hi could u write the reader is having a really bad day and she kinda tears up so ben (sb) comforts/babies her but he’s not gentle or soft
BAD DAY WITH BF!SOLDIER BOY
Tags: established relationship. Fluff. pure fluff. Comfort. Age gap intended. Mean Ben if you squint. No use of y/n. No description of reader. Soldier Boy just wanna take care of you. (wc: 968)
You couldn’t be having any worse of a day than the one you were having right now. You had so far locked yourself out of your apartment, lost one of your AirPods as it fell down between the platform and the train on the subway and gotten all wet from the rain as you walk to your campus, soaking up your feet entirely and most probably caught a cold. And it was only 8 a.m.
By 10 a.m., you had also failed your exam, to which you had studied for weeks. Bought a coffee that fell all over your already drenched coat.
You carried a heavy heart for the whole day, every little victory feeling to insignificant to make you feel better and every bad thing that happened just added to your bad luck streak, to the pile you were carrying on your shoulders. Even as you decided to get home at the afternoon by uber, to get there faster. But the uber driver was smelly and hit traffic.
So it was only natural for you that as soon as you got home and threw your backpack and coat to the ground, your eyes well up with tears. You’re exhausted, it took you forever to get home and everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong. Ben is laying on the couch, rolling up a joint and he furrowed his eyebrows as he saw you dragging your feet and holding back the tears as you sat up right beside him.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, his tone low and lolling up on his tongue. You tried replying, saying something, trying to explain how everything in your day just went to Hell, but no word came out, only a sob and a hiccuped and small I can’t anymore before you broke, finally, crying to his side.
Ben raised his eyebrows at you, huffing a little and you threw yourself to his arms, burying your swollen face into his chest as you cried. “Wow. Easy there, sweetheart.” he whispered, his hands hovered over you for a moment, pinched eyebrows as he stared at your crying self. He finally caved in, his arms wrapping around your body and he patted your back slowly. “It’s okay, you’re fine.”
It’s not that he was ever taught to be… soft or how to bring comfort to anyone. Ever. Not even he had it. It was hard for him to know what to do exactly or how to… help? maybe? He caresses your back softly, trying to be soothing. He only lets you cry it all out, holding you in his arms.
You wipe away your tears, pulling away a little. He uses his thumb to catch a stray tear. “There you are.” he says with a small smile.
He doesn’t do gentle. He doesn’t know how. His hands just try caressing your back as you hiccup your way through your story. And of course you know he’s only half-listening to you. “C’mon, doll. You can’t be like this because of a sole bad day.” You know he’s trying, he wants to *help. But he’s coming off a little mean. You sniff, looking up at him through your eyelashes. He leans in, kissing your forehead as he believes he has given you the best advice you’ve heard in ages.
His expression is tight as you two stare at each other and he gruff. You know he’s getting annoyed by your tear-streaked face, your swollen eyes and your red nose, but it’s not like you can help it!
He huffs as he leans back on the couch, pulling your feet up on his lap. He tossed you his phone before he started taking off your shoes. “Order something in one of those things you like so much, my treat.” he grunted, throwing your shoes away on the ground. “You probably didn’t have a proper meal in all day.”
He took off your wet socks, starting to massage a little your feet to get them warmed up. You took the phone with trembling hands, ordering a pizza finally. You knew Ben would want some afterwards too. He got up and brought from your bedroom your fuzzy socks. Those he makes so much fun of but you keep saying how much you love them cause they keep you warm. As he sat up, he put them on your feet slowly, uncharacteristically careful.
He pulled the ridiculous weighted blanket you had there on the sofa and he manhandled you to make you snuggle to his side, your back resting on his abdomen. And he tucked you in —poorly— but still.
“I ordered pizza.” you say with a small voice and you gain a hum in response while he absentmindedly changed the channels on TV. He kissed the top of your head, his eyes glued to the screen.
“See, doll? You’re fine.” he said and you snuggled more into him, cuddling into his chest and seeking for the heat of his body. His heart was steady close to your ear. He keeps you close while he’s caressing your back and every now and then leaving a small kiss on top of your head.
He’s trying his absolute best to show that he cares. It’s not his fault he can’t do more than that.
He lights up his joint, holding you against him and he offers it up. You take it, just raising your head a little and taking a puff from between his fingers. He smiles. “Good girl.”
His praise makes you finally smile and you leave a kiss on his wrist before cuddling again, awaiting for your pizza.
a/n: Based the whole thing in an actual bad day I once had. How I WISH he was there to do all of this for me and baby me like this.
Summary: Assigned to manage Soldier Boy, you become the only person who can keep him under control. But as tension turns into dangerous attraction, keeping things professional becomes impossible.
-requested-
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut(slightly), Angst, Language
Word Count: 6206
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You barely slept. Instead you’d stared at the ceiling. When you did drift off, it was shallow and anxious with images looping in your head of your lips on his. Or the heat of his palm at your waist. The feel of him when your hand slipped lower ad the look on his face when you bolted.
You showered twice, because you couldn’t get the smell of him off your skin, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You had put the green dress back in the garment bag and folded the diamonds into a sock drawer.
For work you pulled on your favourite cardigan and a black skirt that hit below the knee. Nothing that hugged or shone or could be mistaken for “trying”.
During that, Marmalade watched you from the kitchen table, very judgmental and unimpressed.
“Don’t look at me like that”, you muttered while buttering half a bagel. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—”. You cut yourself off, remembering the press of Ben’s lips and the way his hands had trembled when he held you. Your stomach twisted and you shoved the bagel aside.
Half an hour later, you got to Vought Tower early than Caldwell, earlier than the security desk was used to seeing you. You hid at your desk, answering emails, rescheduling Soldier Boy’s gym slot, triple-checking press releases, anything to stay busy, anything to avoid the memory of last night. Any time a bootstep echoed in the hall, your heart leapt and fell in the same second.
Eventually Trish’s bag hit her desk with a thud big enough to make your pens roll and you jump.
“Morning, sunshine”, she said, dropping into her chair across from you and immediately unlocking her computer with one hand while peeling off her coat with the other. “You look like you saw a ghost”.
You kept your eyes on your monitor. “Just… tired”.
She squinted at you. “You’re never this early. Did the museum call you in at dawn? Did he make you polish his shield or something?”.
Your brain helpfully chose that exact moment to flash you an image of your hand on something very much not his shield and heat shot up your neck. “No. It was just… a long night”.
“Aha”, Trish rolled herself closer. She lowered her voice. “Okay, enough. Spill. You went to the gala with him. I saw the pictures. You looked hot, by the way, don’t argue with me. So? Was he awful? Did he punch the VP? Did you have to tase him?”.
You swallowed, eyes glued to an email you weren’t reading. “He didn’t punch anybody”.
“That’s… honestly disappointing”, she said. “But good for Legal, I guess. Did he at least embarrass himself? I’ve got twenty bucks on ‘calls someone a fucking pussy’ at a charity event”.
“Not really”, you murmured.
Her eyes lit up. “And? You’re being weird, why are you being weird? Oh my God, did he hit on you? Like, actually, not just the usual harassment?”.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Only your fingers tightened on your mouse until it squeaked.
Trish’s jaw dropped. “No way”.
“Nothing happened”, you said quickly. Way too quickly.
She leaned all the way over her desk now, invading your personal space with zero shame. “Okay, now I know something happened. You get all pink whenever you lie”.
“I do not—”.
Whatever you were about to deny died on your tongue, because the energy in the bullpen shifted all at once, like someone had flipped a breaker. The hum of conversation dipped, the keyboard clacking slowed. Even people who pretended they were too cool to care went still in that particular way that meant supe in the vicinity.
Bootsteps. Your whole body recognized them before your brain did.
Trish’s eyes widened over your shoulder. “Oh, shit”, she whispered. “There we go".
You didn’t turn. You stared at your inbox like if you clicked fast enough you could open a portal and fall through it.
He stopped at the end of the aisle.
“Morning”, Ben said.
A couple of people actually flinched. You made yourself look up.
He wasn’t in full gear, but he might as well have been. Dark green tactical jacket over a fitted black shirt, dark pants and some heavy boots. No shield, no gloves. It was the softer version of the suit they put on posters, the one for “serious interviews” where they wanted him dangerous but not too dangerous.
His eyes were clear enough to tell you he hadn’t hit anything too hard this morning. His gaze landed on you and stayed there.
“Hi”, you managed, but your voice came out thinner than you liked.
Trish swiveled in her chair so fast it squeaked, pasting on a bright, professional smile. “Good morning, sir”.
Ben’s eyes slid to her for half a second. “Yeah”, he said. “You’re… the friend, right”.
Trish blinked. “Uh. Yes?”.
He hummed, filed that away, and promptly lost interest in her. His attention snapped back to you like it hadn’t actually left. “Didn’t see you upstairs yet”, he said way too casual.
You swallowed. “I, um… wanted to get through the late night emails”.
He let his gaze flick down and back up, taking in the cardigan and the way you were about three inches shorter without the heels. “Back to uniform, huh”, he said. “Shame”.
You felt your face get hot. “It’s… work”.
“Last night was work”, he countered easily. “This is… overtime”.
Trish made a strangled sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Ben ignored it and leaned his hip against the corner of your desk, close enough that you could smell the familiar mix of smoke and cologne.
“We got shit to go over”, he said.
You clung to that word like a lifeline. “Debrief. Right. I can send you a calendar invite for—”.
“Now”, he said.
Your heart misfired. “Now?”.
He tilted his head, studying your face. “You too busy, doll?”.
You opened your mouth. You had emails, drafts. A to-do list long enough to drown in. But none of that mattered.
“No”, you whispered.
He straightened and pushed off your desk. “Then let’s go”.
You hesitated with your fingers still on your keyboard.
He dropped his voice, leaning in just a fraction, close enough that only you could hear the next part. “You ran outta my car like I had a fucking bomb strapped to my dick”, he murmured. “We’re not pretendin’ that didn’t fucking happen”.
Your lungs forgot their job for a second. You darted a glance around. No one was close enough to hear, but they were close enough to watch and half the bullpen was doing a terrible job of pretending not to. And by now, Trish’s eyes were the size of dinner plates.
Ben straightened again. “Bring your little tablet, sweetheart. We’ll talk upstairs”.
You fumbled for your tablet, hit save on a document you hadn’t edited and stood on legs that felt like borrowed furniture.
Ben stepped back just enough to let you out from behind the desk, then fell into step beside you without waiting to see if you’d keep up. You did. The alternative was… worse.
“Shit”, Trish mouthed as you passed. You wished you could disappear into your cardigan.
You walked side by side toward the elevator while you stared straight ahead. “We don’t… have to talk about it”, you said, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah”, he said. “We do”.
He hit the call button with two knuckles, and the elevator instantly slid open. Ben stepped inside, his broad frame filling the doorway as if it had been built around him. Then he turned just enough to glance back at you. His hand came out casually, as though he were simply steadying you as you crossed the gap, but his palm brushed the small of your back as you stepped past.
Two women by the bullpen entrance sucked in matching little breaths, like they’d just seen something indecent. Their eyes went wide, one’s mouth actually dropped open a little.
You shuddered as Ben let his hand fall away, then hit the top-floor button. The doors slid shut, cutting off the murmur of voices outside. You stared straight ahead at the brushed metal panel, your reflection warped and pale with eyes too big.
Your heart was racing. Not just fast, wild. Your chest hurt with it. Your palms were damp on the smooth plastic of the tablet. Your throat burned. And he could hear it. You knew he could hear it.
You tried to swallow it down. Tried to breathe quiet, even breaths like HR videos told you to. Instead, your lungs stuttered, catching on the tight, ugly knot of fear and humiliation and leftover heat in your chest.
What if he was mad?
What if last night had just been another story for him, and now you’d messed up the only thing you were good at, your job?
What if he decided you were more trouble than you were worth?
Your eyes blurred. No. No, no, not here. You blinked hard, looking up at the little red numbers ticking higher: 73, 74, 75. They doubled, smeared. You dragged in a breath that shook on the way out.
“Jesus”, he muttered, not unkindly. “You gonna fucking pass out on me?”.
You shook your head. It was all you could manage. If you opened your mouth, it wouldn’t be words that came out. It would be the panic sitting in your throat like a fist. Your fingers dug into the edge of your tablet. The air felt too thin and too thick at the same time.
“Hey”, he said. Just that. But your lungs locked. Every ugly what if slammed into you at once. What if he is mad. What if he does hurt you. What if you pushed too far and now you’re just another story, another body, another fun little incident report for PR to spin.
You pressed back against the wall without meaning to, shoulders flattening against cool metal. Your breath started coming faster, shorter, catching on the jagged edge of fear. Your eyes burned and the red numbers blurred again.
Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.
“Whoa”, he said softer. “Hey. Look at me”.
Your gaze skittered sideways, then up, like it had been yanked on a string.
He wasn’t smirking. No lazy amusement, no mean little curl of his mouth. His brows were drawn together and his eyes sharp in a way that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with alarm.
“You think I’m gonna hit you or somethin’?”, he asked low but weirdly careful.
You didn’t answer. But your body did. Your shoulders drew in even tighter, chin dipping, every muscle trying to make you smaller.
“Fuck”. He lifted his hand and you flinched so hard it made a tiny sound in the back of your throat. He froze with his hand still in the air, palm out like I surrender.
“Okay”, he said, more to himself than to you. He dropped his hand deliberately, fingers spreading at his side. “Alright. I’m not touching you. Just listen”.
The elevator hummed past another floor. You stared at him with your chest shuddering, and tears finally spilling hot over your lower lashes.
