caleb had always been the kind of person who made everyone feel safe.
when they were children, he would steal the bigger half of every snack and insist he wasn't hungry. he would walk on the side closest to traffic. Remembered birthdays, favorite flowers, tiny fears that people confessed only once.
Except.,
none of those memories belonged to the woman who loved him.
to the soldiers under his command, he was calm and brilliant.
to the civilians, he was untouchable.
to emcee...
he was simply caleb.
she was the only one who still laughed at the scar on his chin from climbing trees as children. the only one who dared flick his forehead when he overworked himself. the only person who could make the colonel sigh and mutter,
"you're impossible."
yet he'd always smile afterward.
non!mc had met caleb years later.
an arranged political engagement.
a perfect match on paper.
she admired him quietly.
she never expected love.
but somewhere between watching him return home exhausted and leaving apples pr food outside his office every night...
she fell.
it was gradual.
hopeless, silent.
caleb never noticed.
or perhaps he did.
he simply couldn't return it.
A rainy evening, non!Mc waited in the entrance hall with an umbrella.
"it'll storm soon."
caleb didn't even look at her.
"i have somewhere to be."
he walked past. But moments later, another figure rushed through the gates.
Her.
completely drenched.
caleb stopped instantly.
"you forgot your umbrella again." his voice softened in a way non!mc had never heard before.
he removed his own military coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
"you'll catch a fever." She protested. "but you'll get wet." "i don't care."
non!mc stood only a few steps away. Still holding the unopened umbrella.
Forgotten. Like she was always meant to be.
no one heard her. People often whispered that colonel caleb was cold. they were wrong.
he was incredibly warm. Just never toward you.
Time passed, non!mc learned how Caleb never looked twice at her.
she learned that caleb always noticed when emcee skipped meals.
but never realized non!mc hadn't eaten with him once in six months.
he remembered emcee's favorite constellation.
he forgot non's birthday.
when emcee smiled, caleb looked relieved.
when non!mc smiled...
he nodded politely.
then the war reached farspace.
an ambush.
Wandrers emerged from the abyss.
communications collapsed.
caleb received one report.
"civilian transport carrying emcee has been intercepted."
another officer saluted. "Colonel, your fiancée is also on sector twelve."
caleb didn't hesitate. "prepare rescue."
"the civilians in sector twelve..."
"they'll be evacuated by another fleet."
"but your fiancée..."
"my orders stands."
hours later he reached emcee first. she was trapped beneath twisted metal. The battlefield burned around them. caleb tore apart wreckage with bleeding hands.
"i'm here."
"you idiot..." emcee cried. "you shouldn't have come."
"i always will." He responded
Though,
sector twelve fell.
non!mc survived.
barely.
she watched rescue ships arrive long after the fighting ended.
caleb wasn't on any of them.
he never came.
when they finally met again, weeks later, non!mc smiled first.
"you saved her."
"...yes."
"i'm glad."
There wasn't a hint of accusation. That somehow hurt caleb more. he checked her face.
for anger.
resentment.
anything.
instead...
she looked tired. as though she had finally accepted something. the engagement ended quietly.
no arguments.
just signatures.
before leaving, non!mc placed a small wooden box on caleb's desk. Inside were all the little things she'd collected over the years.
the ticket from the first concert she'd booked for them. But never attended, a pressed flower he'd accidentally dropped, a photograph where she stood slightly behind him, smiling while he looked at emcee.
at the bottom was a single folded note..
"you once apologized for forgetting my birthday. The truth is... you never remembered it at all. i don't blame you. hearts aren't promises. they simply choose. urs chose her long before it ever met me. So i'll stop asking mine to wait for something that was never coming. i hope she keeps you safe. goodbye, caleb."
caleb read the letter twice. His eyes scanning through each syllable like a man possessed. his hands shook. The mechanical arm aching with familiar pain. And for the first time... he realized how many quiet kindnesses he'd accepted without ever seeing the person behind them.
he had mistaken constant love for ordinary kindness.
months later, he saw non!mc by chance at a cafe called destiny cafe.
she was laughing. Genuinely. someone beside her said something that made her eyes shine.
caleb wanted to speak up. then stopped.
because he didn't have the right to.
that night, emcee found him standing beneath the stars.
