Platonic Dark Son! Homelander x Mother! Reader x Soldier Boy| Part Two
Soldier Boy's smirk widened, slow and filthy, like he had just unwrapped a present he had been waiting years to ruin again.
"Well, fuck me," he drawled, voice like gravel soaked in bourbon. "You still look exactly like you did bent over that boardroom table in ’78. Same scared eyes. Same tight little pussy."
Homelander’s head snapped toward him. "Watch your fucking mouth."
Soldier Boy raised both hands, smirking around the cigar he slid back between his teeth. "Easy, Just catchin’ up with an old friend. Me and her go way back." His eyes slid back to you. "Don't we?"
You felt the bile rise in your throat.
Homelander sneered at him, already decided not to tell him about the virus he might get infected with on the mission.
Meanwhile, you tried to avoid Soldier Boy's gaze as a small smile appeared on his face.
In the weeks that followed, you tried to do it right.
You learned Homelander liked simple food. Nothing too fancy. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, apple pie. Things that felt like the childhood he never got.
The first time you made it, he stood in the kitchen doorway in his suit, cape draped over one arm, watching you like you might disappear if he blinked.
"You're cooking," he said, with confusion.
He did. And when you set the plate in front of him, he ate like a man who never tasted anything that wasn’t made by terrified Vought chefs. Halfway through he looked up at you with wet eyes and whispered, "It tastes like it’s supposed to."
"Glad you liked it," you stated happily, wiping your hands on a dish towel. "Robert always tells me my food tastes like shit when I get the recipes off the internet."
The moment the name left your lips, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Homelander's fist came down on the marble table with a crack. Plates rattled. And a glass toppled and shattered against the floor. You flinched hard, heart slamming against your ribs.
"He is a filthy, ungrateful bastard," he snarled, voice low and venomous, lips peeling back from perfect teeth. "Talking to you like that. Like you’re some domestic servant."
You realized instantly that he hadn’t understood it was a joke.
Before he could spiral further, you reached across the table and laid your hand over his. Skin to skin. No glove. Just the warmth of your palm against the back of his hand.
"Homelander," you said softly, firmly. "It was only a joke. He didn't mean anything by it. Please don't get angry over nothing."
He went completely still.
His gaze dropped to your hand like it was something holy. For several long seconds he simply stared, eyes wide, pupils blown.
This was the first time he had ever felt your bare skin against his. The same hands he had spent decades imagining, soft, gentle, and maternal.
The ones that were supposed to have held him after the injections, after the burns, after the screams in the lab that no one else ever heard.
Slowly, almost reverently, his eyes traveled up from your hand to your face. You were smiling at him, small and careful, that same gentle expression that made something ancient and starving inside his chest crack open.
The penthouse lights caught in your eyes, giving you an almost ethereal maternal radiance that made his heart fight against his chest like it wanted to tear its way out and crawl into your lap.
This was everything he had ever wanted.
Not the approval of Vought. Not the adoration of the crowds. Not Soldier Boy’s mocking taunts. Not even Ryan, that ungrateful little disappointment who had abandoned him.
None of them mattered anymore.
His source of safety, his origin, his mother was standing right here in front of him, touching him of her own free will.
His fingers slowly curled beneath yours, trapping your hand against his with a grip that trembled between desperate tenderness and the fear that you might vanish if he let go.
"You don’t need him," he whispered, voice rough, cracking at the edges. "You don’t need anyone else. Not anymore."
His eyes never left your face, drinking you in like a dying man who had finally found water.
It happened three hours later.
You'd been trying to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of Vought Tower toward the private elevator that led to Homelander's penthouse when a hand clamped around your upper arm, rough, calloused, and yanked you sideways into an alcove you hadn't even noticed was there.
Your back hit the wall before you could draw breath to scream.
Soldier Boy loomed over you, one forearm braced against the wall beside your head, boxing you in with the casual confidence of a man who'd never once been told no and meant it.