“I’m not gonna fucking hurt you”, he said, enunciating each word like he was pushing it into your skull. “You hear me? I’m not mad. I don’t kill people for kissing me. That’s not a fucking thing”.
Your breath hitched. “You— you do kill people”.
“Yeah. Not you”.
He shifted his stance, bracing one hand against the opposite wall so the car rocked just barely. Not trapping you, he kept his arm high, giving you a clear path if you wanted it. Just grounding himself.
“You think I’d drag you into my car, put diamonds on you, walk you around in front of every rich cocksucker in New York and then snap your neck over one little panic run?”, he asked, something rough and incredulous in his voice. “C’mon, doll. Give me a little credit”.
A wet, choked sound escaped you that might’ve been half a laugh, half a sob. You pressed your wrist to your mouth, mortified.
His eyes tracked that and softened around the edges.
"You’re really leakin’, huh”.
You sniffed, mortified. “I’m s-sorry, I just—”.
“Don’t apologize for cryin’”, he cut in, frowning like that was what offended him most. “You’re allowed to freak out, sprinkler”.
You blinked. “Sprin…kler?”.
His mouth twitched. “Yeah. Turn the pressure up a little and you start mistin’ everywhere”.
“That’s… a terrible nickname”, you managed.
“I didn’t say it was good branding”, he said. “But it fits”.
You huffed out a wet little almost-laugh and wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand. Your mascara smudged on your skin and his gaze tracked it, mouth flattening like he wanted to go back downstairs and rearrange some jaws.
He let out a breath instead. “Alright. Listen up, ‘cause I’m only sayin’ this once”.
You went still.
“I am not going to kill you”, he said, slow and clear, like he was reading cue cards. “Not for crying, not for panicking, not for kissing me, not for—”, his mouth ticked, “—grabbing my dick like you were checking if it came fucking standard”.
Heat detonated in your face. “Ben”, you choked mortified. “Please don’t— don’t say it like that”.
“What?”, he asked. “You want me to call it somethin’ else? ‘Equipment’? ‘Patriotic hardware’?”.
You made a strangled noise and tried to disappear into the elevator wall. “Can we not talk about your… anything… in confined spaces?”.
He watched you for a second, the way your fingers dug into the edge of your tablet.
“Relax”, he said. “I’m messin’ with you. Mostly”.
“Mostly?”, you repeated weakly.
“Yeah. ’Cause I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen”, he said. “You touched me. I liked it". His eyes flicked over your face, your swollen eyelids, the wet flush on your cheeks. “But I’m sure as hell not gonna punish you for it”.
Your throat clenched around whatever you meant to say. “I just… I shouldn’t have—”.
“Why not?”, he cut in. “You wanted to”.
You stared at a spot over his shoulder. “That’s not the point”.
“Yeah, it is”, he said. “That’s exactly the point. You wanted to. I wanted you to. Nobody forced anybody. Nobody got fucking hurt. That’s what matters”.
You shook your head, a tiny, helpless gesture. “I’m your assistant”.
“And?”, he said. “You think the job description says ‘no touching dicks’? Pretty sure it just says ‘answer emails and keep the supe from saying fuck on air’”.
“Ben”, you whispered clearly overwhelmed.
He watched your eyes shine again and the way you bit down on your lower lip like you could hold everything in if you just tried hard enough.
“Hey”, he said quietly. “Sprinkler”.
You sniffed, hating how the nickname made your chest ache and ease at the same time. “…yeah?”.
“I’m not mad”, he said. “You hearin’ me? You’re shaking like you think I’m about to rip your head off. Only thing that pissed me off last night was you running before I could ask if you were okay”.
Your vision blurred again. “I panicked”.
“I know”, he said. “I got the message when you bailed like your fucking ass was on fire”.
You let out another tiny laugh.
The doors slid open on 87. He didn’t touch you this time. Just tipped his chin toward the hallway and waited until your feet remembered how to move. You stepped out and he followed.
Inside his suite you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Okay. He wasn’t mad. You weren’t dead. He’d said it, out loud, in full sentences. You’d survived the elevator. In your head, that was the end of it.
So you moved automatically toward your usual spot, the armchair across from the couch, setting your tablet down on the coffee table.
You were halfway into your seat when his voice came from behind you.
“So”.
You froze, half-perched on the edge of the chair. He didn’t sound done. You turned slightly. He was just inside the door, hands braced on his hips, watching you like you were a problem set he was determined to solve.
Your stomach dipped. “So…?”.
He jerked his chin in the vaguest possible gesture. “Was it the size?”.
Your brain blue-screened. “What?”.
He shrugged, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “You kiss me, you crawl into my lap, you get a handful—”, his eyebrows twitched, “—then you go full cartoon dust cloud out the door. I’m connectin’ dots, sweetheart”.
Blood roared in your ears. “Ben”.
He ignored the warning in your tone, taking a few unhurried steps closer. “Look, if that’s what freaked you—kinda fair. I’ve scared grown women who knew what they were doin’”.
“Can you not—”, you pressed your palms over your face, “—say things like that”.
“Why?”, he asked. “I’m tryin’ to troubleshoot here”.
You dragged your hands down your face and left them over your mouth, like that might hold the words in. “It’s not just…”, you flapped one hand vaguely in his direction, “that”.
His brows tipped up. “Uh-huh”.
“It’s everything”, you blurted, staring at the tablet instead of him. “You. Me. My job. The… car. The fact that you’re—”, your voice dipped, “—you”.
“Try again”, he said. “Use the big girl words”.
You sucked in a breath. It tasted like dust and his cologne and your own nerves.
“You’re a supe”, you said quietly. “You’re… big, and loud, and everyone’s afraid of you, and you don’t care. And I’m…”. Your throat tightened. “I’m not built for that”.
He snorted. “You been in the same building as me the last eight weeks? You’re the only one who doesn’t flinch outta my way”.
“I flinch all the time”, you argued.
“Yeah”, he said. “And then you stay”.
That shut you up for a second. You twisted your fingers together in your lap.
“I’m your assistant”, you said finally. “I schedule your interviews. I bring you coffee. I’m supposed to be… safe. Background. Not…”. Heat crept up your neck. “…not climbing into your lap like I know what I’m doing”.
“You think I expected you to?”. His mouth tugged. “You damn near knocked my soul out of my body with those little training-wheel kisses”.
You made a strangled sound. “Please don’t call them that”.
“Point is, you’re not the problem”.
You laughed once. “I really think I am”.
“Why?”, he pressed. “’Cause you blush if someone says ‘fuck’ too close to your coffee? That’s not a flaw, doll. That’s just…”, he searched for the word, grimaced, “…how you’re wired”.
You hesitated. Your chest squeezed.
“If it were just that”, you said slowly, “maybe it’d be… less terrifying. But it’s not. It’s everything. You’re not just some guy at a bar. You’re Soldier Boy”. The name tasted ridiculous and heavy at once. “And I’m the girl who makes your calendars color-coded. It’s—”. You broke off. “It’s stupid”, you muttered. “And I really, really don’t want to talk about it anymore”.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. You light a fuse and then you wanna walk away before it hits the charge”.
“I’m not—”, you started.
“You are”, he said, but there wasn’t much heat in it. More… frustration. “You think I’m used to people freakin’ out before they really touch me? This is new. I’m tryin’ to figure out if it’s worth not… fucking this up”.
You dragged in a breath, steadier this time, and made yourself meet his eyes. “That’s exactly why”, you said softly. “Because if you get bored or annoyed or decide this was stupid, you’ll just… walk away. And I’ll still have to be here. With a job I need and a boss I can’t look at without remembering that I… that I climbed into his lap in a car like a… prostitute”.
His jaw clenched. “You’re not a prostitute”.
“That doesn’t change the math”, you said. “So I think—”. You swallowed. “I think we should keep it professional from now on”, you whispered.
He went still in that particular way you’d learned meant danger for other people. For you it just meant every ounce of focus came crashing down on your face.
“Professional”, he repeated, flat.
You nodded with hands white-knuckled in your lap. “No… more of that. No touching. No kissing. No… whatever that was. Just work”.
His mouth did a strange little twitch, somewhere between a smirk and a flinch. “You’re really sayin’ that after you tried to crawl down my fucking throat last night”.
Your cheeks flared hot once more. “That’s why I’m saying it. It was a mistake. I can’t— I don’t want things to get messier than they already are”.
“So that’s it?”, he asked. “You freak out, you bolt, and the solution is you pretend you don’t want it and I pretend I don’t remember?”.
“Yes”, you said, too fast. “That’s exactly it. We can… move on. I can be useful without—”.
“Without touching the fucking merchandise”, he cut in.
“That’s not funny”.
“Not trying to be”, he snapped. Then bit it back, shutting his mouth like he’d almost let something slip he couldn’t afford.
You watched his throat work. His hands had curled into loose fists on his thighs. You could tell he was keeping his voice down on purpose. For you.
“Professional”, he said again, testing the shape of it in his mouth like it was a word in a language he didn’t speak. “You sure that’s what you want?”.
It was… the only thing that felt remotely safe, anyway. And also the last thing some traitorous part of you wanted.
You nodded. “Yes”.
For a heartbeat, his ego flared across his face offended and wounded. No one said no to him. Not like this. His gaze darkened, heat flashing there, but it wasn’t desire this time. It was temper, bruised and coiling. He sucked in a breath and you saw the split second where he could choose to be the asshole the files said he was.
But he didn’t. He exhaled slow instead, like it hurt. “Fine”, he said. “You want professional? You got it”.
Your chest loosened a fraction. “Okay. Thank you”.
-
Two weeks later, “professional” had turned into something weird and sideways.
You stuck to the rules. No more kisses. No more wandering hands. You never sat closer than one chair away in his suite if you could help it.
But your body did not stick to the rules. It betrayed you constantly.
A hand on the small of your back to steer you through a crowd? Your cheeks went hot. His thigh brushing yours on a studio couch? Your breath hitched. Him saying “good girl” when you got a network to agree to his terms? You had to pretend to cough so he wouldn’t hear how your heartbeat jumped.
If anything, it was worse than before. At least before you hadn’t known how his mouth felt.
He didn’t push. He didn’t touch more than he’d always touched. But he sure as hell didn’t keep his distance. If anything, he got clingier.
He wanted you in the gym when he did “controlled demos”, just in case PR had notes. He had you sit in on calls he didn’t need you for, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed while you did all the talking. He dragged you on a studio visit he could’ve done with three handlers and a driver, and then spent the ride back asking why the hell that anchor looked at you like that. He didn’t like people looking at you.
You’d thought the Silvernet thing was a one-off. It wasn’t. Any time a supe’s eyes lingered a beat too long on your legs, or “accidentally” brushed your elbow and didn’t move fast enough, Ben moved. A look, a shoulder bump, a hand landing on your waist with casual precision—all it took. Space opened around you like a force field.
No one said anything directly. They didn’t have to. The bullpen did it for them.
“Guaranteed, he’s fucking her”, someone from Legal whispered near the coffee machine one morning.
“I heard she’s just there to keep him from losing it”, someone else said.
"No one would fuck that", a third snorted.
You pretended not to hear. You got good at pretending.
-
One afternoon you lost track of time. You had four different email chains open, three drafts half-written and Caldwell on Slack sending you passive-aggressive “any update?” messages every twenty minutes about a press release Legal kept gutting. After lunch you’d told yourself you’d run upstairs in “just a sec”. “Just a sec” turned into an hour. Then ninety minutes.
You were buried enough that you didn’t feel the shift in the room until it was already too late. The bullpen noise thinned out, like always. “Uh oh”, Trish murmured under her breath. And you didn’t look up fast enough.
“Where the fuck have you been?”.
His voice rolled over your shoulder, close enough that your skin prickled.
Your fingers froze over the keyboard. Slowly, like you were rewinding a horror movie, you turned.
He was standing at the end of your desk, one hand braced on the divider, the other on his hip.
“Hi”, you said, small. “I was just—”.
“You were just not upstairs”, he said. “Again”.
You could feel your coworkers’ eyes ping-ponging between you and him. No one even pretended to work anymore.
“I had emails”, you said swallowing. “Caldwell needed—”.
“Caldwell can send you an email in the morgue when his fucking heart gives out”, Ben cut in, rolling his eyes. “You’re supposed to come up after lunch”.
You tried again, keeping your voice small and careful.
“Ben, I really just needed to finish—”.
He huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a growl. “You really just needed to finish pretending you’re invisible”. His gaze swept across your desk. “You hiding from me now, sprinkler?”.
That nickname, said right there, in front of half the floor, made the blood drain from your face. “Please don’t call me that here”, you whispered.
He ignored that completely. “You got a whole tower full of handlers and PR hacks”, he said. “But when I ask where my girl is, nobody’s got an fucking answer”.
The words landed in the room with the force of a thrown grenade. My girl.
Two people across from Legal made actual sounds, a sharp little inhale and a muffled “holy shit”. Trish’s head snapped up, mouth open in a silent scream of gossip. Even the guy from Comms dropped his water bottle.
You felt it like heat under your skin, blooming up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, even tingling at the tips of your ears. You could feel your own blush rising, full-force and impossible to hide. Your face was on fire.
Ben caught your blush. His gaze locked on your face, tracking the color as it crept up your cheeks, then down your neck. The way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way you shifted in your chair and tried to disappear behind your tablet.
And it hit him hard. Right there in the PR bullpen, with half the floor watching, the flush that spread across your skin went straight to his groin. So sudden it almost made him bite down on a curse. You were all wide eyes and trembling hands and he wanted you. Fiercely. Now. More than anything, he wanted to drag you out of that desk chair and into his lap, to bury his face in the heat of your neck and make you blush even deeper.
He could feel himself thickening in his jeans. He shifted his weight, jaw flexing, trying to will himself back under control. The last thing he needed was a tent in his pants in the middle of your office.
