thrusting, he’s moving his hips, he’s the one using you right now, the power shifting, and it’s less of an exchange. He’s taking, and you’re okay with that.
He’s heavy on your tongue, solid veins moving along, the tip prodding the back of your throat, and he twitches and throbs, all while he groans and grunts. He thrusts back and forth, your mouth a vessel for him, and you can feel how eager he is, how much he’s been waiting for something like this.
“Fuck,” is all Beau groans out, his head toooing back in awe, his hips rocking back and forth, just until your nose brushes his pelvic bone. “Keep goin’, sweetheart, you’re okay,” he breathes out, reassuring himself more than you.
He’s fucking your mouth in the alleyway of a bar, the town’s sheriff, the man who protects and comforts, who uses that soothing tone on frightened women—now on you, reassuring you that your mouth can take his cock.
He’s not reassuring somebody that they’ll be okay, or that he’s there for them, keeping them safe. He’s saying that you’re good, good enough to take him without whining or crying, and you’re doing both. You’re not meaning to.
The tears roll down your cheeks in slow streaks, a stain against the flushed mess of your cheeks. It’s hard not to cry when he’s relentlessly hitting the back of your throat, a solid motion, quick and steady, making you gag, choke. The sound eggs him on, makes him hold your hair tighter, makes him fuck into your mouth even more.
You’re whining around him, feeling the corners of your mouth stinging, trying to adapt to the thickness, the sheer volume he’s stuffing into you. It’s more than you can take, but you have to be a good daughter; you have to get your daddy that raise. And you want Beau to know that.
Beau nods, feeling himself growing closer and closer, that forbidden burning in his gut, a tight knot that only twists and turns the more your tongue flattens below his cock. He’s rocking quicker, and your bare knees grind into the concrete below, tiny rocks and stones pressing into your skin, raw and tender. You don’t care.
“Atta girl,” he drawls, listening to the filthy sounds coming from you; all gags and chokes, whines and helpless pleas. “Takin’ me so good… so good, sweetheart, you’re so good,” he praises.
That’s the thing about Beau; he’s sweet, a gentle man who waves when he drives by, and now he’s fucking your mouth in the most unsweet, rough way imagined, and you love it. All while he’s using that even softer tone, a coo to your ears.
He cums. It’s hot, a constant stream spilling on your tongue and down your throat. You practically choke as it goes down, the fluid effortlessly sliding down. He holds himself inside of your mouth, feeling you contract, hearing yoy choke. He pulls out and feels an immediate surge of pride when you gasp for air, practically toppling over at his boots.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Beau growls when you look up at him; the sight of you is unlike anything he’s seen.
Those eyes are blown out, red and hot with tears, and there are tears and snot and saliva all over your face, cum dripping down your chin and down your neck. It’s everything to him, and he can see the desperation seeping out of your pores, and how you wouldn’t mind if he went back in. You don’t wipe your mouth, and he’s like that.
“Good girl,” is all he mumbles, slowly but surely putting himself back into his boxers, hiding the thing that just coaxed noises and feelings out of you that you didn’t know you had.
You stare at him, and he stares at you.
The name is loud and heavy on your ears at dinner time on Saturday, Beau Arlen.
Your eyes glance up from your plate at the kitchen table, staring at your dad who has an unfamiliar grin curled into his lips. He looks proud, confident, and your mom does, too. There’s news to be told, and you shift against the chair as you wait for it.
“None of you will believe it,” your dad starts, shaking his head, lifting the wine glass to his mouth. “Ten percent raise.”
“What!” Your mom practically yells, and you’re choking on your food. “Ten percent? Didn’t you just want eight?”
“Mhm,” your dad shrugs, his fork digging into a piece of steak. “Arlen said somethin’ ‘good’ happened, made him wanna write a recommendation for me,” he continues, his eyes finding you.
“That’s great,” you mumble, nodding slowly. “Really great, Dad.”
The good thing is you. Beau Arlen thinks you’re good.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: smut , beau arlen x fem.reader , infertility mention , age gap [ 20s / 40s] , breeding kink , unprotected sex , come play , 18+
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 600 want more ?
beau had finally broke down and told you about the years of trying for a child with his ex-wife , the doctors saying the odds were shit , all on his end. all because of his past , the countless physical traumas that came with his job.
but that never once stopped his imagination from wandering when he was with you. the possibility of something sticking.
and later that same night he had you spread out on your back , both of you half-dressed and sweating, the blue light from the muted television flickering against his tall silhouette.
beau spat against your clit , as the fat head of his cock slid unhurried through your soaked pussy lips. every time the tip kissed your entrance he pushed in just enough until you'd clench around nothing.
“look at 'er,” he rasped, watching the way your cunt swallowed the tip for the millionth time of teasing you. “pretty things just beggin’ for it."
he always took his time with a sweet girl like you. his eyes were glued to the soft tuft of hair at the base of his cock soaking itself in your arousal.
“you want it here , yeah?” he grunted , slapping the thick girth against your swollen clit again , harder this time , sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body , until you were teary eyed and bucking your hips pathetically.
his thick cock started to disappear lower , stretching you out until your tummy bulges , gawking at it. watching it with your face contort with blown out pupils , knowing how chubbed up and thick he was— and how fucking well you took it.
every long stroke sheathed himself to the hilt. a rhythm so good you fought to kiss him back , only managing soft, mewls against his forehead pressed to yours.
“fuck m'gonna come,” he murmured against your lips, rough with restraint. “let me in baby , please."
beau kept himself buried to the hilt, his heavy weight pinning you into the mattress while his ragged breath hitched against your neck. a firm hand slid down between your slick bodies, his calloused thumb finding your swollen, puffy clit and working it in tight, relentless circles.
"that's it, sweetheart," he rasped, his hips giving small, brutal nudges deeper into you while his thumb never stopped. "come for me."
the pressure shattered what little control you had left , arching up into his touch as your orgasm washed over you. beau gritted his teeth against the tight pulse of your core, riding out the squeeze until he was right on the edge of losing it himself.
beaus rhythm stuttered as he came hard. scalding pulses of come flooded you in heavy spurts, so much it felt like it was flooding your belly. the warm pressure building until it forced its way back out around the base of his cock. his forehead still pressed to yours as he groaned like it hurt.
the moment the his spent cock slipped free, creamy globs of come spilled from your hole. the ropey rivulets sliding down onto the sheets in long , glossy strings.
“fuck you look so good , full of me,” he muttered, almost to himself.
beau hadn't seen you in a prettier state. fucked out and so pliant. he gathered the thickest, most opaque globs on two fingers and pushed them right back inside you, packing the come deeper with deliberate presses.
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.”
𝒘 — Soldier Boy & Fem! Reader ⟢ ( 1.1k-ish ) mostly ooc. established relationship. fluff/maybe a little angst?
Inspired by @abbotsbunnygf !! Go check out her work if you like The Pitt/Shawn Hatosy. It’s sooo good ♡
Ben was really starting to piss you off. It’s been exactly twelve hours since he last touched you.
You’d been keeping score in your head all day. First, he hadn’t slung an arm over your shoulders while you two were watching TV last night. Then, no rough kiss pressed to the top of your head when you shuffled into the kitchen this morning. No teasing pinch at your hip when you squeezed past him to grab a coffee mug. Nothing.
But, Worst of all… he’d stopped his favorite pastime: Smacking your ass every time you bent over.
Like now, for example. You’re bent over the edge of the soaking tub, scrubbing at a spot that honestly didn’t need scrubbing. Mostly because you were bored. Mostly because sitting still for more than five minutes had never really been your thing.
The oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from Ben rode up with every stretch of your arm, cool air brushing the skin of your thighs where your sleep shorts ended.
Then you heard it.. Heavy, familiar footsteps coming down the hall.
Ben wandered into the bathroom, muttering under his breath about where the hell his razor had disappeared to. He reached past you for the shaving cream sitting on the shower caddy, close enough that his body heat just barely ghosted over your back.
His hand hovered for the briefest second. Fingers flexing. Palm spread open. Muscle memory was about to win.
Then.. Nothing.
He caught himself and pulled his hand back. Like it had never crossed his mind at all.
You straighten up slowly, soapy sponge still in hand, suds dripping down your arm as you stare at him with furrowed brows, watching as he pops open the cap of the shaving cream up like everything’s perfectly normal.
“…Ben?” You mutter, almost offended.
He glances over, eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”
“You walked right past me. Bent over. Ass basically out. And you didn’t do shit.”
He pauses, looking genuinely confused. “Was I supposed to?”
Your face heats up with a mixture of embarrassment and confusion. This man has slapped your ass every single time you’ve given him the chance for months. Washing dishes? Smack. Reaching into a low cabinet? Smack. Standing up from the couch? Smack. Never just… nothing.
You set the sponge down. “You didn’t even touch me.”