The cigar was gone, but the smell of alcohol and something older, something that had been soaking into his skin since before you were born, rolled off him in waves.
"Easy, sweetheart," he said, and the word dripped off his tongue like honey laced with broken glass. "Ain't gonna hurt ya. Much."
You shoved at his chest. He didn't budge. Of course he didn't.
"Nah." His grin spread slow, lazy, the kind that had probably gotten him into more beds than you wanted to think about.
"See, I've been thinkin' about our little reunion. And I figured." his free hand came up, and a thumb dragging across your lower lip with the casual intimacy of a man who believed your body was already his property, "We got some catchin' up to do. Private-like."
His knee pressed between your legs. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make the message clear.
"I remember how you used to squirm," he taunted you, ducking his head until his mouth was right beside your ear, breath hot against your throat.
"All those late nights at Vought. You'd come into my office cryin' about somethin' or other, and I would make it all better, wouldn't I? Used to beg so pretty for me to stop. Then beg even prettier when I did."
Your stomach turned inside out.
"That wasn't anything. That was you using your position to—"
"To what?" He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyebrows raised, mock-innocent. "Give a lonely girl exactly what she needed? Don't play dumb with me. I know you liked it." His gaze dropped to your mouth again, lingering.
The word ripped out of you, sharp and furious, and you shoved at him again with everything you had. This time he actually moved, not because you'd moved him, you knew that, but because he chose to let you have the inch.
"I have a husband," you spat, and the words tasted like acid, like every conversation you'd ever had with Robert where you'd tried to explain why some days you couldn't get out of bed, why you flinched at sudden movements, why certain sounds made you freeze like a rabbit in headlights.
"I'm married. I have been for decades. And I don't like you. I never liked you. What you did to me at Vought, you ruined things for me. For years. Do you understand that? and now you're standing here acting like it was some kind of romance."
Soldier Boy's expression changed. Just for a second. Something that might have been surprise, or might have been the faintest crack in armor that had been polished smooth by decades of absolute certainty.
Then the smirk snapped back into place, wider than before.
"Husband," he repeated, and the word came out curled with contempt. "Right. What's his name again? Robert?" He made it sound like the most pathetic thing he'd ever heard.
"Bet he's a real prize. Soft hands. Soft dick. Asks permission before he sticks it in ya. Probably cries after, doesn't he?"
"A good man," Soldier Boy mocked, pitching his voice higher, simpering. "You really did turn into a boring housewife, didn't ya? All that potential wasted on some schmuck who probably can't even find the clit without a map and a flashlight."
"See, here's the thing though." He leaned in again, close enough that you could see the flecks of grey in his beard, the deep lines carved around eyes that had seen war and worse and come out laughing.
"I'm willin' to overlook the husband situation. Generous of me, I know. But I figure, one night. Just you and me. Old times' sake. Remind you what a real man feels like. Then you go back to playing happy families with what's-his-name, and everybody wins."
His hand slid from the wall to your hip, fingers curling into the soft flesh there with familiar ownership.
"C'mon, baby. Don't tell me you don't miss it. Miss me. That look in your eyes when I—"
You slapped his hand away, hard enough that the crack of skin on skin echoed down the empty corridor.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
At that moment, you wished to use your supe powers the same ones you promised not to use for decades.
Then Soldier Boy laughed, a short, ugly bark of sound that held no humor whatsoever.
"Alright," he said, stepping back, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Alright. Message received. Frigid little bitch, same as always."
He stood there, arms crossing, studying you with an expression that had shifted from predatory to something else entirely. Something colder.
"Listen to me, and listen good 'cause I ain't gonna say this twice." He leaned forward slightly, arms still crossed, eyes narrowing.
"You know what Blondie does? You know what he's been doin' for years, every time he gets himself a new piece of ass?"
Your stomach dropped before he even finished the sentence.
"He finds women who look like mother material," Soldier Boy explains emotionlessly. "Finds 'em, fucks 'em, calls 'em mommy while he's inside 'em." His lip curled, genuine disgust flickering across his features.