But you didn’t notice. You were too busy staring at the keyboard, trying to breathe, your lips parted on a sound that never made it out. Ben almost groaned out loud at just the sight of you like this, all flustered and pink.
And his patience, never the most stable thing to begin with, snapped. He leaned in, his voice pitched low. “Get the fuck up. Five minutes. My suite”.
It wasn’t a bark, but it was the closest he’d ever come to raising his voice at you. The tone vibrated down your spine, all grit and barely leashed hunger. The air between you felt electric, dangerous, charged with something that wasn’t anger but still made your nerves light up like a warning.
He didn’t wait for a reply. Just straightened, jaw tight, eyes lingering on your blush as if memorizing it for later and then he turned and stalked out.
The bullpen stayed silent for a second longer. You couldn’t move. Your mind spun, scrambling to parse what you’d done wrong, if this was it, if he’d finally lost patience, if you’d actually crossed some invisible line. You had no idea it was because you’d undone him so badly he could barely see straight.
Trish mouthed something at you, probably are you okay?, but your ears were still ringing. Your hands shook as you grabbed your tablet, eyes burning with humiliation, confusion and a wild pulse of heat you didn’t know what to do with.
You stepped inside his suite, pulse still skipping from the elevator ride, hands locked tight around your tablet. You weren’t sure what you expected. Maybe him barking orders or maybe cold silence, maybe another snapped command.
Ben’s eyes landed on your face, your blush still high, your lashes still wet from the rush and your mouth parted in some lost attempt at an apology. He just crossed the room, caught your chin and tipping your face up rough, but not unkind. His mouth came down on yours with a force that made your knees buckle, a hungry, desperate kind of kiss that told you everything words couldn’t. His hand dropped your tablet to the couch, the other sliding around your waist, hauling you up on your toes.
You whimpered soft, caught-off-guard. He groaned into your mouth, his body pressing you back against the door so you could feel every inch of him, especially the heavy heat of his cock straining against his jeans.
“Fuck”, he growled, voice muffled in your hair. “You’re killin’ me, you know that? Look at you—still blushing’. You have any idea what that does to me?”.
Your answer was another soft, desperate noise, fingers curling in his shirt for balance as he kissed you again, deeper, licking into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough. Every little shiver, every whimper, only seemed to stoke the fire in him. His hands growing hungrier and his restraint thinning with every breath you let out against his lips.
You tried to pull back, just a fraction, just enough to catch your breath and murmur the word bubbling up in your throat. “Ben, st—”. But the syllable dissolved into nothing as he shifted his hips, grinding forward with deliberate pressure, his dick pressing right against your clit through the thin layers of fabric between you.
The sensation hit you, blooming into heat that made your whole body arch involuntarily. You’d never felt a someone else there before. The ridge of him rubbing exactly where you ached most. It was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once, and instead of “stop”, what escaped your lips was a sweet, breathless moan that sounded nothing like protest.
Ben froze for a split second, his breath hot against your ear, then he let out a ragged chuckle. “Yeah? That’s what I thought”.
He rolled his hips again, slower this time, savoring the way you trembled, the way your fingers dug into his shoulders like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to push him away or pull him closer.
Three slow rolls of his hips and your knees nearly gave out. Your whole body locked up, trembling so hard he had to tighten the arm banded around your waist to keep you upright.
“For fuck´s sake", he rasped, voice shredded with raw awe. “You’re gonna come just like this, aren’t you? On my cock through your little skirt. Not even had me inside you yet”.
You whimpered mortified, heat flooding your face, and tried to turn it into the pillow of his shoulder, hiding. Your hands flew from his chest to cover your own mouth, like you could smother the sounds, like you could pretend this wasn’t happening, that you weren’t about to shatter in the entryway of his penthouse from nothing more than dry humping like a teenager.
But Ben wasn’t having it. He caught your wrists in one big hand and pinned them above your
head against the door, gentle but immovable. His other hand slid down to grip your hip, angling you exactly where he wanted, forcing you to feel every inch of the next slow grind.
“Look at me”, he ordered.
When you shook your head, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks burning, he leaned in and dragged his open mouth up the column of your throat. “Baby. Look at me while you fall apart on my dick. Want to see those pretty eyes when you come for me”.
Another roll of his hips, harder, the seam of his pants catching just right, and you broke with a broken little cry you couldn’t hold back. Your whole body seized, thighs shaking, hips jerking helplessly against him as the orgasm tore through you.
He groaned like he was the one coming, forehead dropping to yours, watching every second of it, drinking in the way your lips parted, the way tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity.
“Fuck, that’s it”, he whispered wrecked. "So fucking sweet. Never seen anything more beautiful than you creaming your fucking panties just from this”.
You were still trembling in the aftershocks, hiding your face against his neck now, small and overwhelmed and trying to curl in on yourself. Your face was buried in the warm crook of his neck, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it against his chest, when a few knocks cracked against the door right beside your head.
“Soldier Boy!”. A man’s voice. “Sir, we’ve got a situation downtown. Multiple hostiles, possible supe involvement. You are requested".
You went rigid. The haze of your orgasm snapped. You were still pinned between Ben and the door with your skirt rucked up, thighs trembling and his cock still hard against your soaked panties. If anyone opened that door right now…
You shoved at his chest with both hands, panic flooding every vein. “Ben—let me go, let me—”.
He didn’t, not at first. His arms only tightened, a low growl rumbling in his throat like the interruption offended him.
“Ben!”, you whispered, frantic, trying to wrench your wrists free. “They can’t see me like this. Please”.
That got through. The muscle in his jaw flexed. Something raw and furious flashed across his face at the timing, at the world daring to drag him away the second he finally had you shaking in his arms.
Another knock, harder. “Sir! We have to move!”.
Ben’s forehead dropped to yours for one fierce, stolen second. “This isn’t over”, he said with his voice so low only you could hear the tremor in it. “Not even fucking close”.
Then he stepped back, letting you slide down the door until your feet touched the floor. Your legs almost gave out, but he caught your elbow, steadying you while you frantically smoothed your skirt, wiped at your wet eyes and tried to look like a professional human being and not a girl who’d just come on Soldier Boy´s clothed dick thirty seconds ago.
He yanked the door open.
✧･ﾟ:you're face down in the mattress, the wet, lustful sound of Dean’s hips snapping against your ass fill the room. He’s fucking you like an animal, holding your ass in the air with rough hands, massaging your hips and thighs as his balls slap against your clit. He bends over with a groan, kissing up your spine over your shoulders, rolling his hips with every brutal, bed creaking thrust. You cry out, as he drills into that one gooey spot deep inside of you, and he groans, squeezing your waist tight.
✧･ﾟ:he pants in your ear, low moans rumbling from his chest and vibrating through your body. His fingers drift down to toy with your clit, and you clench around him with a weak, breathy whine. Dean grunts and hauls you up against him. One hand wraps around your throat, the other splayed over your stomach, pressing down and forcing you to take his cock even deeper. Your lashes flutter, your vision blurred and mouth hanging open. Dean kisses and bites over your neck, fucking you with shallow, rough thrusts. You’re caged, your back to his chest, nothing for you do but take it.
“Fuckin’ look at you, baby,” Dean grabs your jaw, angling it exactly where he wants. “Prettiest girl in the fuckin’ world. My girl.”
You moan, head lolling. Dean smirks and taps your cheek.
“Look.”
It takes all the praise and coaxing in the world, but you manage. It’s the most sinful thing you’ve ever seen. You, glowing and drooling in Dean’s arms, your eyes lidded and lips swollen from his countless kisses. There isn’t a part of your body he hasn’t marked, an inch of skin that he isn’t teasing or groping. His face is twisted in concentration, his muscles flexing and bulging around you, the shaft of his massive cock slipping in and out of your pussy like a machine.
“See how fuckin’ gorgeous you are?” Dean mutters in your ear. “Prettiest fuckin’ girl in the world, makin’ a mess on my cock.”
And you are. You really are. You can’t look away from the slick, creamy mess where your bodies meet. Dean squeezes your cheeks again, your eyes meet, and it crashes into you like a storm.
He looks at you like you’re a goddess. In his arms, you feel like one.
“Watch,” he hisses, dragging your gaze back to the mirror, right as he starts to rub your clit in furious tight circles.
You can’t help it. Your transfixed by the sight of you, more beautiful that you ever thought you could be, unraveling in Dean’s arms. He’s quick behind you, slamming home and stuffing you up with hot ropes of cum, fucking you through it with shallow thrusts.
Neither of you move for a while after. You don’t want to. You’re afraid the spell will break.
“Look at you, baby,” Dean murmurs, kissing over your neck. “Never seen anythin’ fucking better.”
And it’s so easy, to believe him. You know it won’t last. But you’re sure that, if you ask him, he’ll be happy to show you over and over again. Until it really, truly sticks.
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
Summary: Assigned to manage Soldier Boy, you become the only person who can keep him under control. But as tension turns into dangerous attraction, keeping things professional becomes impossible.
-requested-
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 9147
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You’d watched three different YouTube tutorials before you trusted yourself not to burn a chunk of hair off. By the time you finished, the bathroom counter was a disaster with clips and bobby pins and the curling iron cord knotted around your straightener like they’d been fighting. But your hair fell in loose, soft waves around your shoulders. Not perfect, and sure not professional-salon glossy, but good.
You’d done your makeup twice. The first time you scrubbed it off because you looked like you were trying to cosplay someone else. The second time you kept it simple with liner, a bit of mascara and the kind of lipstick that was technically “nude” but actually made you look like you had lips.
The dress was the last thing.
You’d waited until ten minutes before the car was due. The bracelet felt way too heavy on your wrist and the earrings itched a little. It felt just… unfamiliar. The shoes made you a full three inches taller and twice as unstable.
Eventually, you stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of your closet door.
“It’s just one night”, you murmured and started smoothing your shaking hands down the dress. “You don’t have to… be her. You just have to look like her”.
Your phone buzzed on the dresser. The car had arrived.
Your stomach dropped to somewhere near your knees.
You grabbed your clutch (tiny and borrowed from Trish) and did a last frantic check. Phone. Key. ID. Lipstick. Sanity. The last one was questionable.
“Hold the fort”, you told Marmalade. “Don’t let anyone steal my IKEA furniture”.
She flicked her tail as if to say no promises.
You stepped out into the cool night air and there was the car already waiting at the curb. Sleek and black and glossy enough to reflect the streetlights. Not a limo, but close.
The driver spotted you immediately, stepped out and walked around, opening the back door with professional smoothness.
“Miss (Y/L/N)?", he asked.
You nodded, throat too tight for words.
Then you saw Soldier Boy. He was already inside,sprawled on the far side of the back seat. For once, he wasn’t in the green suit or the training jacket or anything that could be remotely called “costume”.
All black. Black suit, clean lines, the fabric sitting on him like it had been cut with him in the room. Black shirt, top buttons undone. No tie. The beard was trimmed neat. His hair was pushed back, not quite tamed, like he’d run his hands through it right before the driver came up. Even from the sidewalk, you could see the faint dilation in his pupils.
He’d been looking at the opposite window, one arm thrown along the back of the seat, boredom and irritation in the line of his body. Then he looked at you.
His gaze caught, dragged up and down in one long, unhurried sweep. For one heartbeat you forgot how to move.
His eyes tracked the dress first, because how could they not? The green against your skin. The neckline. The line of your waist. The glimpse of leg where the slit fell just so when you took a cautious step off the curb. Your hair around your shoulders. The diamonds flashing at your wrist. Something in his face went dark.
He straightened without meaning to. His breath stalled in his chest while a sudden, hot punch shoot low in his gut. The pleasant buzz in his system jumped. He shifted in his seat, just slightly, legs spreading a fraction wider like he needed room that hadn’t been a problem thirty seconds ago. His hand flexed once on the leather.
“Careful, miss”, the driver said, offering you a steadying hand as you navigated the last step in the heels.
You nodded with eyes locked on the open door. The inside of the car felt like a mouth waiting to swallow you.
You ducked your head automatically and slid in, trying not to flash too much leg, trying not to step on your own dress. The scent of his cologne hit you at the same time as the heavy warmth of his presence. Then the door shut with a soft thunk and the outside world cut off.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
“Hey”, you managed eventually, too quiet.
He was still looking at you. Really looking. Not the usual lazy up-and-down scan designed to make you squirm. This was slower, almost stunned, like he’d expected something and gotten something else instead.
“Well, shit”, he said softly.
Your heart lurched. “Is… that… bad?”.
The corner of his mouth kicked up, but it wasn’t his usual smirk. This one was strained.
“Not from where I’m sitting”, he said with his voice rough.
You shifted and let your fingers fidget with the clutch in your lap. “It’s… a lot”.
“Yeah”, he said, eyes dragging over you again, lingering at your throat, the line of your collarbones, the dip where the dress hugged in. “It is”.
You swallowed. “If it’s too much—”.
“Too much for who?”, he cut in sharply.
“The donors”, you said. “PR. Caldwell. Whoever’s going to have a heart attack first”.
He snorted. “If Caldwell strokes out, that’s a bonus”.
You huffed a little laugh you didn’t mean to. It came out thin and shaky.
“You clean up nice, doll”, he said, and this time there was no bite in it. Just honesty, raw and unvarnished. He watched your hand smooth nervously over your thigh, the flash of skin where the slit eased open. His jaw flexed. He shifted again, subtle, trying to find a new way to sit that didn’t advertise exactly how much he appreciated his own purchase.
“You wear the diamonds”, he said, nodding at your wrist.
“I felt rude not to”, you said. “Since someone apparently emptied a small country’s GDP on my doorstep”.