Ben huffs, turning back to the mirror. “Didn’t realize was on a fuckin’ schedule.”
・・・۶ৎ・・・
The weirdness doesn’t stop there. Later you walk past him in the living room and he almost reaches for you. His hand lifts halfway, gearing up.. just to give your back a light, polite tap instead. You stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open.
“Something wrong?” he asks, eyes glued to the TV.
You don’t give him a proper answer. Instead, you bend over to grab a magazine off the coffee table, just to test him… Still nothing! He just keeps his gaze steady on the screen.
・・・۶ৎ・・・
By dinner you’re officially freaked out. He’s frighteningly tame. He hasn’t made any stupid comments. Hasn’t pulled you down into his lap. Hasn’t made a single dirty joke all day. Just… nice. Respectful even. You don’t think he’s ever been this quiet around you before.
You finally snap that night in the bedroom. Climbing up onto the bed and straddling his lap before he can even settle against the headboard.
“So what the hell is going on?” you ask, poking his chest. “You’ve been acting weird all day. Did I do something? Are you mad at me?”
Ben’s hands settle on your thighs, warm and steady but not wandering like usual. He looks surprised. “Mad? Fuck no. Why would you think that?”
“Because you didn’t slap my ass this morning when I was literally bent over right in front of you,” you mutter, half dramatic, half serious. “You always do it. Every time. And today? I got nothing. I hate it and I miss you.”
He watches you for a long second, jaw tight. Then he lets out an exasperated sigh and rubs a hand over his face.
“Figured…” He pauses. “Ah, hell.”
He looks almost embarrassed.
“Some limp-dicked suit at Vought.. ‘was running his mouth about how I should show you some more respect now that we’re serious. Said I act like an animal sometimes. Got me thinking… maybe you were just puttin’ up with it. With me. I was trying to dial it back. Be less of an asshole for once.”
You stare at him for a second, heart twisting in your chest.
“Ben,” you say softly, leaning closer. “You’re an idiot.”
He raises an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk trying to come back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You gently cup his face with both hands and kiss him, slow and warm. When you pull back just enough, your foreheads rest together.
“I would’ve told you if it bothered me,” you mutter, soft and quiet. “I like that you can’t keep your hands off me. That’s how I know we’re good. Don’t try to be someone else. I want you exactly like this.”
Ben’s voice comes out quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “…You really mean that?”
You smile, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I do.”
That does it for him. The tension melts out of his shoulders and his hands slide up your thighs, grabbing your ass with both palms, squeezing hard like he’s been waiting to do it all day.
“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he sighs against your lips. “You sure? ‘Cause I’ve been fuckin’ dying to do that all day.”
A small smile pulls at your lips, holding his gaze. “Positive.”
He lets out a deep laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest as he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you fully.
“That’s my girl. Fuckin’ missed this. Thought I was gonna lose my shit trying to keep my hands to myself.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, holding you tight. You melt into him, gently punching his chest just to hear him groan.
“Don’t ever do that stupid shit again, you hear me?”
“Never,” he promises, voice warm and gruff. “You want me like this? That’s what you’re gettin’. Every damn day.”
You laugh quietly and bury your face against his shoulder, tugging at the dog tags hanging from his neck. He wraps his arms around you tighter and presses another kiss to the top of your head.
・・・۶ৎ・・・
The next morning you’re back in the bathroom, organizing the cleaning products under the sink. Ben walks in while you’re bent over reaching for the bottles in the back. Without a bit of hesitation this time… his hand cracks down hard on your ass, the sound echoing off the tiles.
You give a surprised yelp, then throw him a look over your shoulder, trying (and failing) to seem annoyed.
“Morning, doll,” he says smugly, squeezing the same spot before pulling you back against his chest. “There’s my favorite fuckin’ view.”
You lean into him with a dramatic sigh. “Welcome back, you big idiot.”
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.
What if Ben had Mommy Issues. Like he'd suck on readers tits and whine when they're not in his face, but I feel like he needs to be very high for this to come out because if he's sober, it ain't coming out because he doesn't wanna think he has the same issues as Homelander.
wait yes i like this concept. ben definitely plays it off as the typical “i’m a man. of course, i love tits in my face” kind of thing, but the second he’s doped up, all mellowed out and rolling, he’s nosing at your tits like they owe him something.
“c’mon, mama. get ‘em out for me, need my mouth full,” he whines out in a grossly petulant mutter, far more sulky than you’ve ever heard, groping at your chest before impatiently tugging your tits out of your shirt in a huff. ben kisses hazily at the smooth skin, down the valley between your breasts, nuzzling in, before attaching his lips to your nipple. his warm tongue flicks over your nerves, and you feel him start to relax into you, his eyes fluttering shut while his mouth suckles mindlessly, finally settled and starkly vacant of his usual vulgarity for once.
✧･ﾟ:there are two versions of Ben. The one before you, and the one after. If you had just been another hookup, aftercare would’ve been nothing. Maybe an offer for a joint and a pat on the leg for a job well done, but then he’d be gone. After you, it’s different. Everything’s different. You wormed your way under his skin and made him feel things, good things, good, disgusting things like love, and he’s turned into something a little north of soft. He’s still Ben, but the sharper edges have dulled, and ice around his old heart has thawed, and his hands are learning how to do things that just for you. He won’t coddle you, but he cleans up between your thighs, gives you a rough assessment for anything dumb and soft—if you’re extra braindead, which happens a lot, he’ll carry you to the bathroom without a word—and lies at your side. The joint still gets smoked, but now you’re tucked against his chest. Safe and warm, and his.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
✧･ﾟ:his cock. He says it with smug triumph and not a second of hesitation. It’s his favorite part, your favorite part—if he’s the one in charge of deciding that—and overall just a gift to humanity all around. If you push him a little on it and demand something besides his cock, he’ll roll his eyes and say his balls. If you push a little deeper—which only you can do—you get the truth. He loves his chest. Yeah he’s got a bomb in there, but you love the warmth, and he loves covering you completely, just a sweet little ball beneath him. He’d keep you there all the time like a sex kangaroo if you let him. He tells you that, and you smack him, and he laughs. He’d say his favorite part of you is your pussy, but with a raised brow he’d admit it’s your mouth. It gets real sassy when you’re confident, and drools his name just right, when you’re stuffed up with his cock.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
✧･ﾟ:he gets possessive with it. He’ll never admit to it—he won’t admit to anything—but after he cums inside of you, he’s going to make sure it gets in there, nice and deep, and then he’ll smear it everywhere else he can. Over your thighs and on your tummy, up to your tits and down your ass, anywhere he can see himself shining on your pretty body. A lot of times he cums hard enough that he can fill you up until you’re moaning, and still have plenty left to shoot onto your back or breasts. Just how he likes.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Most of Ben’s dirty secrets aren’t exactly… secret. He’s tried to fuck you in front of the team multiple times, he always tells you to moan his name loud enough that they’ll hear, and if he can get away with it he’ll make you walk around with his cum dripping out of your cunt. He proudly declared that you gave him your panties to keep, and tell you like it’s romantic that he only jerks off to the thought of you now. If anything, the deepest secret he holds is that he does find it romantic. That he’s capable of that now, with you, and he wants nothing more than to just… be near you. Without sex. To love and touch you like some boring, normal pussy. Maybe a little sex. He’ll probably be able to talk you into it.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Body count rivaling Genghis Khan. He got around in his day, and it’s taught him to know every body almost like he knows his own. You have to give him a rule, that he’s not allowed to say that he did this position with Princess Diana, because you don’t really want to hear it. You just want to see him do the position. He rolls his eyes and calls you a brat, and you smile and say he loves it, and damn him, he does. He loves that he got all that experience, too. Real easy for you to benefit, from all that hard work.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Ben can brag about his past and throw around your panties all he wants, you always get to know the truth. That at the end of it, he’s just a romantic old man who wants to do missionary. He likes being fully wrapped around you, likes how easy it is to manhandle you, like how your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his bicep as you get the air fucked straight out of you. He likes that he can kiss you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and that he can push your knees to your chest and turn it into a mating press, giving him easy access to your swollen, sensitive clit. You only tease him about it a little. The sex is too good to do anything else.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He’s more serious with you, than he ever was with anyone else. Especially at the start, when this was something that mattered, and he’d never had that, and for the first time in a hundred years there was a fist in his gut that was trying to hold onto something. That clenched hard enough to make him sick, that made him paranoid and tense, because what if he lost you. He fucked you like it was a job. Like that would prove his dedication to this, to you, without him having to say it. Over time, he relaxed. Jokes get cracked, and the teasing gets insatiable, and you can’t go a day without something suggestive that makes you laugh, then moan as his hand presses between your thighs.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Ben didn’t bother grooming until you. His actions and face and body spoke for themselves. Whatever was going on down there was what you got, and you’d better be fucking happy with it. And you were. You are. But he saw you taking care of your bush and got curious what the fuck you were doing, and you explained that it was still hair, it needed to be washed, and now he does that for you, then makes you clean him. He gets cocky, his hand in your hair as you lean down, and doesn’t bother to stop himself from getting hard while you touch him. It usually ends with you pressed against shower tiles. You never complain about that either.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
He’ll deny it to the ends of the earth and over God’s ballsack, but he’s more romantic than you would’ve ever guessed. Once he learns what that strange, warm feeling he got when he looked at you was, he’s committed to it. It’s annoying, but nice, and he really fucking loves nice things. Just like he loves you. And there’s nothing better than whispering that against your skin, or fucking you nice and slow and loving until you’re sobbing, then making you admit that you love him back.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
If it was a sport, he’d take gold. And silver, and bronze. If someone were to take a blacklight to his bedroom it would look like a crime scene, especially before you got together. He doesn’t deny himself, ever, and that meant stomping away at seemingly random points during the day, just to jerk himself off and moan your name to the walls. Once he did it in a Chili’s bathroom, just because you smiled at him. Not his best moment, but real far from his fucking worst. And you deserve to be worshipped like that, enough that he can’t even control himself. He counts it as romantic, and you never admit it, but you kind of think it is too.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Ben walks a fine line between an exhibitionist and overly possessive. He marks your neck up with hickies and parades you around like his most prized thing, but gets narrow eyed and rigid when people watch for too long. He wants you to scream his name loud enough for everyone to hear, but clenches his jaw at the idea of fucking where someone might actually walk in and see you naked. He records a video of you and puts it in a safe. Fucks you in a bathroom with the door locked, puts you in his shirt and nothing else, but barks at anyone who’s gaze lingers on your legs. You’re his to worship and adore, not some other nosy fucking pussy’s.