"you miss her." caleb closed his eyes. "i miss the chance to have thanked her." She looked at him quietly.
"you never loved her." He sighed. "Maybe i did. but i broke a heart that deserved gentleness."
the colonel could not gather the courage to send a single apology. Maybe he'll never fet the chance to ever apologise.
The redemption. (Or is it?)
caleb had always believed regret was something soldiers learned to bury.
you saluted.
you survived.
you kept walking.
no matter what was left behind. except... this regret followed him. every morning, every night and every quiet moment in between.
months had passed since Non!Mc walked away.
he still found himself reaching for a second teacup before remembering no one left apples or hearty meals outside his office anymore. The buttons on his uniforms came loose.
the lights in his study stayed dark after midnight because no one remembered to leave them on. the silence he had once ignored had become unbearable.
people said time healed. they lied. Time simply gave him more opportunities to notice every place she had once quietly filled.
he searched for her. not because he expected forgiveness. not because he believed she still loved him. but because he wanted to tell her one thing.
"thank you.
and i'm sorry."
it took nearly a year before fate answered. far from the capital. far from the empire. in a quiet coastal city where no one recognized the famous colonel.
he saw her.
Non!mc.
She looked different. lighter, smile no longer carried the weight of waiting.
she stood outside a small bookstore, laughing softly. beside her stood a man dressed in a long dark trench coat.
Zayne.
chief cardiac surgeon. His childhood friend turned enemy. his expression was as unreadable as winter. Yet..
when Non!Mc complained about carrying too many books, he sighed. "give them to me."
"i can carry them." You protest.
"i know." he took them anyway. "you're stubborn."
she laughed. "you're impossible."
"...i've been called worse." his lips barely curved. but they did.
caleb froze.
those words.
they sounded painfully familiar.
he told himself it meant nothing. Until he noticed the way zayne slowed his steps to match hers. The way he quietly moved her to the inside of the sidewalk whenever traffic passed. the way he already knew which café she wanted before she spoke.
small things.
ordinary things.
the exact kind of love caleb had failed to notice when it was given to him.
That evening, rain began to fall. Non!Mc frowned toward the sky. "i forgot my umbrella." before she finished speaking...
zayne opened his without a word. He tilted it entirely over her. His own shoulder became soaked within seconds. "you're getting wet." You notice. He exhale. "i'll dry."
"you're impossible." You repeat. "...so i've heard." you smiled. a real smile. The kind caleb realized...
he had never been the reason for.
caleb couldn't sleep.
for the first time, He understood exactly what you had felt, watching someone love another person. Standing only a few steps away. Completely invisible.
he began visiting the city, not often enough to intrude. just enough to hope. sometimes they crossed paths. Sometimes she smiled politely. sometimes they shared coffee.
she was kind.
always kind.
but there was distance now. gentle, permanent.
one afternoon, he finally asked.
"would you... have dinner with me?"
You looked surprised. Then thoughtful. "I'm sorry. I already have plans."
he nodded. "with him?"
she didn't answer. she didn't need to. It was obvious.
he passed by a cafe. Through the window. he saw them. You had fallen asleep while reading. zayne quietly removed his own coat and placed it over her shoulders. he adjusted the chair so sunlight wouldn't reach her face.
when the waiter approached. Zayne lowered his voice.
"do not wake her."
The waiter hesitated. " But sir, your food will get cold."
"that's alright."
he watched her instead. Not impatiently. Just simply content that she was there. caleb looked away first.
But weeks later... You collapsed during a charity event. Reaon exhaustion. nothing serious. But caleb reached the hospital just as she was waking.
"...i forgot." You answer, looking down. "that's not an excuse."
"...are you scolding me?" You accused. "yes." "you're terrible." You scoff. "eat."
there was silence.
then, a quiet laugh.
caleb had almost forgotten what your laughter sounded like. he stepped back before either of them noticed him.
he tried anyway.
flowers, letters, simple conversations .You accepted every gesture with gratitude. but never expectation. Never hope. Never the quiet love she once carried in her eyes.
finally...
he asked.
"did you ever stop loving me?"
You looked at him for a long time. Then smiled. "no."
his heart beated faster. until she continued. "it simply changed."
"...changed?"