He snorted. “Relax. I got money rotting in accounts I forgot about. Might as well spend it on something I feel like looking at”.
Heat flared under your skin. “Soldier Boy—”.
“Ben”, he said.
It threw you. “What?”.
He rolled his eyes and let them finally flicking up from the line of your legs to your face. “If we’re going to a fucking gala together, you can stop calling me my own brand name for five minutes. It’s Ben. Try not to make it awkward”.
You blinked. “Ben”, you echoed. The name felt… strange in your mouth. Softer and more human. Dangerous in a different way.
He watched your lips shape the syllable, something tight in his expression easing just a fraction.
“Yeah”, he said quietly. “Like that”.
You looked away while your heart was tripping all over itself.
The car pulled into traffic, city lights streaking past the tinted windows. You were hyper-aware of the gap between you on the seat, the way his knee was a few inches from yours and the way your bare arm tingled where it hovered too close to his.
“You nervous?”, he asked after a minute.
You let out a breathless little laugh. “Terrified”.
“At least you’re honest”, he said. “Last girl they stuck on my arm told me she was ‘excited to network’. Thought she was gonna fucking piss herself when the president showed up”.
“I’m not… excited to network”, you said. “I’m just… trying not to fall on my face”.
“You won’t”. His tone was flat and certain.
“You can’t know that”.
He shifted, turning more toward you. In the low light, his eyes looked even darker.
“I’ve seen you in those sad little flats”, he said. “You trip all the time. You always catch yourself”.
You blinked at him. “Have you… been watching me walk?”.
“You’re hard to miss”, he said simply.
You didn’t believe that, not really. But the way he said it made something in your chest do that molten-lava thing again.
His gaze dipped to where your fingers clenched around your clutch.
“For real.. you okay?”, he asked. It came out gruffer than it probably sounded in his head.
You nodded too fast. “Yes. No. Maybe”.
“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”, he asked, but there was no real bite to it.
“It means”, you said, staring straight ahead, “that this is a lot. I’m not used to being… looked at”.
“You get used to it”, he said.
“I don’t want to get used to it”, you blurted. “I just want to do my job and go home and hang out with my cat and not think about whether I’m… a ‘view’”.
One corner of his mouth twitched. “So you do have a cat”.
You glanced over, thrown by the shift. “I told you that”.
“Yeah, but you say a lotta shit when you’re nervous”, he said. “Could’ve been some sad metaphor”.
“It’s not a metaphor”, you muttered. “Her name’s Marmalade”.
He huffed a laugh. “Of course it is. Bet she’s real proud of you right now. Her little mom all dressed up like fucking dessert”.
You pressed your lips together, heat creeping up your neck. You could barely breathe. The inside of the car felt too warm. You tried to focus on anything except the dangerous way he was looking at you… and the fact that you’d let him.
Your knees pressed tighter together, the dress tugging a little higher on your thigh, and you forced yourself not to squirm.
You stole a glance at him, meaning only to look at his face, but your gaze slipped, just for a second, down to his lap. That was a mistake.
You saw the hard line straining against the dark fabric, the spread of his thighs. He wasn’t doing anything to hide it. If anything, he looked… satisfied.
You jerked your eyes back to your hands, twisting the strap of your clutch. You could feel him looking. You tried to say something, anything, but all that came out was a tiny, nervous laugh.
He leaned in, not close enough to touch, but close enough you could smell his cologne more strongly. “I can barely keep my hands to myself when you look at me like that”, he murmured.
You swallowed while your pulse was hammering in your ears. “I’m not… looking at you”.
He laughed softly. “You’re lookin’, doll. Nothin’ wrong with that”. His knee nudged against yours, just enough to make you notice how much bigger he was, how much space he took up. You pressed yourself a little closer to the door, as if you could melt into the leather, as if that would help.
But you didn’t ask him to stop. Didn’t ask him to move away. You just sat there, small and silent, trying not to look at his hands or his lap or the way his eyes burned when you finally met them again.
The car slowed, turning toward the curb. You realized with a jolt you were grateful for the interruption, grateful for the cool rush of night air when the driver opened the door.
Ben looked at you, mouth softening just a fraction. “Stay close, sweetheart”, he said. “Let ‘em stare. Just means I got the only thing in this city worth a damn on my arm tonight”.
When you stepped out, you barely had time to process the wall of sound, before his hand slid from the small of your back to your waist. Not a casual brush, not an accident. His fingers wrapped around you firmly, palm spreading over the side of your ribcage where the dress hugged tight. You went rigid.
“Easy”, he muttered low against your ear. The word vibrated more than you heard it. “I got you”.
Even in heels, you didn’t reach his shoulder. You were tucked in against him, the heat of his body bleeding through the suit fabric.
“Soldier Boy! Over here!”.
“Soldier Boy give us a smile!”.
“Who’s the girl?”.
The last one made something in him twitch. His fingers tightened minutely on your waist in a little possessive flex that squeezed a tiny, startled breath out of you. It left your lungs before you could catch it in a soft, involuntary sound that got snatched away by the noise. But not from him.
You felt his attention flick to you without him even looking. The corner of his mouth curled, not for the cameras, but for you.
“Breathe, doll”, he said under his breath, lips barely moving.
You tried. You really did. You dragged air in past the tight band of your dress and his hand and the way his thumb was resting just under the curve of your ribs like he was checking every inhale. It still came out shallow and quick.
You hoped the reporters would chalk it up to nerves, to being next to him, to the lights. At least they couldn’t hear how fast your heart was racing. But he could.
He leaned down, just a fraction, bringing his mouth nearer to your hair. To anyone else it looked like he was angling for a better shot. You felt the whisper of his breath against the shell of your ear. “Relax”, he murmured. “You look fuckin’ incredible. Only thing you’re gonna break out here is their brains”.
Heat shot down your spine. Your fingers tightened around your clutch hard enough to ache. You didn’t trust your voice, so you kept your attention fixed on some point ahead. One foot in front of the other. Don’t trip. Don’t throw up. Don’t think about his hand.
He moved you like he’d done this a thousand times. A gentle pressure at your waist turned you just so toward one bank of cameras; a subtle tug kept you from drifting back when the crowd pressed. Every time he shifted, you moved with him automatically, like the two of you were attached.
“Soldier Boy! Any comment on Stolers statement?”, someone shouted.
He snorted, a harsh puff of air that almost counted as a laugh. “Yeah”, he called back, loud enough for the nearest mics. “Guy’s a fucking pussy”.
Laughter. A ripple of delighted horror. You felt him straighten up, shoulders squaring, sliding easily into the version of himself the public thought they knew. But his hand never left you.
His thumb stroked once, absently, over the bare skin of your backside just above the waistband. The tiny drag of calloused skin made your breath catch in your throat.
He tipped his head just enough to glance down at you, eyes hooded. For a second you saw how careful he was being. How much effort it cost him not to haul you in closer, not to let the grip turn into something else.
“Soldier Boy, who’s your date?”, another voice yelled.
He didn’t even glance at the guy. “Mine”, he said flatly.
Your head snapped up, while you heard the reaction ripple along the line. Murmurs, a few surprised laughs and lenses angling to get better shots of your face. You could feel yourself going pink. Your heart hammered against the cage of his fingers. “Ben”, you hissed under your breath, mortified.
He didn’t look down. His mouth barely moved. “What?”, he muttered. “You are. Tonight”.
“That’s not—”.
“Let ‘em write their little storys”, he murmured. “Better they ask who you are than why I put a senator through a fucking wall”.
You nearly tripped. His hand tightened reflexively, hauling you back into balance without breaking stride. To anyone watching, it looked smooth. To you, it felt like your whole body was briefly suspended against him, only his grip keeping gravity from winning. You landed, breathless.
“See?”, he said, low. “You wobble, I catch you. Not a big deal”.
“Not a big—”, you whispered, “—you act like I’m not wearing three inches of death on my feet”.
“You are”, he said. “And you’re still fucking short. Funsize, actually”.
It was almost funny, if you hadn’t been in the middle of Vought’s PR machine, with all its rules and dress codes and talking points, cared so little about Soldier Boy as a person that nobody had even bothered to question why you, his assistant, the girl who wasn’t supposed to be in the shot, was glued to his side all night. Caldwell hadn’t texted. HR hadn’t panicked. Not one of the glossy, lacquered executives standing by the champagne bar even blinked at you in that dress.
As long as Ben didn’t blow up the building or end up trending on Twitter for sexual harassment, Vought didn’t give a damn who he had on his arm. You could’ve shown up in pajamas and as long as he didn’t detonate, the only thing that would’ve gotten you a call was if your cardigan had “Eat the Rich” embroidered on the back.
That knowledge hit you hard as the ballroom doors swung wide. The first blast of chilled air and perfume and music almost covered the spike of anxiety, but not quite.
You could do anything tonight and nobody would stop you. Or him.
Ben steered you easily through the lobby, never giving up his hold on you. People parted for him. Not like fans parting for a celebrity, and not even the way powerful people made space for someone richer. No, this was something colder. Fear disguised as etiquette. A little shudder of silence followed in his wake. You felt it in the way laughter dimmed as he passed, how conversation thinned at the edges.
He didn’t care. Not a bit. Didn’t drop his hand from your waist, didn’t temper his stride or slow down for anyone who wasn’t you. If someone made the mistake of looking at him too long, he looked right back, lazy and challenging, like he was daring them to try something stupid.
He leaned in as you passed a group of supes, his lips brushing your hair. “You see that?”, he murmured, a faint huff of amusement. “They’d rather piss themselves than say hello”.
You glanced sideways, catching the nervous half-smiles from a cluster of men in suits, all pretending not to flinch.
“Isn’t that… uncomfortable?”, you whispered. “Having everyone so—”.
He grinned, feral. “Fuck no. Means I can actually breathe”. His thumb traced a slow, absent line along your waist, grounding you in a way you’d never admit. “Better scared than sniveling”.
At the edge of the room, you watched a pair of marketing directors you’d seen in meetings visibly debate coming over to “welcome” you both, only to turn away when Ben cocked an eyebrow. It was like you’d slipped inside a bubble, a perimeter nobody dared cross, enforced not by status but by the silent, teeth-baring edge of his presence.
But it wasn’t just the men. Women, too, sidestepped you both, but you felt their eyes.
Some slid off you, cold and unreadable. Some lingered, subtle once-overs disguised as curiosity, their eyes flicking from your face to the neckline of your dress and back again.
A handful of them, the ones who knew you from the office, from elevator rides and awkward bathroom small talk, didn’t hide it at all. Pity. Their lips pressed in gentle, I-wouldn’t-wish-that-on-my-worst-enemy lines.
One or two even shot you a silent, are you okay? look from across the floor, eyes round and full of concern you did not want.
Worse were the ones who weren’t scared. The ones with tight, hungry smiles. The ones who eyed Ben the way he was supposed to be eyed. Like a prize, a trophy and a story to brag about later.
You pressed your palm against Ben’s chest and felt muscle give under your fingers. “I have to use the bathroom”, you whispered with your head ducked low, not quite able to look at him.
He arched a brow, amusement flickering for half a second before he caught the tremor in your voice. “Yeah?”. His hand didn’t move from your waist, eyes searching your face. “Alright. C’mon”.
“I can go by myself”, you tried, but he was already steering you through the ballroom. Ben stopped just outside the corridor to the restrooms. He didn’t follow, he wasn’t that far gone, but he waited, close enough to block the view from anyone who might be watching.
As you walked from the toilet stall to the sinks and started washing your hands, you noticed two women on the other side.
“…Did you see her?”, one stage-whispered, not bothering to lower her voice when you stepped in. “Why did he brought (Y/N) out of all”.
The other snorted. “Right? If she makes it to midnight without crying, I’ll be shocked”.
You tried to ignore it, but your hands shook as you dried them. Your face in the mirror was too pale, eyes too big, makeup already threatening to run at the corners.
“She looks ridiculous”, the first went on. They laughed. One eyed your dress in the glass, taking inventory, lips pursing. “At least she finally got out of those ugly cardigans”.
You stared at your hands. “Excuse me”, you managed, slipping past them.
One caught your arm with fingers too-tight, too-friendly on your bare skin. “Honey”, she said, sweet as arsenic, “you really don´t belong here”.
You yanked your arm free, stumbling a little on the too-high heels. You ducked into a stall and shut the door, hands pressed to your chest, fighting for breath. You sat there, dress bunched in your lap, waiting for your pulse to slow.
The women’s laughter had faded into the clatter of their heels. You tried to steady yourself. Reminded yourself they didn’t matter. Reminded yourself you’d survived worse. But it still stung. Being so visibly out of place. Knowing that no matter how expensive the dress or real the diamonds, you still looked like the before photo next to the afters in a magazine.
You were trying to blink away the dampness at the corners of your eyes when you heard the unmistakable thunk of the heavy bathroom door swinging open much harder than usual. You froze.
Ben didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even check if the bathroom was empty. “Alright, which one are you in?”.
You stayed silent, mortified.
He sighed, not even pretending at patience. “Doll, don’t make me knock these goddamn doors down”. You squeezed your eyes shut as his knuckles rapped on your door. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out”.
“You can’t—this is the women’s—”.
He just snorted. “What, you think anybody’s gonna throw me out?”. He leaned closer to the stall. His tone went softer, meant for you alone. “Let me in, or I’ll just break the fucking the lock”.
You relented, pushing the door open. Your eyes were bright, lashes wet. Ben’s face changed the instant he saw you. His own version of going soft, which just meant the angles of his jaw unclenched, the dangerous energy burning in his eyes redirected at anything but you.
He crouched a little, bringing himself to your level. “Hey”, he said, his voice were rough with something that wasn’t anger. “You alright?”.