He’s only a fucking man. A man who wants things he won’t talk about, like kids and a simple fucking life. If he could he’d knock you up for the rest of your fucking lives, keep your tits swollen and belly round with his kid. Making them is the fun part, breeding you like you’re begging for it—and you are—and then a few times after to make sure it sticks. Then you get all glowy and gorgeous, beaming and fucking Ben’s. Everyone knows it, from that swell of your stomach, and you get so horny you give him a run for his damn money. Perfect.
Pet names are cute, but detached before you. Doll for most women, sweetheart if he’s trying to piss them off, and not much else. But you, you get kid and darling and babydoll and pretty girl falling from his lips without thought. And then there’s the shit you call him. Benjamin when he’s in trouble—which is fucking hot—and Benny when you’re extra fucking needy. If you’re desperate enough he gets sir, and if he fucks you just right, he can pull a daddy from your swollen lips. You flush and get embarrassed and deny it later, but he knows what he fucking heard. And he’s going to get you to say it again.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
As much as Ben loves the bed, or the shower, or the table or the counter or the floor or the dresser, there’s something about the wall and the couch that make him feral. If he’s got you against the wall, he can pin you with your hands over your head and his arm cradling you against him, and he gets to make your whole body bounce with every thrust. Maybe he can even drag you off the wall, and just fuck you standing in the center of the room, his arms the only thing keeping you up right. On the other side of that is the couch. Bending you over it and smacking your ass, pushing you down until you’re limp and dangling forward, stupid moans falling from your lips as he fucks you dumb and pretty. Completely at his mercy, and happy about it.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
It would be quicker to list the things that don’t get him going. Sometimes it’s the way you said a word, a look you gaze him, the way you squeezed his hands or glared at him all hot, and now he needs to be inside of you or he’s going to go fucking insane. Once you screamed about a spider, he killed it, and suddenly you were being fucked into the sofa. More times than you can count he just wants to. No foreplay or real motivation besides seeing you, and deciding you really needed a good fuck.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
He makes the list clear, when you get together. He’s tried damn near everything, and he won’t be pissing, shitting, or getting cucked. You can get on top, but he’s in control. You can try and tie him up, but he’s just going to break out of it and fuck you like you deserve. Giving up control isn’t really something he knows how to do, let alone tolerate after Russia. He spent too long in a box, and he’s not fucking letting anyone get one over on him again. You tell him that’s shell-shock. He rolls his eyes and tells you to hire a shrink about it. You do, because you’re the only one who can get away with it. You might be able to get away with anything, around him. He likes finding out.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Of course he prefers fucking receiving, he told you once. Getting a girl with nice lips and a warm mouth around him, fucking her face until she’s choking and still begging for more, nothing fucking better. Of course, your mouth is another story. Almost brings him to his fucking knees, when you get going. He’s broken the kitchen counter three times, to the point that you just leave it wrecked and tell him to grab there. And then he gets between your legs, and works out how all those men he thought were pussies could get off on just this. Tastes like fucking Heaven, gets you gushing and screaming and squirming for him, opens you up like nothing fucking else. You get caught in his beard and he refuses to wash it out. You cum on his face and he rolls on his back, pinning you down until your body gives out and you fold over him like a toy, trembling with the pleasure he’s devoured out of you.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
There aren’t many ways Ben doesn’t like it, but slow and rough is always going to take the cake. Pulling almost all the way out of you before slamming back in, watching your eyes roll back and hearing that perfect little whine. You milk his cock whenever he drives against your g-spot and beg him to go faster, but he holds the pace. Not like there’s much you can do about it, limp and mindless under him. Eventually he’ll take mercy and start to fuck you like you’ve earned, the brutal pace turning into micro thrusts when he falls over the edge with a groan.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
You have to limit him. There are too many times where he’s pulled you into a closet or dragged you off to bed with guests over, just to pull one more out of your greedy little pussy. And you know you’re always going to let him, even when he shouldn’t. Three a day, you tell him, but that quickly becomes four, then five, then six, and then you give up all together. It’s as if he gets energy fucking you. It’s almost scientifically amazing, and it feels like fucking heaven, so there are worse quirks for a boyfriend to have.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
There isn’t something Ben hasn’t done. If risks are being taken, it’s you, trusting him when he says he’s got some shit you’ll like. You believe him—he’s good at knowing about that, and it would scare you how good he was if it wasn’t deeply helpful—and trust him, because he’s your Ben. He’d never hurt you. One time, you do try to suggest something he might not have done, and he laughs in your face and calls you cute. He’s been slinging cock like a gun before your grandparents were alive. You tell him he’s never allowed to say slinging cock again.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Once, you made a bet with him that you could take it until he was out. It was one of the best and worst choices of your life. He came about thirty times, you came so much you stopped counting—and can’t even remember what number made you give up—and it only ended because Ben started to get worried that you would go into sex hibernation. You told him that wasn’t a thing, and tried to tease him that he was just out. He’d been rock hard when he stopped. You have a feeling that he could’ve done that all over again ten times and still be ready for round one thousand, but he let you have the win. It’s the only kind you have, in the sheets.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
At first, he’s offended by the idea that a fucking robot could get you off better than he could. He still is a little offended. If you use your vibrator, he also gets a shot at it, to remind you which is better at knowing you and your body. But then you show him remote control vibrators, and he turns into a monster. He shoves it into your hand and orders you to put it in, and when you laugh you end up pinned to the mattress and kissed everywhere while he slides it in himself. Ben becomes obsessed with it. Making you glare at him while your thighs shake, smelling your arousal, knowing that you’re probably going to climb him like a fucking tree the second you’re alone. Maybe before, if he does this shit right.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Ben has a talent. A gift, even, and it’s going to ruin your fucking life. He thinks of working you up like a sport, trying to you right up to the edge of screaming before he pulls you into his lap and makes you fall apart with a single, light touch. It’s even more fun then, because you’re sensitive after you cum. And that’s just how Ben fucking likes you. Wet and needy and sensitive, all his to ruin however he likes. You thank him after, and he feels about a million feet fucking tall.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He doesn’t see any point in trying to keep quiet. Sex is meant to be loud and raw. Skin slapping on skin, hands grabbing and moans being forced out of your throat for him to swallow. He dirty talks you loud enough for it to be heard through the walls, and groans you name loud enough to be heard from space. He’s proud of it. The way you get all turned on by his moaning, then adorably embarrassed when the team tells you they could hear .