"love doesn't disappear all at once. It leaves quietly. day after day. Every time it isn't chosen. until one morning..."
she looked toward the hospital entrance, where zayne waited without interrupting.
hands in his pockets, pretending not to watch. "Your heart wakes up somewhere else."
caleb followed her gaze, zayne noticed she wasn't wearing gloves. without saying anything, he removed his own and slipped them into her hands.
"your hands are freezing."
"what about yours?"
"i'm a doctor."
"...that's not how biology works."
"...then pretend i didn't hear that."
she laughed. Zayne looked away, Hiding the smallest smile.
caleb suddenly remembered another pair of hands, holding an unopened umbrella, waiting for someone who never stopped walking.
winter arrived. the first snowfall covered the city. caleb received an invitation.
Your wedding.
he almost didn't go.
but. he did.
You looked beautiful, peaceful. Glowing. Nothing like the woman who once apologized for loving him too quietly.
when the ceremony ended, zayne gently brushed a snowflake from your hair. His touch lingered only a second. but his eyes never left yours.
caleb understood then. this wasn't the desperate hope you had once carried for him.
this was something steadier, something earned, a love built from being chosen.
every single day, after the guests departed..
You found caleb alone beneath the falling snow. "thank you for coming."
"...i almost didn't."
"i'm glad you did."
there was no bitterness between them anymore. only memories. caleb smiled faintly. "he loves you."
Your eyes softened. "...he does."
"i used to think love was protecting someone, crossing galaxies, winning wars."
she shook her head. "it isn't. Love is remembering. It's staying. It's noticing. it's choosing the same person every ordinary day."
caleb laughed quietly, a broken sound. "...i learned that too late."
You stepped closer for just a moment and squeezed his hand.
not with love, not anymore.
only forgiveness.
"yes. you did."
she walked away but this time, zayne reached for her hand first. she intertwined their fingers without hesitation.
neither of them looked back. caleb watched until they disappeared beyond the falling snow.
the battlefield had taught him how to survive losing soldiers.
life had finally taught him how to survive losing the person he could have loved.
if only he had learned to see her before someone else did.
some hearts wait, Some hearts heal and some find home in the hands that never let them wonder if they were chosen.
Could we get a Drabble of soldier boy being jealous🩷
(If you want to of course)
I LOVE MLT THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE AUTHORRR💗💗
⋆｡ ˚ mouth like that 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺
lowdown ☆ a routine stakeout reunites you with an old coworker, and soldier boy learns he hates the idea of you having a past that doesn’t include him.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2543 ride style ☆ giggling 🤭
danger on the trail ☆ jealousy, possessive behavior, suggestive dialogue, strong language, soldier boy being emotionally constipated
liv's log ☆ this is set after chapter 18 of the mouth like that universe, but can be read as a standalone.
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the stakeout has been boring for nearly three hours.
not pleasantly boring, either. there’s no coffee, nowhere comfortable to sit, and the sun’s heat has settled between the buildings with the personal determination to make new york smell worse.
frenchie’s pretending to study the newspaper in his hands while watching the entrance across the street through a gap above the sports section. hughie stands beside him with his phone held at chest height, repeatedly forgetting that he’s supposed to look casual and staring directly at the building instead.
soldier boy’s behind you. he’s dressed like a civilian, which means jeans, a dark jacket despite the heat, and a baseball cap he’s complained about every few minutes since butcher handed it to him.
“take it off, then,” you mutter.
“whole point is not getting recognized.”
“then stop touching it like you’ve got lice.”
“looks fucking stupid.”
you glance back. “it’s a hat.”
“yeah. a stupid one.”
hughie makes the mistake of looking toward him.
“eyes on the building, hughie.”
“my eyes were on the building.”
“your whole head turned.”
frenchie lowers the newspaper by half an inch. “perhaps we should all speak less.”
you’re about to agree when someone says your name. not through the earpiece. not from across the street where the four of you have been watching a side entrance for long enough that you’ve started recognizing the employees by their cigarette habits. no… this comes from behind you.
your body turns before your brain catches up. for one strange second, all you see is a man standing outside the hardware store halfway down the block. worn work boots. faded gray shirt. a paper bag tucked beneath one arm. dark hair slightly longer than it used to be, curling where the heat’s made it damp near his temples.
then he smiles. “holy shit.”
the rest of the street disappears.