You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak.
He reached out, gentle in a way nobody would believe if they saw it, and cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin.
“Let me guess”, he muttered, glancing at the door. “Office piranhas giving you shit?”.
You tried for a shrug, but it just made you smaller.
He sighed, jaw tightening, but his thumb never stopped its slow, soothing arc. “You want me to throw ’em out a window?”. He wasn’t joking, you could hear it in the tone.
You let out a tiny, watery laugh. “No. I just…”. You trailed off, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t care. I know better. I just—”.
“Yeah, you should care”, he said, cutting you off. “Means you’re not a dead-eyed bitch like the rest of ’em. Don’t ever apologize for that”.
You blinked, not sure what to do with the sincerity in his voice.
He ducked his head, catching your gaze. “You listen to me, doll”, Ben said, his voice still rough but not unkind. “Those bitches out there? They wouldn’t last five minutes in my world. They see a girl like you and they think it’s fucking open season. But softness like yours… Most of ‘em lost it a long time ago, and they hate you for not trading yours in”.
You swallowed, trying to hold his stare but faltering, gaze dropping to his broad chest, anywhere but his eyes.
He nudged your chin up with a finger, stubbornly gentle. “Hey. Look at me”.
You did, even if your cheeks were burning, even if your lip trembled.
“I don´t fit in here Ben”.
He shrugged, still cradling your cheek. “Who gives a fuck about fitting in? Look at me”. He gestured at himself. “I was never made to fit in. Neither were you. Different’s better. Trust me”.
You found yourself smiling, just a little, because right now, it was impossible not to.
He grinned. “There’s that face. You save that for me, yeah? You want to cry in the bathroom, fine. You want to punch someone, fucking better. But don’t let ‘em steal your fuckin’ night”.
You blinked up at him. “Are you going to keep giving me pep talks in bathrooms?”.
He laughed, the sound echoing too loud against marble. “If that’s what it takes to keep you from hiding, fuck yeah. C’mon, doll”. He offered his arm, old-school, something halfway between a challenge and a dare. You hesitated just a second, then slid your hand through the crook of his elbow.
You stepped out of the bathroom with your hand tucked through Ben’s elbow, doing your best impression of someone who hadn’t just cried in a stall. Your chin was up, shoulders back. You could do this. You could fake it, if only for yourself, if only to get through the next hour.
You made it maybe five minutes before trouble found you.
The gala’s music had changed to something slower. People were pairing off for a few polite turns on the dance floor, but most were content to watch and gossip from the edge.
That was where a tall man with a deep, almost bronze tan and a thick mustache found you. He looked like he’d been poured into Armani at the last minute. A supe. You’d seen him on old posters in the Vought “museum”, grinning beside Soldier Boy. Silvernet, his name had been. Back in the day.
“Benjamin”, he drawled, appearing right in front of you both like he owned the carpet. His smile was just a little too sharp, eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin prickle. “Didn’t expect to see you tied down tonight”.
Ben’s body went subtly tense under your hand, every muscle alert. You felt it through his suit. “Samuel”, Ben replied, voice flat. No fake warmth, no old-friends act. He kept you close, thumb absently brushing the side of your hand.
Silvrenet’s eyes were all over you, like he was weighing what Vought’s golden boy could pull now compared to the old days. “Didn’t think you were into dates, Ben. Usually you’d have half the room in a lap by now”. His gaze lingered on your neckline, then your lips.
You shifted closer into Ben without meaning to, the subtle shiver running through you not missed by either man. Ben’s grip on your waist tightened, a clear, silent fuck off that even someone with half a brain would understand.
“I’m not here for a reunion”, Ben said, deadly casual. “And she’s not here to be handed around”.
Silvernet’s grin faltered for just a second, surprised, amused, maybe a little insulted. “Since when did you start playing gatekeeper, old man? Relax, I just wanted a dance“.
Ben’s jaw flexed. “Try again”.
Silvernet lifted both hands, palms out like whoa, calm down, but the smirk stayed. “It’s a dance, man. Not a proposal”.
Ben’s arm tightened around your waist, slow, drawing you in until your hip was flush against his.
“She said no”, Ben said, even though you hadn’t said anything. You realized then, he wasn’t going to give you the chance.
Silvernet let out a disbelieving scoff. “She didn’t even answer”.
“She doesn’t need to”, Ben shot back. “I answered”.
Silvernet blinked. Really looked between the two of you. “You serious?”, he asked, laugh dropping out of his voice. “Since when do you not share?”.
“Since it’s her”.
You felt your pulse thud in your wrists, your throat, everywhere. You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. Silvernet stared at Ben like he’d grown a second head.
“You?”, Silvernet said to you, disbelief dripping. “Really? He’s playing house with you?”.
Ben´s hand leaving your waist long enough to grip Silvernet by the front of his designer suit.
He didn’t lift him, but he pulled him in close. “You got something you wanna say”, Ben murmured, “say it to me. Not her”.
Silvernet swallowed, smirk gone completely. “Didn’t mean anything by it”.
“That’s the right fucking answer”, Ben said. “Now walk away before I decide to redecorate this place with your insides”.
-
Two hours later, the night had settled into a rhythm you didn’t totally hate.
Ben hadn’t killed anyone.
You hadn’t cried again.
That was practically a fairy tale.
You’d done the rounds of donors, board members, one nauseating “fireside chat” with a tech CEO who kept calling Ben “buddy” and you “miss” without ever looking at your face. Ben had smirked, said a few outrageous things, and then ignored his cue cards so spectacularly you were pretty sure Caldwell was drinking straight from the bottle somewhere.
But the building was still standing. No one was bleeding. And your breathing had finally edged back into something that resembled normal. Your heart still skipped embarrassingly when Ben’s hand shifted on your back or when someone looked at you a second too long, but you weren’t white-knuckling your clutch anymore.
You were standing with him near one of the tall tables on the edge of the room, half-hidden from the worst of the crowd by a decorative pillar. Ben had braced one hand on the table, body angled toward you, his other resting possessively at the small of your back.
The band slid into another slow number. Couples drifted to the dance floor. You watched them for a moment.
Next to you, Ben huffed, almost under his breath. “Huh”.
You glanced up. “What?”.
He didn’t look at you. He was watching the dance floor, jaw grinding a little, thumb tapping an uneven rhythm against the table. “Nothin’. Just… weird”.
“What is?”.
His mouth twisted. “You didn’t ask”.
Your brows knit. “Ask… what?”.
He shrugged, faux-casual, eyes still stubbornly on the couples. “To dance”.
You blinked, thrown. “What?”.
“Usually”, he went on, words careless but edged with something that didn’t match, “by now I’ve had five different girls hanging off my arm dripping wet whining ‘dance with me, Soldier Boy’, like it’s gonna get ‘em a lifetime pass”. He snorted. “Always said no. Pain in the ass”.
You stared at him. “Okay…?”.
He shifted his weight, finally flicking a glance down at you. There was something almost… sulky in it. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it hurt.
“You didn’t ask once”, he said. “Not even a little pathetic ‘oh, can we, please’. Nothin’”.
“You… wanted me to?”, you asked incredulous.
He scoffed. “That’s not what I said”.
You watched him, the way his mouth tightened, the way his fingers curled on the table. “It kind of is”.
He didn’t answer, which was as close to admission as you were going to get.
Your face warmed. You looked down at your empty glass, thumb tracing the rim. “I didn’t think you’d want to”, you said, honest and small. “Or, um… maybe couldn’t".
His expression did something strange. “You think I can’t dance?”.
Your cheeks went pink. “No, I—yes—I just… I mean, you’re not exactly the slow-dance type. I figured you’d hate it. Or maybe you just… wouldn’t know how?”.
He stared at you, deadpan, like he couldn’t decide if you were joking or just hopeless. “You think I don’t know how to dance?”. He leaned in a little, his voice dropping—part mock-offended, part genuinely surprised. “Sweetheart, I was cutting up USO floors before your grandma was in fucking pigtails. PR back then was real big on ‘charm the dames, sell the war bonds’”.
Your lips parted, half a smile forming. “Wait, really?”.
He smirked, just a little. “Yeah, really. They used to parade me through the fancy parties. Some general’s daughter, senator’s niece—half the time I didn’t even know who I was stepping on. I could do this drunk and concussed on cocaine”.
Your heart stuttered. For a second, you just stood there, caught in the odd, vulnerable sincerity of his gaze. “Okay”, you said, almost whispering. “So… do you want to?”.
He rolled his eyes, but there was something sheepish in the gesture. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t”.
You set your empty glass down, suddenly shy and all too aware of the music drifting through the ballroom. “I’m… not very good. I’ll probably step on you”.
He offered his hand. “I’ll risk it”.
You slid your hand into his. He squeezed, just once, then led you out toward the edge of the dance floor.
It was awkward for half a second, your heels too tall, your balance too nervous. But Ben just settled his hand at your waist, right where it had been all night, and pulled you in, slow and sure.
The dance floor spun around you slow and steady, effortless under Ben’s guiding hand. You started to forget about the crowd, the cameras, the glossy Vought world that only cared about surfaces. With every turn, the room blurred, sharpening your focus until it was just his eyes, his breath and the warmth of his palm steady at your waist.
And then, in one turn, his hand slipped just a little lower. Innocent enough to play off as an accident, but deliberate enough that you felt the burn of it through the dress. His broad palm ghosted over the curve of your ass, not lingering, just a brief, claiming press that made you nearly stumble in your heels.
Ben didn’t smirk. Didn’t even look at you right away. But you felt the heat of his attention. His thumb tracing a slow circle at the small of your back, guiding you closer until there was barely any space between your chest and his.
“Easy”, he murmured against your hair. “Don’t want you tripping in those shoes. Couldn’t live with myself if you ended up flat on your pretty little ass”.
You felt your face flame, nerves sparking everywhere he touched. You tried to look away, but Ben only dipped his head lower, his stubble just barely grazing your temple, his lips so close you could feel the shape of his words.
“You got no idea, do you?”, he whispered, his tone gone rougher, lower. “What you look like right now. Got half the room thinkin’ about how sweet you’d sound if you moaned in their ear”.
Your breath hitched.
“Good thing you’re with me”, Ben went on, “or I’d have to start breakin’ fingers just to keep ‘em in line”.
He leaned in, pressing his mouth against the shell of your ear. You felt the warmth of his breath, the heat of his body, the solid, unmistakable intent in the set of his jaw.
Then, just as the music swelled, he caught your earlobe gently between his teeth, a soft nip that sent a bolt of sensation down your spine and right between your thighs. Your heart thundered, every inch of you suddenly electric.
“God, you blush pretty”, he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “Bet you’d sound even prettier”.
Your pulse stuttered, your body giving you away. You could feel the wetness blooming between your legs.
-
Later that evening, Ben noticed the way you shifted your weight and heard the tiny wince you didn’t quite hide.
“Alright”, he muttered, leaning down so only you could hear it. “You did the fucking dog-and-pony. Time to go”.
You nodded, relief washing through you so fast your knees almost went weak.
He kept his hand on your back all the way out.
The car was already waiting at the curb. The driver started to move, coming around to open the back door, but Ben beat him to it.
“Got it”, he barked, giving the guy a look that made him freeze mid-step. Then he turned to you.
You weren’t used to this part. No one had ever opened a door for you like that, not really. Not like it meant something. He swung it open with an easy flick of his wrist and then… waited. One hand on the top of the frame, the other held out toward you, palm up.
“Careful”, he said. “Step, then slide. Don’t wanna rip my dress".
Your stomach did something wholly unhelpful. You slipped your hand into his and let him guide you down the last little drop, into the car. The slit in the dress pulled high over your thigh for a second and his gaze flicked down, lingered, then dragged back up with a tightness in his jaw that said he’d noticed and was pretending to behave.
You settled into the seat, smoothing your skirt. He shut the door gently. Not the careless slam you’d seen him give everything else. Then he walked around the back of the car and slid in beside you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The world felt… smaller in the darkened car. You could still feel the ghost of his hand at your back, the echo of his fingers brushing too low during that dance, the warm bite of his teeth on your ear. You risked a glance at him. He was already looking at you.
“You did good tonight”, he said finally, voice low and rough from too many conversations and not enough filter.
You huffed a laugh, still a little dazed. “You didn’t blow anything up. Legal’s going to build you a shrine”.
He smirked at that, but it didn’t linger. His gaze dropped, tracing the line of your legs where the dress lay over them, the shimmer at your wrist, the soft waves of your hair over bare shoulders.
“Can’t believe they said that shit to you”, he muttered, almost to himself.
The memory made your stomach twist. You looked down at your hands.
“I’m used to it”, you said quietly. “People deciding what I am before they even know my name”. You swallowed. “You were… really gentle. Before. In the bathroom”.
He scoffed softly. “Don’t spread it around. Gotta keep up my fucking rep”.
You smiled, a thin, shaky thing. “Right. America’s First Asshole”.
“America’s First, America’s Best”, he corrected dryly, parroting the slogan. Then his mouth twitched. “Sometimes both”.
Your heart was beating harder now. You were suddenly, acutely aware of how close he was. You couldn’t stop thinking about the last hour. About his hand on your lower back, about the tight note in his voice when he told Silvernet he didn’t share anymore.
You couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth at your ear, the soft nip of his teeth, the dirty little promises he hadn’t quite finished.
He heard the way your breath hitched and stuttered, felt the faint tremor in your hands on your lap, the rabbit-quick thrum under your ribs. Supe hearing made it unfair; he could read you like a metronome.
“Hey”, he murmured, shifting closer until his shoulder brushed yours, heat licking across the thin strip of bare skin at the top of your arm. “Breathe for me”.