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Ben really fucking loves cock warming. Sitting you on his lap for no reason at all, burying himself in your hot little cunt, and just keeping you there until he’s had his fill. You get so fucking whiny and gorgeous, calling him names when he won’t move and then pleading and sweet talking him when that shit doesn’t work. He gets drunk on it, how you flutter and pulse around his rock hard cock, looking at him with those glossy eyes and whimpering his name. Sometimes he shoves a book into your hands and makes you read it, because you’re always trying to get him to fucking read. When you’re gasping for air and leaking down his thighs, he’ll give in and fuck you. Then, the next week, he’ll do it all fucking over again.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Horsecock. World ending. Tree trunk thick and uncut. Next question.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Of Ben’s many experiments on your body, one of your favorite quickly grows to be somnophilia, simply because he’s a fucking dog. You know he has self control, and he’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to, but he gets twitchy when he’s been pent up too long. And for Ben, too long is about twelve hours. You could give him a whole night before you went on a work trip, and he’d spam call you until you landed and picked up, demanding that you come back now. He’d spend the rest of his life fucking you, if he was allowed. Sometimes he tries to talk you into that, and you flush, because you’d be more “up for it” than you want to admit.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Ben doesn’t sleep much, after Russia. Been asleep too fucking long, he grunts, and you don’t push. But you notice—like you always do—that the rule doesn’t really apply to you. You wake up in the middle of the night, still where you passed out. Held against his chest like a child’s blanket, cradled like a baby bird, both of you bare as the day you were born and completely at peace. His lips brushing your brow and breathing steady. It’s beautiful to see. Almost sacred. You brush the hair from his eyes and kiss his nose. His eyes flutter sometimes, and you just stare at each other in the dark. You press your chin to his chest, and his mouth twitches into something like a smile. You both fall back asleep, and don’t speak of it in the morning. But—just like always—it will happen again.
✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦
✦Author's Note: i need him in a way that's concerning to feminism✦
Dean's been at it for over an hour, head between your thighs, tongue inside your cunt.
You've cum more times than you can count- they've got it at every angle now, every sound you can imagine, moaning, gasping, begging. It's almost getting ridiculous at this point- you know they won't use all the footage.
But you're also not gonna stop him. You're not sure you've ever felt like this- it's overwhelming in the best way possible, your whole body feels like syrup, you're soaking over him, over the sheets. You'd be sobbing by now if you weren't so painfully aware of the camera only inches from your face.
He pushes his fingers into you again, deep and hard, curling in a way that makes your head spin.
Your hips lift off the mattress, he grabs hold of you quick, pushing you back down hard, "Stay still-"
You know they'll keep that. They'll make sure to keep anything he says. Those are always the parts that get the most replays- hell they're the parts you replay. When you're up late, watching his videos, hand between your thighs.
"-I didn't tell you to fucking move."
You don't know how it still works for you. You know it's not him, he even ran through ideas of lines he was gonna use before you started. He was very sweet about it, almost shy when you were alone- he's anything but shy now.
His grip on you tightens as he moves back to your clit, his tongue working against you rapidly. You're gripping the sheets, trying to keep yourself steady, your whole body convulsing as another orgasm starts to rise quickly.
"Fuck- please-"
He's already told you to beg, a couple times actually. You know he will again. It gets you hot just thinking about it, the stern tone in his voice. You bite your lip hard, trying to stop your hips from rising again. Your gaze falls to the camera, a reminder that you're supposed to be performing, you batter your eyelashes, let out another loud moan.
He pulls back suddenly, his sticky hand wrapping around your thigh, his other hand moving up to wipe his mouth. He looks like a mess, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, chin glistening with your arousal. He glances around to the set, speaking louder, "Sorry guys- I've gotta- I've gotta take a break."
The room picks up in a flash, people moving around, cameras resetting. People come running over with robes, one gets draped over your shoulders, a plastic cup of water pushes into your hands. You take a big swig of it, suddenly realizing how dry your mouth is.
People move around you, you see a few people checking the monitors, gearing up for the next shot. You glance at Dean, he's pulling in a shaky breath, pushing his hair out of his face with his long fingers.
You try to go over everything that just happened- why he wanted to stop. Maybe it's the way your bare heel had dug into his back the last time you came, maybe it's the way you tugged his hair a few minutes ago. Maybe he's just getting sick of being the only one actually doing any work.
He moves closer to you on the mattress, settling close enough that he could reach out if he wanted to. He looks up, gaze falling over you, then turns away fast, back to his own cup.
You speak quickly, nervously, "I'm sorry- did I-"
He cuts you off, leaning his head down slightly so he can speak in a hushed voice, "I'm gonna cum, sweetheart."
It catches you off guard, "What?"
He takes a swig of water, then speaks slowly, "If we keep going, I'm gonna cum."
You're still not sure you've understood him, "What do you-"
"I'm not kidding here, I feel like I'm gonna fuckin' explode- if they catch that on film my whole tough guy act is fucked-"
"We haven't even- I haven't touched you-" you manage to get out.
"I'll never live it down if I blow my load just from tongue fuckin' you- jesus-" he shifts awkwardly, you realize he's trying to hide his boner- it's not easy when his cock is larger than any you've seen before.
"You're gonna cum just from going down on me?"
"You're moaning like you've never had a guy touch you before- it's not exactly helping."
You raise an eyebrow, "I can stop?"
He grins at you, "Don't you dare."
Your heart skips a beat, thighs clench together. Forget any video- this is what you're gonna be thinking about tonight.
He takes another gulp of water, then looks back at you, "Just give me a minute to cool off, and I promise I'll fuck you so hard you can't walk tomorrow-"
chapter contents ٠࣪⭑ baby daddy!Dean x single mom!reader, age gap implied (5yrs), non-explicit, soft Dean, soft/sensitive reader implied, oblivious baby daddy Dean, mentions of loneliness, no major reader appearance descriptions, s8 Dean (vibes/age, not plot), multi part series, 3.2k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ this is kinda dialogue heavy but I think it fits the story, I didn’t really know the direction to take after part one so I hope you like it! (and dw we’ll get out of the park soon lol)
You felt the wooden bench creak under someone's weight right beside you and your things, already about to move to make more space for the stranger or come up with an excuse to take over the whole bench if they seem creepy.
You turned your face to the coffee cup held out in front of you, then to the person attached to it.
“never got the chance to get you that coffee yesterday” Dean's voice murmured, almost shy, but it was hidden well under that trademark smirk of his.
Your stomach felt weird— whether it was from butterflies or guilt you didn’t know— but your lips pulled into a soft smile anyway.
“I didn’t know the offer still stood, y’know with the whole being a mother thing” you’d quipped, tone soft but you weren’t joking all that much. You took the cup anyway.
“of course it still stood,” he said, his tone oddly gentle, now offering more of a smile than a smirk.
You could feel a warmth bloom on your cheeks— traitors.
“thank you,” you murmured, trying not to meet his eyes too much, the same eyes that you see everyday on your little girl.
To say you were surprised to see him again was an understatement. You thought he’d be out of here by now, or at the least avoiding you since you're obviously not in the usual hookup territory, especially not now. You had a daughter to worry about. Even though you wanted him to stay away for obvious reasons, your soul still craved that attention and rare adult male human interaction, but you wished it wasn’t coming from the accidental father to your child.
Dean sat next to you, your brown and pink floral “mommy bag” as you call it, settled between. The bag that contains anything and everything a child or mama could need while away from home, ranging anywhere from snacks to pain killers to emergency plushies.
You took a sip of the coffee, eyes still primarily on Delaney while she played with her toy horses with another little girl she somehow already made friends with, and you smiled at the taste. Recognizing it was from your favorite cafe, coincidentally it was the one you used to work at. Reckon, there weren’t many coffee shops to choose from, it is a small town after all.
“is it alright? I didn't really know what you liked so I took a guess-” there was that shyness in his voice again.
“no, you’re okay— it’s perfect, thank you.” you murmured with a soft smile, catching his eyes for just a second before turning your attention back to your daughter.
He’d smiled to himself, taking a sip of his own coffee. He watched your gaze, landing on Delaney. He’s not around kids often but her youthful wonder made his chest feel uncharacteristically warm and fuzzy. It was nice to see there were kids that actually got to enjoy their childhood.
“how old is she?” He murmured, watching her pigtails bounce with every animated movement, “if you don’t mind me askin 'o course” he looked back at you.
A little wave of panic flared in you, but you ignored it. There’s no way he’d connect the dots… hopefully.
“she’ll be five in a few days,” you said with a little smile. This time of year was always so bittersweet. Delaney was growing (too fast in your opinion) and you’re always brought back to her first few days earth-side. Simultaneously, the most lonely and most beautiful days of your life.
Dean smiled, seeing that little flicker in your eye. Any eldest sibling has gotten a taste of that feeling.
“bittersweet, huh?” He murmured warmly, still looking at you, breaking your train of thought.
“yeah” you replied just above a whisper, looking away again, taking a sip of your coffee and letting the warmth and taste of the drink conquer over your sudden emotions.
A silence comfortable yet buzzing with tension fell over you two, the sounds of children’s laughter and the squeaky playground equipment filling the air. It was a nice early summer morning, not too hot or muggy, just enough cloud cover and shade that you didn’t need to lather Delaney in sunscreen.
“how’d you know where we were?” You’d inquired after a moment, head turning to look at Dean, now realizing he just might be a stalker.