“luke?”
his smile breaks wider. “you’re alive.”
you laugh, already moving toward him. “last time i checked.”
“that was apparently a long fucking time ago.”
he meets you halfway and pulls you into a hug without hesitation.
you don’t hesitate either. his arms close around you, warm and familiar, and for one second you’re standing behind the reception desk at the motel again. stale coffee burning in the machine. the bell over the office door sticking. luke coming in through the maintenance entrance with grease on his cheek and a complaint about room twelve’s toilet.
he lifts you just slightly off your feet. you laugh into his shoulder.
“you vanished. no call. no message. nothing. i thought the old bastard finally killed you and put you in one of the mattresses.”
“please. he would’ve charged guests extra to sleep on me.”
luke laughs warmly as he sets you down, but his hands stay around your upper arms as he looks you over. “you look good.”
there’s no performance in it. no exaggerated sweep of his eyes. just something warm and relieved.
you smile. “so do you.”
behind you, something creaks. you glance back. soldier boy has both hands in his jacket pockets. his face’s completely blank. hughie looks between the two of you, then quickly becomes fascinated by the building again. frenchie’s newspaper rises a little higher.
luke doesn’t follow your glance. if he notices the others at all, he gives no sign of it. “you still working nights?” he asks instead, eyes fixed on you.
“sometimes.”
that answer’s vague enough to contain several felonies. luke seems to notice, but he doesn’t push. he never used to push. that’d been part of why you liked him.
the motel hired luke to handle repairs, which meant he spent most of his shifts being summoned to fight air conditioners older than both of you combined. during quiet nights, he sat behind reception while you ate dinner, brought you coffee from the machine without asking, and invented increasingly ridiculous reasons to wander through the lobby whenever you were working.
something had nearly happened. several times.
then butcher arrived with a bleeding man and a gun, and your life became something you couldn’t explain without sounding deranged.
luke snaps his fingers suddenly. “do you remember that night with—”
the memory catches before he finishes. your hand lands on his arm. “oh my god!”
he starts laughing. “with the—”
“window spray!” you say it at the same time.
luke bends forward, laughing harder, and you grab his forearm to steady yourself because the image’s returned in full: his face dripping blue cleaner, a stack of towels collapsing around his legs, the broken window slamming shut so violently that both of you thought it had cracked.
“you sprayed me directly in the mouth,” he says.
“you told me to spray the track!”
“the track, not my face.”
“you moved!”
“because the window tried to kill me!”
another laugh escapes you, bright enough that two people passing on the pavement glance over.
luke looks at you in the middle of it, and his expression softens. the laughter fades slowly. his thumb brushes once against your arm, easy and absentminded. “i missed that.”
something in your chest pulls. before you can decide what to do with it, frenchie clears his throat. loudly. you glance back. he smiles apologetically above the newspaper, then taps two fingers against the watch on his wrist. right. surveillance. possible criminals. butcher waiting to criticize everyone’s efficiency. normal life remains annoyingly inconsiderate.
“i have to go,” you tell luke.
“yeah…” he lets your arm go, though he doesn’t look particularly pleased about it. “of course.”
“it was really good seeing you.”
“you too.”
you begin to step away.
“wait—”
you stop.
luke reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “same number?”
“no.” you hold out your hand. “give it here.”
he unlocks it and passes it over. you type your number into a new contact while he watches. there’s a pressure at your back that you refuse to turn around and acknowledge.
“there,” you hand the phone back.
luke checks the screen and smiles. “don’t disappear again.”
“i’ll try.”
he hugs you again. shorter this time, but softer. his hand settles between your shoulder blades. yours presses against his side. you catch the clean smell of laundry detergent beneath the heat and faint sawdust clinging to his shirt.
when he releases you, he walks backward for two steps. “i’m serious,” he smiles. “answer me.”
“send something worth answering.”
“window spray.”
you laugh again. “terrible start.”
“worked, though.”
you watch him turn and continue down the street. only when he disappears around the corner do you return to the others. frenchie folds the newspaper carefully. hughie stares very hard at his phone. soldier boy looks across the street.
“sorry,” you say. “old coworker.”
nothing.
“we worked at the motel together.”
deadly nothing.
the rest of the stakeout passes in almost complete silence. soldier boy answers questions when he absolutely has to. one word at a time. sometimes not even that. when hughie asks whether the man leaving the building is their target, soldier boy looks through the binoculars for five seconds and hands them back without speaking.