You did. Tried. It didn’t help. He turned a fraction more, knees angling toward you, palm braced on the seat behind your hips so you were half-penned in by the breadth of him and the door. His voice dropped. “You look like you’re gonna break”.
Maybe you were. But not the way he thought.
Before he could say anything else, before you could think yourself out of it, you reached for his jacket, curled your fingers in the lapel, and pulled.
You kissed him.
It wasn’t neat. Your nose bumped his, your mouth landed a breath off target and slid into place on instinct. For a heartbeat he went still, surprised, like he’d been winding himself tight all night just to keep from doing exactly this. But then he answered you.
His hand came up, big and warm, cupping your cheek like he’d been starving for an excuse. The other settled at your waist, thumb finding the seam of the dress and holding there, firm, as if the only thing keeping him gentle was the feel of that fabric under his palm. He kissed you back like he meant it. Slow first, testing, then deeper when you didn’t flinch, when you chased him, soft and clumsy and honest.
You made a sound in your throat without meaning to. He swallowed it with a low groan, the kind that lived in the chest more than the mouth.
You didn’t know the rules to this game, didn’t have the map for where hands should go or how breaths should mingle, but instinct drove you forward anyway.
Your free hand found his chest, pressing your palm flat against the solid wall of him under that jacket, feeling the steady thud of his heart that matched the frantic one in your own.
He let out a ragged breath through his nose, his mouth parting yours with a gentleness that felt foreign on him. He was used to taking, to claiming without apology, but here he was, letting you lead this clumsy dance.
Your kisses were soft, exploratory, like dipping toes into water you weren’t sure was safe. A brush here, a linger there, your tongue shyly tracing the seam of his lips without daring to push further. And fuck, it was undoing him.
He shifted under you, the leather of the seat creaking as his hips adjusted, trying to ease the growing ache between his legs.
You had no idea. No clue that every innocent nip, every hesitant suckle at his bottom lip, was stoking a fire he’d been banking all night.
His cock twitched in his pants, straining against the fabric, hard and insistent from the sheer sweetness of it all.
Women usually came at him bold, knowing, ready to play the part. But you? You were pure, unscripted want, and it hit him like a drug.
“Sweetheart", he growled low, the word vibrating against your mouth as he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “You’re killin’ me here”.
You blinked up at him, lips swollen and slick from the kiss, confusion flickering in your gaze. “Did I… do something wrong?”.
A rough laugh escaped him, more breath than sound, and he shook his head, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “No. Fuck no”.
His other hand slid up your side. He could hear your pulse racing, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and it only made him harder, the pressure building to something almost painful. “You’re doin’ everything right. Too right”.
Emboldened, maybe by the rasp in his voice, or the way his body leaned into yours, you leaned in again, capturing his lips with a little more confidence this time. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly without meaning to, and he groaned outright, the sound muffled as he deepened the kiss.
His tongue finally swept in, coaxing yours into play, teaching without words. Slow strokes that made your head spin and your body arch toward him instinctively.
But in the heat of it, your hand seeking purchase, or maybe just more of him, slipped lower, brushing down his chest, over the taut ridges of his abdomen, and then… right against the hard, insistent bulge straining at the front of his pants. Massive and unyielding, like the rest of him. Your palm pressed flat for a split second before you registered it, the heat of him searing through the fabric.
You froze. Breath hitching sharp in your throat, a flush exploding across your cheeks like wildfire. Oh shit. Shit. What were you doing? This wasn’t just some guy, this was your client. You were his assistant, the one who scheduled his interviews, handled his bullshit and kept his secrets.
And not just any client: Soldier Boy. The legend, the walking ego with a body count longer than your resume. The man who’d seen wars, women and worse, and here you were, pawing at him like a starry-eyed idiot in the back of a damn car.
Panic slammed into you like a freight train, your heart jackhammering so loud you swore he could hear it, hell, with his supe senses, you know he could. Your mind raced: What if this ruined everything? What if he laughed it off tomorrow, or worse, expected more? You weren’t built for this, whatever “this” was. You were the reliable one, the professional, not… not whatever desperate version of yourself had just climbed into his lap with kisses and wandering hands.
The car rolled to a smooth stop, the engine humming down as the driver announced quietly through the intercom, “We’ve arrived at your apartment, miss”.
Perfect timing. Or the worst. You didn’t wait to decide. You yanked back, scrambling for the door handle with fumbling fingers, your dress hiking up awkwardly as you twisted away. “I— I have to go”, you stammered, voice high and cracked, not daring to meet his eyes.
The confusion on his face, mixed with that lingering heat, burned into your periphery, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t explain.
The door swung open to the cool night air and you bolted, heels clacking unevenly on the pavement as you fled toward your building. You didn’t look back, didn’t hear if he called after you, though part of you hoped he wouldn’t. The lobby door slammed shut behind you, and only then did you lean against the wall, breath coming in shaky gasps, cheeks still flaming.
What had you just done?
Ben sat there in the back seat, the door still hanging open like a goddamn invitation to the night. Air rushed in, cool and mocking against his heated skin. His hand hovered mid-air where you’d been a second ago, fingers curling into a loose fist as if he could grab the ghost of you and pull it back. But you were gone. Fleeing up those steps like he’d lit a fire under your ass instead of in your veins.
What the fuck?
He blinked, the haze of arousal clinging to him. His cock throbbed painfully against his zipper, hard as steel. It strained there as a reminder of just how far you’d pushed him with those sweet, fumbling kisses.
He’d been ready to lay you out right there on the leather, to show you exactly who Soldier Boy was. But now? Now he was alone, fucking blue-balled and bewildered, with the car idling softly as the driver cleared his throat from the front.
Not once in his long, twisted life had a woman left him like that. Bolted like a spooked deer, leaving him hanging with nothing but the taste of her on his lips and a ache that bordered on fury.
Sure, there’d been plenty of human women who’d sobbed and begged him to stop back in the day, when he took what he wanted without a second thought, their tears just background noise to the rush.
But this? This was different. You hadn’t begged; you’d ignited him, teased him and then vanished.
He shifted, wincing at the friction against his pants, and let out a low, frustrated growl. “Drive”, he barked at the driver, slamming the door shut himself.
The car pulled away from the curb, but his mind stayed right there, replaying the feel of your hand brushing him and the way your breath hitched. Ben leaned back, head thumping against the seat.
-
Inside your apartment, Marmalade was already padding toward you, tail high, ready to greet you, until she saw your face. She stopped mid‑stride, head tilting, meowing once in a small, confused chirp.
You pressed your back to the door, hands shaking so hard you fumbled the deadbolt. Your pulse hadn’t slowed and your mouth still tasted like him. Your hands still felt the shape of his chest, the heat of him. And your palm… God. You squeezed your eyes shut.
What did you do?
Your breath hitched in a tiny, broken gasp before you could swallow it down. You shook your head hard, like you could scatter the memory of his mouth and his hands.
Then you moved on autopilot toward the bedroom. Your fingers found the zipper of the dress, but they trembled, catching on the fabric again and again before it finally gave and the dress slid off your shoulders. You stepped out of it like you were stepping out of a crime scene.
“I’m so stupid”, you whispered into the empty room.
You weren’t angry. Not exactly. You weren’t regretful, either. You were terrified and confused and overwhelmed, everything crashing together in your chest until it hurt to breathe.
You sank onto the edge of your bed, hair falling around your face in soft waves you’d spent forty minutes curling and pressed your palms to your eyes. A few quiet tears slipped through your fingers.
“I kissed him”, you whispered, like saying it out loud made it more ridiculous. “I kissed him. I touched him— oh God”. Your face burned hot again, even alone.
And he’d kissed you back. Gently. Like you mattered. That was the part that broke you all over again.
You drew your knees up, resting your forehead on them, breathing through the dizzy whirl of shame and longing and something else you didn’t have the courage to name.
Marmalade hopped onto the bed beside you, pressed her little body against your thigh and started purring like she could drown out your heartbeat. You curled a trembling hand around her.
“I can’t go to work tomorrow”, you whispered into the quiet. “I can’t look at him”.
But you knew you would. Because you always did.
-
Meanwhile Ben didn’t remember the elevator ride up. Didn’t remember barking at the security guards in the lobby, or the way the glass doors slid open at the top floor like he was royalty and a prisoner all at once. By the time he stepped into the penthouse, he slammed the door a little harder than he meant to. The sound echoed, bouncing off marble and steel and that stupid chandelier.
He shrugged off the jacket, tossed it over the nearest chair. The dress shirt was next, buttons yanked loose. He was still half-hard, cursing under his breath as he kicked off his shoes. No amount of cold air or city noise could cool the ache left simmering under his skin.
His mind replayed the car ride on a loop. Your hands, uncertain but wanting, tugging him close. Your lips, soft, unpracticed but desperate for something you didn’t even have a name for. The way your hand had slid down, pressing right against the bulge straining at his pants so innocent it nearly killed him.
Then the panic. The bolt. The click of the door and the sudden absence, like he’d been sucker-punched with a ghost.
He cursed again, running a hand through his hair, pacing in front of the wall of glass that overlooked half of Manhattan. He could still smell you. The faintest trace of fear and excitement that wasn’t like any other woman he’d known.
He’d had hundreds. Thousands. He’d been begged, screamed at, sobbed on.
Never—never—had he been left like this. On fire and wanting. Alone.
And not just with the hard-on. With the question: What the fuck did she do to me?
Ben grabbed a bottle off the minibar. He poured a glass, knocked it back, and felt nothing change. The ache was under his skin, not in his blood.
He slumped into the couch with the glass dangling from his fingers and his eyes fixed on the skyline he could barely see. The suite was too quiet. Too clean. He wanted to smash something, yell at someone, find a fight, but nothing would give him back the feeling of your mouth, your hands, the way you’d chased him with kisses like you were starved for something only he could give.
He remembered the look in your eyes, right before you ran. The fear wasn’t of him. Not really. It was bigger. Like you were afraid of losing yourself, or not being enough, or maybe, just maybe, wanting too much.
He drained another glass. “Fuck”, he muttered to the empty room.
Ben wasn’t built for softness.
But he’d seen it in you. Tasted it.
And now he wasn’t sure he could let it go.
He thought about tomorrow. He knew you’d hide. Try to pretend nothing happened. He knew you’d expect him to act like a bastard. But that wasn’t happening. Not anymore.
“You started this, sweetheart”, he murmured to the dark. “I’m not letting you run”.
And for the first time in years, Ben felt something almost new: Excitement.
Summary: Assigned to manage Soldier Boy, you become the only person who can keep him under control. But as tension turns into dangerous attraction, keeping things professional becomes impossible.
-requested-
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 9966
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The next morning you overslept by ten minutes. Not enough to be a disaster, but enough that everything felt slightly off-kilter. Your coffee was a little too hot, the subway a little more crowded and your heartbeat a little too fast as you squeezed into the elevator with a dozen other Vought employees pretending they weren’t hungover, overworked, or both.
You’d grabbed clothes on autopilot. Another pencil skirt from the small rotation in your closet. Dark gray, this one. A simple white blouse you’d ironed on Sunday. The only heels you owned. They were black and not very high. They made you just tall enough to see over some people’s shoulders but not tall enough to twist an ankle.
It wasn’t until the elevator to the “museum” floors hummed up past eighty that you realized the skirt didn’t fit quite the way you remembered. You shifted your weight, the fabric pulling snug across your thighs. Had it always done that? Maybe you’d shrunk it in the wash. Or maybe you’d just never worn it with this blouse, the combination making the cut feel… different. More fitted. More… there.
You glanced at your reflection in the brushed steel. The heels changed your posture, tilting your hips, arching your back just a bit. The blouse, buttoned to a perfectly reasonable place, still seemed… bright. The white stood out against your skin and the dark skirt in a way your usual soft colors didn’t.
“It’s fine”, you murmured under your breath. “It’s work clothes. Nobody cares”.
The elevator chimed and you stepped out into the quiet hallway. You checked the time on your phone. 8:01. Caldwell had wanted “a quick morning touchpoint” before he had to talk to Legal at nine. The networks were circling the exclusive like sharks; you needed to know what you could actually promise before they smelled blood. You took a slow breath, adjusted the grip on your tablet, and walked to 87-C. The camera eye beside the door tracked your movement. You lifted your hand and knocked. You weren’t expecting it to actually do anything.
You knew he was a supe. Enhanced strength, durability, blah blah blah. You’d seen the footage of him throwing trucks like toys. He also could probably hear your heartbeat from the other side of the door.
Locks thunked and your stomach dropped. The door swung inward and everything in your brain just… shorted out.
He was naked.
Not in underwear, not a towel. Nothing. Just skin and scars and a lot of muscle and absolutely zero fabric.
You registered broad shoulders, chest hair, the line of an old jagged scar sweeping across one rib, and then your survival instincts finally kicked in and you yanked your gaze up so hard your neck popped, staring somewhere in the vague area of his collarbone.
“Jesus Christ”, he rasped, voice rough with sleep and something else. “It’s eight in the fucking morning”. His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils a little too blown for the time of day. He blinked at the hallway light.
You, meanwhile, were fairly sure you had forgotten how to exist.
“I—I’m so sorry”, you stammered, every word tripping over the next. “I didn’t—I thought— I mean, Caldwell wanted me to—”.
You could hear yourself babbling and couldn’t stop. Heat tore up your face so fast your ears burned. You tried to angle your body so your tablet was as much of a shield as possible, even though you weren’t the one missing clothes.
He squinted at you, then down the empty hallway, then back at you again. His gaze dropped for a second, taking in the pencil skirt, the white blouse and the heels. A slow, crooked grin curled his mouth.
“Well, shit”, he said. “If I’d known you were bringing the church picnic outfit, I’d have put pants on”.