He froze just a little, scratching the back of his neck with an almost sheepish look.
“I uh— well I saw you the day before yesterday, you were sitting here reading a-and when I’d gotten the guts to say hi yesterday you were here at the same time, so I figured you’d be here today too” he said with a shy grin,
“...I am now realizing how creepy that sounds”
You couldn’t help but laugh at that, a chuckle bubbling up without your permission. You shook your head a little with a smile.
“I swear I’m not some stalker—” he said with a soft laugh alongside yours.
“It’s okay I believe you” you murmured with a smile, taking another sip of your coffee, your heart feeling lighter than it should.
“why did the offer still stand, anyway?” You’d asked gently after a moment, “The coffee I mean— I appreciate it of course, but I’m not really in the market for… spending nights with a guy, cause well—” your hand gestured to Delaney who was now galloping and skipping around as if she was riding a horse. You couldn’t help but blurt it out, a shyness in your words, you just needed to know why he’s still around.
Dean was almost caught off guard, not in a bad way but he didn't really know what the answer was himself. There was just something about you that drew him in, even more than years ago, like a moth to a flame. Sure, at first maybe he wanted to have a night like you’d shared before, after all he’s still Dean Winchester the man who can’t be tied down. But… he saw you and your little girl, and he knew he wanted to get to know you. He didn’t even know why he knew, this wasn’t something that happened often, or ever really; but he couldn’t help it or stop it even if he wanted to.
“no, yeah! O-of course— I uh I didn’t” a nervous chuckle left his lips, “I guess I just wanted to talk to you… I hope you don’t think I’m just some douche who just wants to get in your pants… again”
You couldn’t help but smile at his sudden nervousness, he almost sounded like you. Your hand inadvertently reached out and settled on his knee, giving a mindless squeeze for a sort of reassurance. You realized what you were doing and pulled your hand back.
“It’s okay Dean— sorry, I’m just not really used to the adult attention, I guess” you chuckled a little. Looking back at your daughter.
Dean kept looking at you though, a small (now less nervous) smile on his lips. He looked at the way the late morning sun illuminated your hair and made it look like you were almost glowing, his eyes trailed down the slope of your nose and over to the little crinkles by your eyes that appeared when you smiled at your daughter, his gaze lingering on your lips a little before starting all over again.
“I find that hard to believe” he murmured, softer than intended, no smirk or wink or cheesy pickup line attached either.
Your neck practically snapped to look at him again, catching his eyes that were still glued to you. His intense stare made your stomach flutter and your cheeks pink like some teenager— you’re 28 get ahold of yourself!
“mommy, mommy!” and just like that your trances were broken by a distressed preschooler running towards you.
“what's wrong, baby?” You cooed, reaching for Delaney to sooth whatever caused the frown on her little face.
“my horsie is broken!” her pout worsened with every syllable, she held up the broken pieces. Her mini black plastic stallion and its two severed legs on display.
“aw hunny, I’m sorry, I’m sure we can fix it when we get home” your words only seemed to worsen her anguish.
“hey kiddo— I think I have some superglue in my car, you want me to see if I can fix it for ya?” Dean's voice soothed over Delaney's soft wines.
Her face lit up with hope despite her pout still being intact. She nodded her head with a little “yes, please” and a sniffle, to which he just smiled and made his way to his car, even at a little jog as if it was a real emergency. You watched him open his trunk and search for the little bottle. He still had that same impala, the kinda car that was so sexy and sleek it could even make non-car people jealous.
Sure enough he came back with the glue in hand, crouching down to Delaney's level to assess the situation.
“alright let’s see—“ he took the pieces in his hands, examining them, “don’t worry sweetheart, this is an easy fix, she’ll be back to galloping in no time”
Delaney smiled at that, her big sad eyes looking at him intently as he performed his surgical skills on the toy.
Your heart clenched watching the scene. Grateful Dean helped you avoid a breakdown, but watching the way Delaney looked up at him like he’s a hero just stung. Putting salt in wounds you’d thought had healed. What were the odds they’d ever meet? And what are the odds he’s actually turning out to be a good guy? This has to be a joke. It can’t be real— because if it is then you actually have a reason to mourn the father she could’ve had. It was a lot easier when you chalked him up to being some playboy with a girl in every area code, but he’s proven you wrong this morning alone—
No, stop it. Don’t do that to yourself.
“there ya go, princess, good as new” he said with a smile, handing the horse to Delaney. Her smile brightened, her pigtails bouncing along with her.
“thank youuuu!” She squealed, wrapping her little arms around Dean's neck before running off to resume her playing. Holding up the mended horse like it was a trophy. Dean chuckled a little as he watched her run off. His chest getting that warm feeling again.
You tried to ignore the sting, and it was almost easy because of how absolutely sweet their interaction was.
“thank you, Dean. You didn’t have to do that” you murmured, a grateful smile on your lips nonetheless.
“hey, can’t have a princess in distress now can we?”
You just looked at him, now that he was watching Delaney. He’s somehow even more handsome than the night you first saw him. The added ruggedness from time and experiences, his face covered with more stubble and freckles, his physique is more defined, his jaw stronger, less baby faced and more lines that added extra outside appeal. He’s a smoke show, no doubt about that. And the way he smiled at you daughter (technically his daughter too) warmed your heart to no end, but those fuzzy feelings were just the calm before the storm of guilt and longing clouded over, destroying everything in its wake.
Dean stayed with you the whole time you were sitting on that bench and watching your daughter. It’s a daily occurrence to visit the park, usually in the later morning after you and Delaney have had breakfast and gotten ready for the day, she always chooses to wear either her sparkly purple and brown cowgirl boots or her pink light up sneakers and always asks you to do her hair. Delaney loves the playground and it’s a good way for her to socialize and be rambunctious before your shift at the diner, that’s the main reason you go. You don’t want her to be too sheltered or lonely like you were are, and she makes friends so easily there’s just no way you could deprive her of that just for your own pity party.
You’d started working at Hal’s Diner shortly after you gave birth, leaving the cafe was hard but the diner offered a better pay and they’d let Delaney hang around if you couldn’t catch a sitter. The staff became like family, they’ve always been so supportive of you and your situation— offering flexible shifts, better pay options, so much loyalty over the years, and Delaney was practically diner royalty, everyone adored her. It was on the higher end, as far as diners go at least, still homey and familiar with retro styles and pancakes bigger than your face, but it wasn’t all grease and truckers that smell like cheap cigarettes and bad decisions.
“Delaney! Time to go, babe” your voice called out, her little head perked up before she gathered her toys and started saying goodbyes to her new friends.
“thank you again for the coffee and the toy horse surgery” you smiled to yourself, braving Deans steady eye contact skills, still shaking off the array of emotions he caused.
“s’my pleasure” he murmured, mirroring your smile. The way he looked at you made you want to melt, you got flashbacks from that night every time his gaze lingered on yours. You think he might be the only man to ever look at you like that. Whether that’s a good or bad thing, you didn’t know, nor did you want to.
You stood up, starting to pack your things into your bag, “this was nice… but I’ve gotta get to work— it was good seeing you, Dean” the way said it had a sort of finality to it, like this was it. In all reality it makes sense, you’d probably never see him again, or who knows, maybe all it takes is another five years for him to pop out of nowhere.
“you too,” he said your name with a softness you didn’t hear often. He was still looking at you despite your busy hands stealing your attention.
“my brother and I are actually gonna be here longer than we thought— maybe I’ll run into you again”
You looked at him again, but before you could say anything Delaney made her way to you.
“are you coming to my birthday party?” Delaney asked him, eyes bright and expecting, the kid lacks a filter and usually you admire her transparency but not at this moment.
“oh I don’t think so honey, Deans got a lot going on I’m sure, he was just saying hi today” you said with a little slightly embarrassed chuckle, flashing a ah kids look towards Dean.
Delaney's face fell, she looked defeated that her own personal toy doctor was missing out on a bounce castle and pink birthday cake. She reached up and tugged on his shirt to get his attention,
“pretty pleaseeeeee” she pleaded, eyes big, brows furrowed, pout intact, hands folded together, she’s pulling out all the stops. You sighed mouthing “you can tell her no, it’s okay.”
“there’s going to be a big cake and a princess castle and all my preschool friends are coming! And mommy said she needed more grown up friends too—“
Dean couldn’t help but chuckle at that, you just dropped your head with a sigh of defeat.
“Delaney Josephine— what did I say about trying to bargain with people?”
Dean couldn’t hold in his laughter, his smile was so big that his cheeks started to ache. He shook his head with a little sigh, crouching down to her level.
“well princess— you’re lucky that I can never say no to cake, so you better tell your mom that another grown up will be there” he smiled
“Yayyyy!” She cheered hugging him for the second time today, Dean was still laughing under his breath. Rubbing his hand up and down her back a little in the embrace, who knew little kids hugs could feel so fulfilling?