“so,” hughie says carefully. “is it him?”
“no.”
“right. okay.”
ten minutes later, hughie tries again.
“the van’s moved.”
“saw.”
“do you think we should—”
“nope.”
frenchie keeps his attention on the building, but the corner of his mouth twitches once.
soldier boy sees it. the twitch dies instantly.
you assume he’s irritated about the stakeout, the heat, the hat. hughie breathing too loudly. any of the thirty-seven things that can offend him during a normal afternoon.
you don’t think about luke’s hand on your back. not much, anyway.
the safehouse is quiet when you return.
butcher disappears with frenchie to look through the photographs. hughie goes searching for annie. mm asks whether anyone was followed, accepts the answer, and returns to the kitchen table.
soldier boy goes to the living room.
you get yourself a glass of water and spend several minutes helping frenchie label times beneath blurry pictures of people entering and leaving the building. none of it leads anywhere useful. eventually, frenchie takes the laptop into the back room, leaving you alone at the table.
“so what about the window spray?”
you glance over your shoulder.
soldier boy sits on the couch with one arm stretched along the backrest and a beer on the coffee table. the stupid baseball cap’s gone. his hair’s flattened where it sat.
“what?”
“the window spray.”
you look toward the cleaning supplies beneath the kitchen sink. “do we need some?”
his stare hardens. “the thing with your boyfriend.”
“boyfriend?” you blink. “what—who? luke?”
something in his shoulders shifts. “looked like he wanted to be.”
you turn in your chair. “are you asking what happened?”
“asked a question.”
“you’ve apparently been thinking about it for hours.”
“answer it.”
you stare at him for a moment, then lean back in the chair, already smiling.
“god, okay—so the window in room fourteen kept getting stuck,” you say, a laugh slipping into your voice before you can stop it. “luke had it half taken apart, and i was supposed to be cleaning the track.”
“exciting.”
“and he’s like, ‘just spray the track,’ right? so i go to do it, and the stupid thing drops all at once—” you huff out a laugh, shaking your head at the memory. “—and i jump, and i just—i spray him directly in the face.”
soldier boy waits.
you’re already laughing now, one hand coming up to cover your mouth. “like, full blast. eyes, mouth, everything. and he just freezes for a second, completely soaked, and then he tries to step back and—” you break, laughing harder. “—and he trips over the housekeeping cart and goes down with all the towels.”
“that’s it?”
the disbelief in his voice only makes you laugh more.
“you had to be there,” you manage.
“yeah,” he says. “i bet.”
you smile into your water, still a little breathless.
he doesn’t. “he always wears his shirts that tight?”
your head lifts slowly. “what?”
“guy looked vacuum-sealed.”
“it was a normal shirt.”
“no, it wasn’t.”
“you noticed luke’s shirt?”
“hard not to.”
you bite the inside of your cheek.
“he still work at that dump?”
“i don’t know.”
“useful guy?”
“very.”
“fix toilets?”
“among other things.”
“great.”
you study soldier boy across the room. his face gives you nothing. his beer remains untouched. one boot taps against the floor once before going still again.
“what’s happening right now?”
“nothing.”
“you’ve spent all afternoon acting like somebody shot your dog.”
“never had a dog.”
“somehow, that explains a lot.”
his mouth tightens. “you fuck him?”
the question lands so bluntly that you almost choke on your water. “excuse me?”
“at the motel. you two sneak into empty rooms between clogged drains?”
“no!”
his expression doesn’t change.
“but we almost went out,” you add.
his jaw shifts. “you almost went out? the fuck does that mean—almost?”
“something always came up. somebody called out. a guest flooded a bathroom. once the owner made luke spend six hours trying to remove a raccoon from the laundry room.”
“sounds committed.”
“and then butcher showed up…”
soldier boy goes quiet. you don’t have to explain the rest. butcher showed up. mm was bleeding. hughie looked terrified. a gun pointed at your face, and somehow that became the dividing line between the life you had and the life you have now. luke belongs to the other side of it.
“you gonna call him?” soldier boy asks.
“probably.”
“why?”
you stare at him. “because i liked him.”
“liked.”