"I've heard the stories from girls who couldn't keep their mouths shut after he tossed 'em aside. That boy gets off on pretendin'. Pretendin' the woman underneath him is the mommy he never had."
You felt the blood drain from your face so fast that you had to press a hand against the wall to stay upright.
"No," you whispered. "that can't be true."
"I'm not sayin' he wants to fuck you, I'm just warnin' ya that he is not a good seed as you think."
Your hands find your face before the thought even fully forms, like your body knows you need to hide from it, even from yourself.
You worked for Vought, and knew what they were like.
You've never had the luxury of pretending otherwise. But this? Your son, twisted into something that makes your stomach turn?
That, you hadn't let yourself see coming.
Your hands dropped from your face.
"Then I'll help him," you said.
Soldier Boy blinked. Actually blinked, like you had spoken in a language he didn't have a translation card for.
"Therapy." You pushed yourself off the wall, straightening your spine until something in your back cracked.
"Real therapy. Not Vought-approved handlers telling him he's perfect. Actual psychiatric care. Someone who can help him work through whatever he needs to work through. Whatever made him into this."
Soldier Boy stared at you like you'd grown a second head.
"You wanna put him therapy? You think some asshole with a notepad and a psychology degree is gonna fix that?"
"Try." He laughed again, that same ugly bark from before.
"Christ, you really are his mother, ain't ya? Same goddamn delusions. Same refusal to see what's standing right in front of your eyes"
The elevator dinged, both of you turned. As The doors slid open, and Homelander stepped out with a smile.
That was the worst part. That wide, magazine-cover smile, the one that had sold a million action figures and convinced a nation he was everything good and pure and righteous about America.
It reached his eyes in a way that made your stomach turn, because real smiles didn't look like that. Real smiles didn't have teeth that sharp.
Your brain refused to process it at first. Refused to connect the shape, the color, the familiar slope of the nose, the grey streak at the temple that Robert had always complained about, always threatened to dye but never did.
"I brought you something," Homelander said cheerfully, and he extended his arm like a child presenting a gift to his mother on Christmas morning.
"You kept talking about him. Kept saying his name like it meant something. So I figured..."
He wiggled the head slightly. The eyes were still open. Still looking at you. Robert's eyes. The ones that had crinkled at the corners every time you walked into a room for thirty-seven years.
"...you probably missed him."
Your legs gave out from under you but Soldier Boy catches you as your eyes watered.
"I freed you." His brow furrowed, confused, like he genuinely couldn't understand why you weren't grateful.
"I freed you. He was in the way. He was always going to be in the way. And now he's not. Now it's just us. The way it's supposed to be. The way it should've always been."
It's a low, rough, and amused sound
"Well," Soldier Boy drawled, and you could hear the grin without turning around, could picture exactly how it looked stretched across his face, "ain't this a fuckin' nice."
"Gotta say, when you decide to make a statement, you don't half-ass it. Presentin' hubby's noggin like a fuckin' party favor? That's commitment."
"Shut your mouth." Homelander orders, unaware that you are going through an internal mental collapse, not focusing on their conversation.
"What?" Soldier Boy spread his arms, mock-innocent.
"I'm impressed. Really. All that talk about mommy issues and here you are, provin' me right in the most spectacular way possible. Killed the competition. Literally." He whistled low.
Soldier Boy's smirk faded into something almost resembling respect. He stepped forward, clapping a hand on Homelander's shoulder with genuine weight behind it.
"Y'know what?" His voice dropped the mockery entirely. "I'll give it to you, kid. That took balls. Real ones."
Homelander blinked, caught off-guard by the praise.
"I spent years trying to have her completely to myself," Soldier Boy continued, eyes flicking briefly to the severed head still dangling from Homelander's grip.
"Never had the guts to just take what I wanted. Eliminate the problem permanently." He shook his head slowly. "You actually did it. No hesitation. No fuckin' around."
His grin returned, but different now, a fatherly approval.
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