“sorry— she’s a hugger” you sighed, “and you really don’t have to go, she can be very stubborn, and apparently overhears her mothers conversations”
Dean smiled, standing when Delaney unattached herself, going to your bag for her water bottle, bargaining must be tiring work for the almost five year old.
“It’s a small backyard party with a bunch of moms and preschoolers dressed up as princesses and knights— I’m sure you’d rather do just about anything else” you added, hiking your mommy bag on your shoulder after Laney put her water back.
“I’ll be there—“ he urged with a gentle finality, shrugging his shoulders “sounds fun,”
You couldn’t help but smile, this gruff and grown man is more than willing to attend a turning-five year olds princess themed birthday party and it warmed your mama heart. You decided you’ll freak out about the fact your oblivious baby daddy is going to his daughter's birthday, later.
“okay” you breathed. Hands now digging in your bag for your phone.
“uhm I guess I’ll give you my number, to send you details and whatnot, or if you decide not to come which is perfectly okay—“
He smiled at your rambling, still thought it was so cute, he could hear you ramble on about anything and everything all day long.
Dean took your phone and put his information in while you tried not to freak out about the whole situation. You still felt like people with cameras were going to jump out of the bushes at any moment and yell “gotcha!” like you’re in a new episode of Punk’d.
“well, I guess I’ll see you Saturday then” he smiled, handing your phone back, his fingertips brushing yours. You tried to ignore the slight shiver it sent down your spine.
“yeah, I’ll see you then” you murmured hoping your voice didn’t sound as brittle as it felt coming out.
“wait— you’re not one of those moms that makes people get your kid books instead of toys for their birthday, right?”
You huffed a laugh under your breath shanking your head, “no, toys are fine— she’s got enough books” you smiled, “but gifts aren’t mand-“
“before you tell me I don’t have to get her anything— what’s she like? Other than princesses…” he added, politely cutting you off.
You sighed with a smile, why can’t I stop smiling?!
“she actually really like cars, more classics than anything, uhm she loves little stuffed animals and puzzles, and her favorite shows are Strawberry Shortcake and Scooby-Doo— though I’m pretty sure they’re her favorite because they’re my favorites growing up and I indoctrinated her into liking them from day one”
Dean chuckled again, “hey, kids got taste, doesn’t matter how she got it—“ he shrugged making you laugh more under your breath, “cars and Scooby I can definitely do”
You both said your goodbyes before packing Delaney in the car and heading to the diner. You let out a deep breath, closing your eyes, silently praying for the strength and finesse to get through this whole situation, and that neither you or Delaney will get too attached to this man. So it won’t hurt as bad when he leaves, again.
series taglist ٠࣪⭑ @diorgirl444 @ticklish-leafy-plant @wiwciq
✦Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist - Series Masterlist✦
✦summary: A year after Soldier Boy and Maeve fell out of Vought Tower, Homelander's standing trial, Robert Singer is running for President, and the Boys don't have two good plans to rub together. But Maeve gave Butcher a lead before she vanished. A lead about a supe more powerful than Homelander, who might be willing to fight. A lead about you.
Butcher becomes obessed with finding you. Hughie and Annie worry that you'll just be another Soldier Boy. Homelander hides a secret, and somewhere, waiting out for him, is a reckoning. Not from another supe, but a victim.
And the question rises. For all of them.
Will you do whatever it takes?
✦warnings/tags: series rewrite, Soldier Boy x supe!reader, past Homelander x reader and it ain't pretty, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, eventual happy ending, Butcher POV
✦wc: 2.2k✦
✦author's note: very excited for this ! i hope you guys enjoy it as well <3. Also, since this is an expansion from the beginning of "season 4" the reader won't show up until chapter 2, and Soldier Boy won't show up for a little while after that. Please trust the process.✦
The world tasted like ash. Soot and embers flickered through the air, the sky dark in the wake of the glass and steel wreckage. Vought Tower hadn’t fallen—that wasn’t the kind of luck the universe liked to offer—but it had a big hole in the center, right through the sharp 7 that always carved through the vision of New York City.
William Butcher didn’t bother to wipe his hands on his trench coat. The layer of grime would just return within the hour anyways. Clean hands were for those who thought themselves too high and mighty to worry about the rest of the world. The people who sat up in that smoking, ivory tower, wearing gloves and using fancy, flower smelling soaps. Butcher only touched that kind of shit when MM or Hughie caught him walking out of the restroom with dry hands. He told them he’d touched worse than his own cock and piss, and still ended up standing. They glared at him until he rolled his eyes and turned back to the sink.
They weren’t here to tell him to clean up now. MM was somewhere off in the rubble, talking to Mallory about where they’d be stashing Soldier Boy’s sorry, knocked out ass. Hughie was off with Starlight, being nice and gooey and useless. Frenchie and Kimiko had fucked off too. Everyone had something to do—someone to talk to, something to claw about—but Butcher.
Ryan had walked away from him. He’d taken Homelander, and just… walked. And Butcher had promised Becca that he’d look out for the boy, but he’d let it happen. The hell else was he supposed to do. He was out of temp V, Starlight wasn’t much use with the whole power grid burnt out, and Maeve had jumped out the bleeding window. Promises weren’t much use, if Butcher tackled Homelander and got lasered in half. Being a body on the floor didn’t scare him. Seeing the world go dark was going to be a blessing.
He just wasn’t clocking out of the earth, until he got Homelander a one-way ticket down as well.
There were cameras, on the streets. News Crews and people filming with their cell phones, trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Their attention was turned to that red-headed lass at the news podium, with the nervous ticks and plastered smile. Butcher always thought there was something crazy in her eyes, but that didn’t make her anything special. You had to have that kind of crazy, to get this high on the food chain. He had it. Homelander had it. Maeve had it. Was the same thing that made Butcher fall in bed with her. Same thing that got her killed.
Something in Butcher knows he should feel worse about that. Fine breed of woman, turned against Homelander when it mattered, did what she could to help them. But she was a supe, and there wasn’t much talk they’d done outside of hissed sneers. Foreplay. He’d miss her the same way you miss a good vibrator, or a co-worker who wasn’t an incompetent twat. Not much. A little less than a stranger, because at least the stranger could’ve been a good person. Maeve wasn’t. That’s how she’d fallen into bed with him.
Death was something that was going to hit them all eventually. No use crying over it. Wasted hands, to brush away the tears, when you could just be throttling everything else that was trying to kill you first.
Butcher waded through the crowd, none of them paying him much mind. The public had a short memory. He’d been a terrorist with a poster a year ago, but that wasn’t much to remember. He didn’t sparkle enough to hold their attention. Not like Starlight and the rest of the Vought circus, dancing and playing monkey. Hoping those flashing lights would only catch off of them, instead of spreading like a sickness to all they hyenas around them. Butcher half expected to see Starlight, up on that podium herself. Hughie said she was done with Vought. With playing the game the right way, coloring in the lines, then whining like a brat when the enemy got dirty and won. Butcher would believe it when he saw it. He’d bet everything he had—an empty dog bowl, a burnt Hawaiian shirt, and an empty syringe—that Starlight had clean hands. That’s why they kept losing. Over and over and over again.
He was getting sick of losing. Only so many times a man could take it before he snapped, and Butcher had never been one of those level-headed arses, who reasoned their way out of calling it a loss. This wasn’t a goal, or a home run, or any kind of victory. They had done all that shit—entertained Soldier Boy, tickled his balls and bought him beer and tracked down Payback—just to end with less than what they’d had. Hughie would say they’d gained Annie. Butcher would laugh in his face, and say he’d trade blondie back in three seconds, if it meant they handed him Ryan in return.
The crowd was thinning. Butcher was getting closer to the edge, where the sky got clearer and his blackened hands and bloodied face seemed more like that of a madman than a fighter. He kept pressed to the storefronts and under the tented entrances. Homelander wasn’t out and about yet, but Butcher wasn’t looking for a rematch right now. Not until he got his hands on some more Temp V, or—better—a real nice gun, that would blast the cunt’s smile right off his face.
“Butcher.”
He was hearing things. Might be a side effect of the Temp V. MM was right about that shit being dangerous—always annoying, he’d get too smug about it—and Butcher was going to have to keep an eye on that, unless he wanted to end up crazier than he started-
“William Butcher, fucking- Turn around-“
He wasn’t going to be listening to those voices. That was how you ended up wandering off a balcony with champagne in your hand and your dick swinging between your legs-
“Oh, for-“
A hand wrapped around Butcher’s arm and yanked him back. He stumbled into a narrow alleyway, reaching for his gun before he got his footing, and swung with his free hand straight at his assulter’s face.