“maybe i still like. i haven’t exactly had time to find out.”
his eyes settle on yours. the air changes. not dangerously. not the kind you measure by exits and distance. something smaller. meaner. the danger of realizing you’ve stepped into an argument that began several hours before you knew it existed mixed with the weight of the gym, the kisses, the bad idea.
“guy changes lightbulbs for a living.”
“you’re unemployed.”
“i’m soldier boy.”
“that’s not a job. it’s barely a personality.”
he narrows his eyes at the jab.
your phone buzzes on the table. both of you look at it. a message waits from an unknown number.
“not at their phones unless somebody’s saying something stupid.”
you read the message aloud. soldier boy scoffs.
“i thought it was cute.”
“course you did.”
you look at him properly now. the silence during the stakeout. the shirt. the questions. the sudden interest in motel maintenance and whether luke had ever touched you in an empty room. a laugh begins low in your chest.
soldier boy’s eyes narrow. “what?”
“are you jealous?”
he looks personally insulted. “of him?”
“yes.”
“the maintenance guy?”
“his name’s luke.”
“don’t care what his name is.”
“you seem pretty invested.”
“bullshit.”
“you noticed his shirt.”
“everybody noticed his shirt.”
“frenchie barely noticed he had a face.”
soldier boy leans forward, forearms resting against his thighs. “you gave some civilian your number in the middle of a job.”
“he already knew me.”
“doesn’t know you now.”
“you don’t know him at all.”
“know enough.”
“what exactly do you know?”
he stares at you. for a second, you think he’ll dismiss the whole thing. call you delusional. take his beer and leave the room like the question is too stupid to deserve an answer. instead, he says, “i know how he looked at you.”
your amusement softens around the edges. “and how did he look at me?”
“like he’d already decided you were going home with him.”
“i didn’t.”
“you wanted to.”
“maybe.”
his expression turns murderous. and suddenly you understand. not just the jealousy. the precise shape of it.
“you’re not jealous because he wanted me… you’re jealous i wanted him back.”
his eyes stay on yours.
you purse your lips, fully entertained and begin typing on your phone.
“don’t answer him.”
your thumb stops. you look up. “and why not?”
he’s got nothing respectable to say. you see that too.
“because i said so.”
“not good enough.” you return to your phone.
“you want coffee, i’ll get you coffee.”
your thumb stops again. “what?”
“coffee.”
you lower the phone slowly. “are you offering to take me for coffee?”
“i know what i said.”
“you said you’d get me coffee. that could mean you’re planning to rob a café.”
“jesus christ.”
you wait. he glares at you from the couch, every inch of him offended by the fact that you’re making this difficult when, as far as he’s concerned, he’s already made an extraordinarily generous offer.
you enjoy every second of it. “ask me properly.”
he stares at you like he might detonate from humiliation alone. “come have coffee with me.”
“instead of luke?”
“yeah.”
“because you’re jealous?”
“because his joke wasn’t funny.”
you smile.
“still not admitting it?”
“you coming or not?”
you pick up your glass and phone. “i’ll think about it.”
you make it three steps toward the hallway. your smile widens where he cannot see it when the outraged scoff leaves his mouth.
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.”
a/n: hi hi ! quick caleb thing i thought of bc i saw this tiktok, i love u yandere caleb …
“okay i found his instagram, he seems normal? he has a sister so that’s a green flag right?” the light from your FaceTime call on your laptop is the only thing lighting up your bedroom.
your friends voice comes through the speaker, “yes! it seems like he has good friendships too and doesn’t brag about the colonel stuff either so that’s good,” she adds on. you nod, both of you continuing to dig deeper into caleb’s life.
you liked caleb, he seemed like a great guy! he was kind, respectful, funny and really fucking hot. there had to be a catch, right?
only a couple clicks later and you’d managed to find his address.
“dude, i think i just found his address,” you laugh, hand covering your mouth.
a ding caused your eyes to flicker to the top of your phone
caleb :P : hey what are you up to? i just got home im so tired :((
“he just texted me right now, said he just got home,” the heat rushes to your cheeks immediately as you text back, smiling when he responds only seconds later.