Your brain, unhelpfully, supplied a vivid image of him doing exactly that. You strangled it with extreme prejudice.
“I should’ve— I’m early”, you blurted. “I can come back later. It’s fine. You should, um, sleep. Or… not—”.
He made a low sound that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a groan. He wasn’t even trying to cover himself. Just leaning one arm on the doorframe like a guy on a porch in the suburbs, except for the part where there was absolutely nothing between his skin and the air.
You stared pointedly over his shoulder where a light fixture hummed faintly.
“You knock that soft”, he said, “you’re lucky I hear you at all. Half the chicks Vought sends up here would’ve been banging on the door with a shoe and wet lips by now”.
You made a strangled noise that was supposed to be some kind of polite laugh and came out like your soul trying to escape.
“Cute shoes, by the way”, he added, voice dipping. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘fuck-me heels’ type”.
“They’re not—”. You bit down on the rest mortified. “They’re just… shoes”.
“Yeah”. You could hear the smirk in his tone. “Sure they are”.
He sniffed once, sharp, and wiped under his nose with the back of his wrist. Not the frantic, jittery motion you’d seen yesterday. Just… casual. Maintained. The kind of adjustment that said whatever he’d done last night was still humming in his system.
“Are you high?”, you heard yourself ask before your brain could slap a hand over your own mouth.
His eyebrow arched. “You always this fucking forward before breakfast, doll?”.
“I just… we have a lot to go over today, and if you’re—”.
“I’m fine”, he cut in. “Takes more than a little pick-me-up to knock me on my fucking ass”.
You believed that. That was the problem.
He shifted his weight, the movement making you flinch automatically even though he hadn’t come any closer. Some part of you expected the door to slam in your face, or for him to bark at you to get lost.
Instead he sighed, long-suffering, like you were a raincloud that had followed him home.
“You gonna stand out there blushing ’til noon”, he asked, “or you gonna come in so I can put on some damn pants before security thinks I’m assaulting you?”.
You startled. “Right. Yes. Sorry. Um. Right”.
You shuffled inside sideways, eyes glued to the floor. The suite smelled like stale beer, something stronger under it, and his cologne. The curtains were mostly shut. The TV was off this time, but the coffee table was still a mess.
He shut the door with a heavy thunk. You zeroed in on the nearest wall and tried very hard to think about nothing at all.
“Relax”, he said again, like that was something people could do on command. “I’m not gonna flash you on purpose”.
You had the wild urge to ask if this counted as on purpose, but your tongue was currently attempting to tie itself into a noose.
You heard him pad away across the carpet but you kept your eyes on the wall, tracing the pattern in the wallpaper like it was suddenly fascinating. A drawer slid open. Something soft flopped. Fabric rustled. He cursed under his breath something about laundry and Vought and “you’d think America’s First Hero would get a damn hamper”.
You risked a glance back. He had pulled on a pair of sweatpants and now scrubbed a hand over his face, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw.
“See?”, he said, dropping onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “PG-13 again. You can stop looking like you’re about to pass out”.
You were still blushing so hard your whole body felt overheated. You adjusted your grip on the tablet with fingers shaking just enough to make the screen wobble.
“I wasn’t— I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable”, you said, which was insane, given the circumstances.
He stared at you for a beat, then cackled.
“Sweetheart”, he said, “if I was uncomfortable being naked, this fucking company would’ve gone bankrupt in ’84”.
You made another helpless little noise that wasn’t quite a laugh.
He took you in again, head tilted slightly. Your hair was pulled back neatly, but a piece was already slipping out to curl by your cheek.
“Caldwell make you dress up?”, he asked.
You frowned, thrown by the question. “This is… how I always dress”.
“Yeah?”. His gaze lingered on the line where your blouse tucked into your waistband. “How’s that working out for you?”.
You weren’t sure what he meant. You weren’t sure you wanted to ask.
Instead you clung to the one thing that made sense. “We have an update on the interview”. you said, your voice snapping back into professional mode with almost audible whiplash. “Three networks responded. One’s willing to agree to your conditions”.
-
An hour later, you were back at his door with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing again. The coffee cup tray shook faintly in your hands when you pressed your badge to the panel. The light blinked green and you knocked a little louder this time. Still soft by normal standards, but practically a shout compared to earlier.
“Yeah”, his voice came muffled from inside. “Door’s open”.
You eased it inward with your shoulder, careful not to tilt the tray. The suite smelled different now. Steam and soap had cut through the stale beer and old cologne, leaving everything warm and damp. The bathroom door was open, light spilling out, and that’s where you found him.
He stood in front of the mirror with a towel slung around his hips, one hand braced on the sink, the other holding a buzzing trimmer to his jaw.
Water still clung to his shoulders, rolling down over muscle and old scars. His hair was wet, pushed back off his face. He looked… almost cleaned up.
Your body seized up in the doorway like someone had unplugged you.
“Oh”, you said, brilliant as ever.
He met your gaze in the mirror, eyes flicking from your face to the coffees and back. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“You ever knock like you mean it”, he said, “you might actually surprise me, doll”.
“I did knock”, you protested weakly.
“Uh-huh”. He turned his head a fraction, checking the line of his beard. “You´re lucky I´m a supe. I hear a fucking mouse fart three floors down. Your little tap-tap-tap’s not exactly waking the dead. Remember that for your life”.
Your cheeks warmed. You edged farther into the room, trying to keep your eyes on the back of his head and not on the broad expanse of bare back in front of you.
“I brought your coffee”, you said. “Black. No sugar, no cream. Double shot”.
He turned off the trimmer with a click and set it down on the counter. “You remember that”, he said, almost to himself, like he was testing the words out.
You swallowed. “You… said it yesterday. ‘Anything in it and you’ll throw that fucking gay ass drizzle shit at the wall’”.
“Sounds like me”. He reached for a hand towel, scrubbing it over his jaw to get rid of stray hairs. “Most people hear that and bring me some bullshit oat milk anyway. ‘For your heart, Soldier Boy’”.
His gaze dropped briefly, taking in how the pencil skirt hugged your hips when you leaned forward the tiniest bit. The heels made you just tall enough that your head would fit neatly under his chin if he stood behind you. You straightened so fast your spine twinged.
“Which one’s mine?”, he asked.
You pointed. “Left. The other’s for Caldwell. He’s in a meeting with Legal in twenty minutes. I’m supposed to bring him caffeine so he doesn’t have a stroke when I tell him you picked NCN”.
He stepped out of the bathroom, towel hitched carelessly with one hand, and reached for the cup you’d indicated. You had to tip the tray toward him and his fingers brushed yours as he closed them around the cardboard. You snatched your hand back like you’d touched a hot stove.
“Easy”, he said amused. “I don’t bite”.
You remembered him saying that yesterday. It had felt like a threat then. Now it just made your stomach do an unhelpful little flip.
“Outside the bed”, he added, after a beat. “Most of the time”.
That didn’t help.
He took a long sip, eyes closing for a second. His throat worked as he swallowed. When he opened them again, he looked… fractionally less wrecked.
“Huh”, he said. “You actually got it right”.
“That was… the assignment,” you said.
“Gold star for the good girl”, he said, like it was just the obvious thing to call you.
You pretended your face didn’t immediately go hot, while he watched you fidget with the edge of the tray. You were all soft edges with big eyes darting away from his, lips parted just enough to show you were biting back words you didn’t trust yourself to say. Sweet and small and delicate, without even trying.
The way you stood there, shoulders hunched a little like you were trying to make yourself smaller in that fitted blouse and skirt, only made it worse. Or better, depending on how he looked at it.
God, you were shy. Barely a peep out of you beyond the necessities and it was driving him fucking insane.
Most women threw themselves at him, all bold and brazen, but you? You hovered like a damn butterfly, too timid to land.
It made his blood run hot, stirring something he hadn’t felt in decades. Not since before the Russians turned him into a lab rat.
His dick twitched under the towel, hardening just from watching you avoid his gaze, your cheeks flushing that pretty pink again.
He set the coffee down on the dresser, closer to you than necessary, and leaned in a fraction. The steam from the cup mingled with the leftover heat from his shower, wrapping around you both. “You gonna stand there all fucking day, or you got more errands to run for the suits?”.
You blinked up at him, finally meeting his eyes for a split second before dropping them to his chest. Bad move, because now you were staring at the water droplets tracing paths over his pecs, down to the V where the towel barely clung on.
Your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard. “I… um. Caldwell’s waiting. I should—”.
He stepped closer, crowding you without touching, his voice dropping. “Or you stay and see if I really don’t bite”.
Your breath hitched and you clutched the tray tighter. You were so close he could smell your shampoo. Something clean and floral, nothing like the heavy perfumes the Vought bitches usually drowned themselves in. It made him want to bury his face in your neck, see if you tasted as sweet as you looked.
He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your jaw, and you froze, while your eyes went wide like a deer in headlights.
Fuck, that innocence, or whatever it was, had him rock hard now while the towel doing a piss-poor job of hiding it. But he didn’t bother adjusting.
“You’re killing me here, doll”, he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “All quiet and cute. Makes a man think about all the ways he could make you… talk”.
Your lips parted, but again, no words came out. Just a soft, involuntary sound that went straight to his groin.
He grinned and leaned in until his mouth was inches from yours. “Or maybe you like being watched. Like knowing what you’re doing to me right now”.
You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But your eyes flicked down, just for a second, and he knew you’d seen the bulge straining against the towel.
Your face burned hotter, and he chuckled.
“Yeah”, he said. “That’s what I thought”.
Just then, your phone shrieked from inside your bag, shattering the too-thick silence. You nearly dropped the tray as you scrambled to grab for it.
“Shoot—sorry”, you breathed shaky as you fumbled for the device. Your hands shook so badly it took three tries to swipe the screen. You didn’t even bother checking the notification. You knew what it was: your alarm for Caldwell’s meeting. Ten minutes until you had to sell the plan you’d somehow wrangled out of Soldier Boy. An unfiltered, live NCN interview, no script, no pre-approval and no leash.
You glanced at him while every nerve in your body was still vibrating from the way his thumb had brushed your cheek and the way his eyes had darkened at the sight of your blush. He watched you with a smirk and arms crossed, a challenge in every line of his body.
“Duty calls?”, he drawled, like the words were a private joke.
You nodded, your breath coming short. “I—I have to go. Caldwell—meeting—he’ll want the update”.
He cocked his head, looking you over in a unashamed way that had heat crawling up the back of your neck. “Tell him the hero’s ready for his fucking closeup”, he said with his voice dipped in sarcasm. “Just make sure he knows if anyone tries to muzzle me, the deal’s off”.
You nodded so fast you almost lost your balance in your heels. “Right. I’ll—um. I’ll be back before the car gets here for the studio”.
He didn’t move to let you pass, but he didn’t block you either. He just watched, towel tented, as you skirted around him. You barely breathed until you were through the door.
-
The interview itself was a blur of adrenaline and lights and the kind of panic that left your hands cold, your mouth dry and your heart doing laps in your chest. You barely remembered the questions or the host’s polite smile or the audience’s nervous laughter every time Soldier Boy said something not fit for primetime. He didn’t blow up, didn’t storm out. He even shot you a sidelong look in the middle of one answer, the tiniest tilt of his mouth that told you he knew exactly how much trouble he was causing.
And somehow, somehow, it went well.
You texted Caldwell from the green room: He didn’t swear. Once.
The reply was a single thumbs-up emoji, which might as well have been a Nobel Prize from Caldwell.
When it was over, the network wrangler hustled you both down through a service corridor and out into the street, past fans and a few hopeful journalists. Soldier Boy let you lead, which made your skin crawl in a way you didn’t have a name for. The company car was waiting at the curb. You slid into the back seat and Soldier Boy followed, folding himself into the space with a grunt while making the plush interior feel two sizes smaller than before.
The door thunked shut, the driver checked the rearview—“Back to the tower?”—and you nodded, your voice small: “Please”.
You didn’t realize how close he was until the car merged into traffic, and you caught the weight of his stare from barely a foot away. Your shoulder almost brushed his. Every shift he made was magnified in the cramped silence. The slow spread of his thighs, the flex of muscle under his pants and the way his hand landed on the seat just behind your back.
You tried to focus on the passing city lights, pretending you didn’t notice his knee bump yours.
“So”, he rumbled, leaning in until you could smell his cologne. “Did I pass your little test?”.
You shook your head, smiling nervously. “It wasn’t… my test”.
“Could’ve fooled me”. He angled himself so he could watch your face, one eyebrow cocked, eyes shining green under the car’s dim lights. “Saw you out there. All stiff and nervous like I was gonna pull a fucking grenade out my ass on live TV”.
You swallowed. “You did fine. Nobody’s fired, so… that’s a win”.
He made a sound that might have been a laugh.
“You’re shaking”, he observed. “Still scared of me, doll?”.
You pulled your arms tighter around your tablet. “Not scared”.
His hand slid a little closer on the seat, not touching you but close enough you felt the heat. His thigh pressed just barely into yours, as if he was seeing how much you’d tolerate before moving away.
-
A few weeks later, you’d stopped jumping every time your phone buzzed with his name.
You still felt little spikes of adrenaline in your chest when SB lit up your screen, but you weren’t dropping things anymore. Progress.
In that time, you’d managed to keep him out of rehab, off the nightly news for the wrong reasons and only mildly canceled on social media. Twice. Which, for Vought, counted as a raging success.
There’d been another live interview. Two photo ops. A “surprise” visit to a veterans’ event you’d had to prep in twenty-four hours and a training session that ended with half the reinforced wall dented and you standing in the doorway pretending you weren’t watching him try not to come apart.