Maeve knocked his fist aside, then hissed in pain, cringing and doubling over. She looked like she belonged out there with the ruined bricks and pavement. One eye had been turned to a bleeding socket, her arm was at a funny angle, and gashed and bruises were beaten into her face. She had one hand up, silently asking Butcher not to shoot as she caught her breath. He didn’t, but not as a favor. He didn’t have many of those left in his gut.
“You ain’t dead,” he spat.
Maeve scoffed, eyes flicking up in flat amusement. “Obviously.”
“Hm.” Butcher looked down to her shoes. Scuffed. More tattered cloth than support. “Soldier Boy?”
“Knocked out.” Maeve drew back up, cringing slightly as her ribs crunched. “But you knew that.”
“Can’t say I did, love-“
“If you didn’t, you’d still be in the rubble looking for him,” Maeve said, raising her brows. “I saw MM. Talking to that- Angry bitch from the government. You trust her?”
Butcher’s fingers curled on his gun. “More than you.”
Maeve crossed her arms over her chest. Her gaze darted to Butcher’s hand, and she leaned a little away. “I fought with you. I paid my dues-“
“You’re a supe,” Butcher sneered. “You got too many dues to pay, long as your pretty fuckin’ paycheck and styled hair-“
“You think I’ve still got a paycheck? If Homelander sees that I’m not dead, he locks me back up in that cage-“
“Oh, boo hoo, you’re bein’ tucked away and coddled like his favorite little bunny-“
“His breeding cow,” Maeve spat. “That’s what he wanted from me, asshole. And when he realizes he won’t get it, not anymore, he’ll kill me. Just like- Like everyone else.”
Butcher’s jaw ticked. He looked Maeve over. The blood. The bones. The wincing and the weary looks at his gun.
“You ain’t a supe anymore,” he muttered, and she sighed.
“Soldier Boy. Asshole’s got a punch.”
Butcher grunted. Not a supe was an improvement, but she’d spent her whole life in that twisted, ugly machine. Queen of the beast’s intestines, crushing what Homelander told her to, making her own messes. Playing clean until she wanted to be dirty.
“I’m not here for goodbye,” Maeve said, slow and weary. “I don’t think we had that kind of relationship.”
A faint laugh pulled from Butcher’s chest. “Yeah, well, I ain’t givin’ you one more for the road.”
“That’s- You’re all so disgusting, you know that? No wonder no one wants to work with you-“
“You kissed me first, love-“
“I was loney, and drunk, and-“
Maeve cut herself off, looking off to the side and closing her eyes. Butcher let her collect herself. Wasn’t really a place for him to be.
“Not why I’m here,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Look, before I go-“
“Go?” Butcher snapped, standing a little taller. “You think you can just walk away from this fuckin’ mess, tuck your lil’ tail and scamper off like a whiny puppy-“
“I’m offering a plan,” Maeve hissed, taking a step forward. “And unless you’ve somehow found a way to handle Homelander in the past two hours, you might want to shut the fuck up for once in your life, and listen.”
Butcher scowled. A vein in his brow pulsed, but his grip loosened on the gun. Maeve wasn’t a threat like this. He had split knuckles, but them could still pummel the bitch into the ground. “Talk,” he grunted. “Before I shoot.”
Maeve shifted on her feet and tipped her chin up. Her voice was steady. Like she already knew he was so desperate, he’d take anything at all.
“There are rumors. Whispers. Not even through the grapevine, under it. The kind of shit you only hear people whispering about, and- I didn’t think it was real. Not for the longest time but-“ She sighed. “I don’t doubt it. Not anymore.”
Butcher didn’t respond. Maeve pressed her lips in a thin line, looking down the alley then back to Butcher. Like she was only telling him against her better will.
“There’s a supe-“
“Another bleedin’ supe-“
“Don’t be a dick, this isn’t like Soldier Boy-“
“How in fuckin’ hell isn’t there’s a supe like Soldier Boy-“
“Because I didn’t know,” Meave snapped. “I sent you to Russia thinking you’d find- I don’t know, some kind of gun. If I’d gotten even a breath you’d be coming back with Glory Grandpa, I never would’ve even mentioned it.”
Butcher narrowed his eyes. “But you’re tellin’ me this.”
“I am. Because it’s not the same.” Maeve took a long breath. “This supe- She hates Homelander. Maybe more than you.”
Butcher snorted. “That ain’t possible-“
“I promise you.” Maeve’s voice was cold. “It is.”
Butcher glared at her. She glared back, and didn’t step down.
“She’s called the Anomaly. She’s powerful-“
“More powerful than Homelander?”
Maeve shrugged. “Sounds like it.”
“Hm,” Butcher scanned over her features. Bored like steel. Dull and immovable. “Sounds like it ain’t enough, I need somethin’ that’ll finish Homelander, blast ‘im down to hell, no way back up-“
“Then go find that yourself,” Maeve said. “This is what I’ve got, I don’t give a shit if you forget about it or chase it. I did my part.”
Butcher’s lip curled. “And what, you just walk away now? Go live on a pretty fuckin’ farm and pretend this all never happened? That you don’t know what’s really goin’ on, in your old house.”
Maeve sighed, and gave Butcher a look he didn’t like. It was too close to pity. It made his stomach curl.
“Yeah,” she took a step back, that same, ugly pity curling into a tired smile. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. We don’t all want to die, Butcher. Not when we could live, and- It wouldn’t hurt anymore.”
“It always hurts-“
“I know. But then-“ Maeve shook her head. “It doesn’t.”
“You ain’t just walkin’ away-“
“I am.”
She took another step, and Butcher reached for his gun. For a second, they both froze. Maeve titled her head, silently daring him. Take the shot. Be dirtier. Come out on top.
His finger wouldn’t twitch. Not out of love, or attachment, or moral obligation to Maeve. Maybe his hands were too tired. Maybe he wasn’t sure he still had bullets. Maybe because she’d fought for Ryan, and this was his one favor. Her chance to walk away, before Butcher’s head got clear enough to count her sins. Didn’t matter. He didn’t shoot, and Maeve’s shoulders slumped.
“The Anomaly,” she repeated, cradling her stomach as she backed away. “I don’t know where she is, but- She’s out there. Find her. Don’t let him win, and-“ Her throat bobbed. “Be careful.”
Butcher’s lips twitched, as he lowered the gun. “Don’t worry about that bit, love. I’m gonna do whatever it takes.”
✦End note: big plans. small start but big plans. i hope you enjoy the series! ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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.
synopsis ٠࣪⭑ the first time you decide to have fun, for once, lead to a night you’ll never forget with a man who you’ll always carry a peace of, despite his absence in your life—in the form of your daughter— surely you’ll never see him again, right?
contents ٠࣪⭑ baby daddy!Dean x single mom!reader, age gap implied (5yrs), non-explicit, one night stand, accidental pregnancy, soft Dean, introverted/soft reader implied, mentions of loneliness, no major look descriptions, s3/s8 Dean (vibes/age, not plot), multi part series, 2.3k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ this is my first series!! Well, hopefully y’all like it enough to continue, but I’m already writing more for this AU! I really love this concept and it also breaks my heart— so don’t be deceived by the cute vibe, it’ll tug on your heartstrings.
You think about that night more often than you’d like to admit. Not only because if that night didn’t happen you wouldn’t have your sweet angel of a daughter, but it was a night where you decided to let loose for the first time in your life and it was the biggest mistake and best blessing all wrapped in one.
“c’mon, girl” your best friend dragged out over the phone, “you can’t sit in your bed on a Friday night watching romcoms and eating takeout— you’re young! You should have some fun”
You rolled your eyes but even though she couldn’t see it, she still seemed to feel it over the line, “don’t sass me, woman.”
“what? I’m not-“ you paused, letting out a little sigh, “this is fun… and I just got home from a double shift at the cafe, I just want to unwind—“
“watching A Walk to Remember and sobbing into your gas station soda isn’t fun, it’s a cry for help” she retorted.
Your jaw fell a little before closing again, muttering a half-assed shut up, taking another sip of said soda. She’s always trying to get you out of your shell, it never sticks but she’s relentless nonetheless; perks of having an extrovert for a best friend I guess.
“pretty please” she dragged out your name, “with a cherry on top— just come out with me and if you absolutely hate it, we can rot in your bed together next week, hm?” She reasoned, pulling another soft yet exasperated sigh out of you.
“Fine.”
The bar was loud, the only lights being the neon signs plastered all over the walls and the lamps that could barely be classified as illuminating. It smelt like beer, faint cigarette smoke, sweat, and peanuts. There was a jukebox that looked like it was on its last leg stationed in the corner, drunkards having the time of their lives dancing to the classic rock tunes flowing from the crappy speakers. There were mismatched booths and seating scattered around and a couple pool tables in the back.
You tugged your straps up again and adjusted the waistband of your jeans, the tight and slightly revealing clothes your bff insisted on (including the jeans with bedazzled pockets that she said made your ass look fantastic) were definitely not as comfortable as your matching striped cotton pajama set. You yearned for your bed even more than before now.