“helloooo im still on the call y’know,” your friend brings you back to reality. you giggle, apologizing before focusing at the task on hand once more. “what’s his address? send it, let’s see what kind of neighborhood he lives in,” your friend wiggles her brows at you and you immediately screenshot the house and send a link over.
your fingers move quicker than your eyes, too used to her contact being the first to pop up on the share button. you’d forgotten how often you’d been sending things to caleb.
“did you get it?” you ask, already scrolling down the street of his house in skyhaven.
“no? you haven’t sent me anything yet,” she replies easily. the color drains from your face as you open your message app.
[1 screenshot sent]
[1 link attatched]
all sent to caleb.
“oh my god, I’m so fucked dude,” your eyes widen, heart falling through your ass as the one word you now dreaded the most appeared in conversation. read.
“why what happened?”
“I sent him his own address. I’ve never once been over.” the mortification is obvious in your face, your friend immediately mirrors your expression.
“maybe you can unsend it?”
me: oh my god i swear this isn’t what it looks like
“he read it- fuck he’s typing oh my god I’m so fucked it’s so over for me, I’m so fucking—”
caleb :P : i live in the next house over not that one. 104, not 105
“holy fuck,” you mumbled, heart racing as you read his text over for the nth time, your friend shrieks over the phone. okay maybe you’re not completely done for.
caleb sits in bed, smiling at his screen.
you’d finally taken the bait, followed the trail he’d left of himself online. pretty posed pictures, a perfectly curated account. everything you liked and everything you wanted. he put just enough information for you to find everything you’d wanted if you dug juuust a bit, if you were like him. and now he knows you were like him.
caleb is relieved, shutting the live feed off from the camera he’d installed in your bedroom. you’ll be over at his tomorrow, he’ll make sure of it.
masterlist
taglist: @hirayalia @violasepals @txtworlddom @mrs-lixiaqin @pjselee @luvyizhou @colonelkaboom @xyzsbaobei @ellavelysworld @floatingpalelilies @stillseiims ask to be added :3
dean writing odd!reader love letters after he finds one you wrote for him… ugh he’s so cute :(
oh my goodness this is the sweetest thing ever ! he sits out in bobby's dimly lit kitchen when everyone is asleep, tugging his lip between his teeth with a paper and pencil in hand, trying so so hard to come up with some flowery, sweet words to write for u :( because he loves you sooo much and needs the letters to sound pretty :(
maybe he starts by just jotting down quick, simple things on sticky notes, a comment about how lovely your smile is or how much he adores your laugh and tender heart. he leaves them around your room and outside the house, tucked safely where he knows you'll stumble upon them!
lover boy will work his way up to writing big cheesy novels for u one day
Another funny thing about the SMAUs: Mephisto the willing accomplice!! 😆😆
HEAOIJDOISW he's their telephone fr!! 😂😂
"pisto, what it say?" lucian would wonder, staring at a long message from papa's phone. letters and numbers evenly spaced and curated, but making no sense to the three year old.
mephisto flutters down from his perch and lands on the baby's head, ruffling hair and tickling ears as he beats his wings to a stop. his beak opens, and out comes his voice— mellow, slightly flat (sylus is working on that), but clear— "Mission Report Seven-Three-Six. Correspondence: Crow Oh-Six..."
lucian frowns. "top. next."
"Text from: Ao. The aethercore parts are—"
lucian yawns. "next."
"Text from: Beloved."
"ah, that's mama!"
"Lucian is not getting that snake."
lucian gasps. "no! what papa say?"
"Sent: You're no fun."
lucian nods as if he were part of the conversation. "a'mama say yes?"
mephisto shakes his head.
a new text pops up in the thread, and lucian's eyes light up. "pisto! read, read!"
"Text from: Beloved. Lucian, stop reading your father's messages."
"how you know!!" he screeches into the phone. glancing around in horror, trying to spot you creeping up on him from the corners of the room.
"Text from: Beloved. I'm your mother. I know everything."
lucian gapes at his traitorous accomplice and shakes him off his head. "noo, pisto!!"
Mephisto squawks apologetically, nuzzles the boy's cheek in good nature and flies off. Just in time to herald sylus's entrance, who picks up both his phone and his squirming son in his arms to take him to meet your judgement.
i just think valko would love being friends with sylus & sylus also holds him in high regard he just isn’t as open to sharing those thoughts with him 😂 good thing kyros & lucian are the openest books in the world
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