But some small, teeny, part of you agreed with her. You were a twenty three year old young woman who deserved to do normal 23-year-old things. It didn’t matter if you didn’t normally drink or hook up or expose yourself to second hand smoke, you were going to let loose and have fun.
The night was a blur until you saw him.
You were standing at the bar, the bartender looking at you as if you had two heads just for asking if they had espresso martinis, trying to explain that you’re not much of a drinker and prefer coffee in one too many rambling words before you were gently interrupted by a tall leather-clad stranger.
“just get the pretty woman something she’ll like— on me” the stranger said, a small smirk on his lips.
You turned to look at the stranger, already gearing up to save yourself from a creep hitting on you, but then you saw him.
The most gorgeous emerald green eyes with equally as beautiful lashes, freckles that dusted over his nose and perfect cheekbones, a chiseled jaw with just a little stubble that made him look rugged but still clean. He was muscular too, and smelt like motor oil, musky wood, and the beer that he was getting another of.
Wait— did he just call me pretty?!
“I’m Dean” the stranger introduced himself, a hand outstretched towards you, not having to go far given how close he was standing.
You snapped out of gawking at the gorgeous man, returning his introduction with your own. His hand was warm and rough but gentle somehow. You just hoped yours weren’t sweaty.
“I hope you don’t mind me jumping in there—“
“No!” you clear your throat a little, mentally telling yourself to cool it, “no, that’s perfectly fine, a-and thank you” you replied with a smile.
It felt like hours had passed, yet also only minutes. It was like you've already known him forever. Maybe that’s why you trusted him so fast. You almost felt bad for forgetting about your friend, but when you finally remembered the girl you call your bff, she looked back at you with the most shocked and supportive expression and two huge thumbs up, mouthing “he’s hot!”
There was just something so charming about Dean. He was certainly charming enough to keep you talking, smiling more than you have in a long time, and blushing from all the flirty touches and compliments he dished out.
He’s so charming that you don’t even flinch when he says he’s just passing through town— or when he’s pulling you closer, or when his hand is brushing your hair behind your ear and luring your lips to his, or even when you followed him to his gorgeous car and drove off together back to your apartment.
“I never do anything like this…” you’d murmured, putting a gentle halt to Dean's sweet lips pressed on your neck, moving to look in your eyes.
“I want to… so bad… I just- figured I should let you know”
He just smiled, flashing that pretty grin of his. His hand caressing your cheek again. Opening his mouth and muttering,
“I got you, sweetheart”
He was gone the next morning. Leaving nothing but the memory of the most passionate night of your life and unknowingly a piece of him with you.
“Mommy!” A little voice echoed from across the park.
Your head snapped up from your book, watching your daughter who’s shin-deep in the sandbox showing off her sandcastle in the most vivacious manner a five year old can muster up.
“Oh hunny, it’s beautiful! A princess’ dream” you praise her, a genuine smile on your face.
Delaney's face broke out in a proud and sweet grin, her green eyes shining so bright. Her little hands already moving to create another lopsided masterpiece out of sand.
It was a wonder how this bright, lively, loving little girl came from someone with so much hardship and loneliness. She was the best thing in your life, the best thing to happen to you.
After you’d found out you were pregnant (and after the many freak outs and mental breakdowns) you’d owned it. You’d always wanted a baby of your own— sure, in very different circumstances, but there was a little miracle growing in your womb whether you liked it or not.
There were many nights you spent isolated and sobbing because you couldn’t do it alone, many times you cried for your baby and wished she didn't have just you, the times you had to drive yourself to the hospital when there were false alarms; and then there were moments you knew you didn’t need anyone else, you didn’t need the man, to give your baby the best life you could provide.
Nowadays, you still bounced back and forth between extremes, but mostly you lived in the middle. The part where you’re grateful and love your life and little family duo, but sometimes you'd wish you had someone to help carry the load, or to just be there with you two.
You’d gone back to your book, eyes flickering away from the pages every so often to check on Laney, a reflux you gained with motherhood.
The beam of summer sun that was lighting up the words you were reading somehow disappeared. Replaced by a shadow. You looked up, startled, to see a figure who stole your sunlight.
“Can I help you?” You’d murmured casually before catching the person's face, a sunray stuck in your eyeline, making it difficult to see clearly.
But then you heard your name fall from the figure's lips, you guarded the light from your eyes with your hand, now being able to see clearly.
You’d like to say it took you a second to recognize him, but it was instantaneous. As if you saw him every day. You’d only paused because you needed to internally scrape your jaw up off the floor.
“Dean?” Your voice came out more breathy than you’d hope it would. But he smiles anyway.
“You remember me?” He sounded surprised, even though he’d obviously remembered you.
“Of course…” you murmured, still in a mild state of shock.
His smile widened, and just as he was about to finish asking you to join him for coffee, little footsteps ran over to where you sat on the bench.
“Mama, mama! Can you pleaseeee push me on the swings?!” Delaney had asked, polite as a five year old could be. Her little hands resting on your bent knees.
Dean's eyebrows shot up, clearly perplexed as to why this little girl with wild hair and sparkly cowgirl boots is calling you mama.
Your trance is somewhat broken by your daughter barging in. Hand automatically brushing her hair back.
“In a minute, baby, why don’t you sit and have your snack— mommy’s talking to a friend,” the words tasted weird in your mouth. He wasn’t a friend, he was a man that made you feel like the prettiest girl in the world for a night and then left you with a baby, five years ago.
Laney nodded and eagerly took the pre-packed snacks you handed her, an adorable thank you, mommy leaving her lips, her little feet swinging back and forth where they hung off the bench.
“She yours?” Dean asked, stupidly. Trying to play off his surprise, shifting his weight slightly on his feet.
Of course that’s your kid, what am I thinking?
“Y-yeah, yeah, um this is my daughter— Delaney” you’d rushed out, still wondering if this was the effects of a sun sickness, because you had to be hallucinating or something.
Delaney waved a little, still sipping the juice box clutched in her other hand. Deans lips turning into a smile, waving back.
“Cute kid” he murmured, severely out of his element here.
“Thanks,” you’d awkwardly retorted.
This cannot be happening right now.
“Uhm- what uh brings you here” you decided on, trying to be polite but really you just wanted to get this over with and for him to leave your lives again, no harm no foul.
“My brother and I were just passing through, and I uh- remembered a pretty girl I’d met here a little while back, figured it was worth a shot to look her up” he said, looking almost shy, most likely turned off by the whole mom thing now though.
Pretty girl, your heart fluttered a little without your permission. You ignored it.
“But uh, sorry, your husband is probably— yeah, uhm well it was nice seeing you again—“
“I don’t have a husband” the words fell out before you could stop them. Dean seemed confused again. You silently berated yourself, you never really got ahold of that rambling problem.
“I uh—I mean it’s just us girls” you said, clearing things up a little, awkwardly. You didn’t have to explain yourself to him, if you did he’d know he was technically a father. Your hand went to your daughter's head, attention going to her instead, to somewhat avoid this unfortunate interaction.
What you didn’t see is the way Dean examined you both. He felt like a bit of a douche for just popping in out of nowhere because you hooked up one time ,years ago, and now you clearly have a life of your own. But hearing there was no guy surprised him, if he’s being honest.
He may not have known you for long but in those twelve-ish hours he’d got to spend with you years ago, he’d known you were special. You were sweet and adorably awkward, and rambled too much even when you wanted to stop, you were gentle and honestly rocked his world that night— you were different, he may or may not have realized it at the moment but he definitely realized when he spent a million nights with other women after, and none were like you— maybe that’s why he stopped in his tracks when he saw you the same time yesterday, just reading on your bench, not then realizing one of those kiddos was actually yours.
Not to mention he thought you were gorgeous, in a way that again he never saw after you, the way your hair fell and that shy smile on your face, your pretty eyes and even prettier voice threw him for a loop, you weren’t fake or painted on, you were real. Still are… but now you’ve got a mini you, and whatever circumstance it was, the fact there was no guy settled weird in his chest.
Your gaze shifted from your daughter to the watch on your wrist, secretly grateful that you actually had a reason to escape this hellish encounter.
“Oh gosh,” you turned back to him, “I’m sorry I actually have to go, I’m gonna run late for my shift—” you started packing things up despite Delaney's soft protests.
“Uhm it was nice seeing you again Dean, I uh- hope you have a good stay while you’re here”
Dean was a little surprised by the abruptness but he understood, even though he secretly wished you didn’t have to go.
“It was nice seeing you too,” he smiled a little and you offered an awkward wave before walking away, Delaney in hand.
“Bye-bye mister!” Your daughter's voice called back with a wave and that childish toothy grin.
He couldn’t help the big smile that overtook his features.
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.”