He swore constantly, talked like every sentence was dare and stared at you like you were something he hadn’t decided whether to break or keep yet. But he didn’t blow anything up. He didn’t walk off set. And when you were there with your soft voice, he always pulled back from the edge.
So, you were still here.
Trish had started calling you “The Supe Whisperer” behind your back.
“You’re taming a nuclear bear”, she’d said over lunch one day with wide eyes. “Do you have a death wish?”.
You didn’t. Not even a little. You just… had a job. And for all his snarling and leering and lazy, filthy comments, Soldier Boy listened when you talked. Not always and not about everything. But enough that you’d learned the shape of his temper. Like the way it rose fast and ugly and then, if you said the right thing in the right tone, receded just a fraction.
You hated that you were starting to read him that well.
-
Today you were too early. You realized it when you stepped off the private elevator onto “his” floor and the hallway clock read 4:41. The debrief with Caldwell had ended ahead of schedule, Legal miraculously satisfied with his “just let him talk, what’s the worst that could happen” arrangement.
You could’ve gone back to your desk. Answered emails. Pretended you had boundaries.
Instead, you found yourself walking toward 87-C.
You told yourself it was better to brief him today than tomorrow. That if you waited, he’d blow off the meeting or ignore the talking points or both. That this was you being proactive, not… whatever else it might look like.
You stopped at his door and pressed your badge to the panel. The little light blinked green. The camera eye watched you. You knocked, a little firmer than the first day. You didn’t get a verbal reply.
But the door opened. He wasn’t naked this time. Just… half-dressed. Again.
Dark jeans, button fly undone. Bare torso, skin still sheened with sweat, hair pushed back and damp. You wondered if he ever wore normal clothes all the way.
“Four fucking forty-something”, he said, squinting past you at the hallway clock like it had personally offended him. “You early or am I late?”.
You held up the folder a little. “Early. I can come back if you’re—”.
“Relax, doll”, he cut in, stepping back from the doorway. “You already saw my dick swinging at eight a.m. once. Kinda hard to top that”.
You felt your face heat immediately. Your brain helpfully supplied the memory. You pushed it away. Hard.
“I have tomorrow’s schedule”, you said, crossing the threshold. “And the notes from PR about the charity gala. Caldwell wants you to at least pretend to read them”.
“Caldwell can kiss my—”. He stopped himself, smirk tilting. “See? I’m learning. Using my fucking indoor voice”.
The suite was, surprisingly, less of a disaster than usual. There were still empty bottles on the coffee table, but fewer. The cracked TV was off. The curtains were half-open, letting late-afternoon light spill across the carpet in gold stripes.
You tried not to stare at the line of his spine as he walked ahead of you toward the couch. It was ridiculous, how aware you were of the space he took up. How small and breakable you felt next to that much… everything.
He flopped down onto the couch with one arm along the back and his legs sprawling. You took the armchair across from him, smoothing your skirt automatically before you sat. You perched on the edge instead of sinking back while you balanced your folder on your knees like a shield.
“Alright, sweetheart”, he said, nodding at the papers. “Hit me”.
You opened the folder. “Tomorrow: training at ten. Media availability at two. Charity gala at seven. Red carpet, photos, one short speech”.
“No”, he said immediately. “You want a speech, you write it and get some cocksucker in a tux to read it”. You didn’t bother pretending that wasn’t already Plan B.
“And the guests?”, he asked, reaching for a bottle on the table and finding it empty. He made a face, dropped it back with a clink. “Who am I smiling at this time?”.
“Donors. Executives. And some celebrities”. You flipped a page. “They’re positioning it as ‘America’s First Gives Back’. Benefits Vought’s veteran outreach”.
He snorted. “Yeah. Bet all those guys living under overpasses feel real fucking good about me posing with canapés and plastic tits”.
Your stomach twisted. “You could… say something about that. If you wanted”.
He looked at you with one of his eyebrow raised. “On camera?”.
“On camera”, you said quietly.
“You trying to get me blacklisted from my own party?”.
“I’m just… saying you don’t have to follow the script”, you murmured. “Not exactly. People believe you more when you sound like… you”.
He watched you for a beat too long. You forced yourself not to look away, hands pressed flat against the folder so he wouldn’t see them shake.
“Careful”, he said finally. “Start talking like that, they’re gonna think I’ve rubbed off on you”.
Your face flamed. You dropped your eyes back to the papers, your teeth pressing into your lower lip.
“Relax”, he added softer. “You’re doing that fucking turtle thing again”.
You blinked. “What… turtle thing?”.
He mimicked you. Shoulders hunching, chin tucking down toward his chest, eyes going wide and darting away. It was a terrible impression and also… painfully accurate.
You let out a small, unwilling laugh. “I don’t do that”.
“Uh-huh”. His mouth quirked. “Next time I’ll get you a shell. Complete the look”.
You shook your head, looking back down at the schedule so he wouldn’t see the way your lips wanted to curl.
“The dress code is formal”, you said. “They’ll send up a suit for you to try”.
He groaned. “They wanna put me in a fucking suit again? Thought the whole point of this comeback crap was ‘raw and authentic’”.
“Authentic with a bowtie”, you said before you could swallow the joke.
He stared at you.
You panicked internally. Had you gone too far? Was that disrespectful? Was—
He laughed. It burst out of him, short and loud and real. You felt it all the way in your chest.
“See?”, he said. “Knew there was something under all that vanilla”.
You stared down at the folder, heartbeat skipping in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
You’d gotten braver. You could admit that to yourself, at least.
You still hovered, still second-guessed, still folded in on yourself whenever anyone raised their voice. But around him, something had… shifted. Maybe because he hadn’t thrown you out a window the first week. Maybe because you’d watched him stop himself, again and again, when he was looking at you.
He’d still said awful things. He still opened his mouth and let filth fall out just to see you blush. He still flouted every rule Vought tried to hand him.
But he hadn’t directed that sharp, dangerous temper at you. Not once.
He made the room feel unsafe and safer all at once, and you had no idea what that said about you.
You were flipping to the next page when he shifted on the couch.
“Stand up”, he said.
You blinked. “What?”,
He gestured with two fingers. “Up. Lemme see”.
You clutched the folder a little tighter. “See… what?”.
“The outfit”, he said, as if that were obvious. “You gonna wear that tomorrow?”.
You looked down at yourself. Same pencil skirt. Different cardigan. Soft pink this time, over a white camisole. Your heels were in your bag; you’d been at your desk most of the afternoon.
“I hadn’t… thought that far ahead”, you admitted.
“Stand up”, he repeated.
You hesitated a second and then pushed to your feet, feeling absurdly like you were in line for inspection. Heat crept up your neck as you smoothed your hands down the front of your skirt.
He let his gaze travel. Slow and thorough. But it was different tonight. Less like he was trying to make you squirm for fun, more like he was cataloguing something for reasons he hadn’t decided to share.
“Turn around”, he said.
“Soldier Boy—”.
“Relax, doll. I’m not asking you to strip and rub my dick. Just lemme see”.
You bit the inside of your cheek and did as he asked, turning in a small, awkward circle. The hem of your skirt tugged at your thighs. You fought the urge to tug it back down.
He made a thoughtful sound. “You got anything… dunno… sparkly?”.
You frowned over your shoulder at him. “Sparkly?”.
“It’s a gala”, he said. “They’re gonna throw you in some corner with the other office drones if you show up looking like you’re about to file their taxes”. His mouth tilted. “You got a dress? Something that doesn’t look like HR picked it out?”.
“I don’t… really go to parties”, you said, facing him again. “Or… own party dresses”.
“Figures”. He scratched his jaw, eyeing you like a problem he meant to solve. “What size are you?”.
Your face went nuclear. “I— I don’t—”.
He waved a hand, dismissive. “Forget it. I know already”.
You stared. “How would you… know already?”.
He gave you a look like you’d asked if water was wet. “Been lookin’ at tits longer than you’ve been alive. I can eyeball a size from across the damn room”.
That somehow made it worse. You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your fingers twitched against the folder, wanting something to hide behind.
“I don’t need a dress”, you said quickly. “I’m staff. I’ll be in the back with the comms team—”.
“No”, he cut in sharp. “You’re not”.
You blinked. “I’m… not?”.
He lounged back into the couch. “Already told ’em I’m not doing their little dog-and-pony show without my handler”. His mouth curled. “They wanted to stick me with some plastic-looking blonde from marketing for ‘optics’. I said no. I pick my own”.
Your heart stuttered. “Pick your own… what?”.
His eyes dragged over you meaningfully. “Arm candy”.
The words hit you like a slap and a shove at the same time.
“I—I’m not—”. You choked on the rest. Not arm candy. Not the type. Not for you.
He smirked. “Calm down. You won´t climb on my lap in front of the cameras. You stand there, look pretty, smile at the old rich assholes. They feel important, I don’t punch anybody. That’s what they call a win-win”.
“I don’t… look…”. The word pretty lodged in your throat like it didn’t belong there.
He snorted. “You got any idea how you looked on that live hit? Little blouse, big eyes, shaking like a leaf but still mouthing ‘no’ at me when I almost said ‘shit’?”. He shook his head. “You’re sweet, doll. That’s the job”.
You wanted to sink through the floor.
“I’m not…”, you tried again, voice tiny. “That’s not… I’m not arm candy”.
He tilted his head. “No? What are you then?”.
“I’m your PR contact”, you said, clinging to the phrase like a lifeline. “I’m here to… manage your schedule. Help with messaging. Not—”.
“Messaging”, he repeated dry. “That what they call it when they send you in to keep me from telling the truth?”.
You opened your mouth, then shut it again. It wasn’t that simple and you both knew it.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Look, doll. Vought’s gonna put somebody next to me tomorrow. They always do. Makes the pictures look balanced, like I’m not gonna fucking snap and start throwing tables”.
“That’s… graphic”, you muttered.
He ignored it. “Point is, I’d rather it be someone who doesn’t make me wanna drive my head through a fucking wall”.
You blinked. “And that’s… me”.
He shrugged. “Could be worse”.
Somewhere inside, past the embarrassment and the panic and the little voice screaming this is wildly inappropriate, something warm flickered.
“I don’t know how to… do that”, you admitted, fingers worrying the edge of the folder. “Be… arm candy”.
He snorted. “You stand there and exist. You already do that just fine”.
“That’s not…”. You exhaled sharply, trying to put it into words. “I don’t go to galas. Or… parties. I don’t know where to look, or what to say, or who you’re supposed to shake hands with first. I’m going to mess it up”.
He watched you as you spiraled, the way your shoulders crept up, how you slowly folded in on yourself like you were trying to vanish between your cardigan and your skirt. Even more than usually.
“Hey”, he said, a little rougher. You looked up, startled.
His eyes locked on yours. “You just gotta stay next to me and not run off when some asshole tries to corner you about brand synergy or whatever the fuck. I handle the rest”.
“That’s… not comforting”, you said, but your voice shook less.
He smirked. “I’ll be good”.
You raised an eyebrow before you could stop yourself. “You don’t… do good”.
That actually made him laugh. “Oh, you’re cute”.
He reached for the bottle on the table again, remembered it was empty, and let his hand drop. For a second his wrist brushed his own knee, knuckles whitening like he wanted something in them… glass, a neck, anything.
Then he looked back at you.
“Listen, sweetheart”, he said. “I’ve spent decades in rooms like that. They’re all the same. Too much cologne, not enough spine. You just stick close, let me know if anyone says something that makes you wanna throw up in your own mouth. I’ll make ’em stop”.
There was something disturbingly comforting about the way he said it. Brutal and simple and absolute.
“Anyway”, he said, like you’d just agreed to a lunch order, “I’ll send one of the little assistants over to your place later with a dress”.
You blinked. “You’ll— what?”.
“A dress”, he repeated, slower, like he was checking for a language barrier. “Y’know. Pretty piece of fabric, makes donors open their wallets. I’ll pick one, they’ll drop it off. You put it on, we go smile for the cameras. Easy”.
Your brain kind of fuzzed out on I’ll pick one.
“You’re… choosing my clothes now?”, you managed.
He smirked. “You say it like it’s a bad thing”.
“Because it is”, you said, before your self-preservation could kick in. “That’s not— you can’t just decide what I’m going to wear”.
His eyes flicked over you again, quick and unapologetic. “You’re doing a hell of a job deciding beige so far”.
Your cheeks burned. You glanced down at your skirt. “There’s nothing wrong with beige”.
“There is if you’re standing next to me”, he said.
You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”.
He settled deeper into the couch, eyes dragging lazily down and back up like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.
“Means”, he said, “if I’ve gotta haul my sorry ass into a tux and stand under hot lights while rich assholes pretend they give a fuck about vets, the least they can give me is a decent view”.
You blinked. “A… view”.
“Don’t play dumb, doll”. His mouth ticked up. “You got a sweet little body under all those cardigans. Be a fucking shame not to show it off”.
Your brain tripped over sweet little body like it had hit black ice. You’d never thought of yourself that way. You knew what bodies looked like at Vought… tall, sculpted, all impossible curves and legs that went on forever. Starlight in her gold suit. The PR execs in their sleek dresses that never wrinkled, glossy hair and glossy smiles.
You were… not that.
Your chest was nothing to write home about, thighs that didn’t magically not touch, a stomach that was soft when you sat down. You bought padded bras and high-waisted skirts and lived in fabrics that draped more than they clung because it was easier not to think about whether anyone was looking.
The idea of that being something to “show off” made your stomach do a weird, swoopy thing.
“There’s nothing… to show”, you muttered.
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, see, that’s where you’re full of fucking shit”.
Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”.
He pointed at you with two fingers, casual, annoyingly sure of himself. “You think I don’t notice the way every guy in that bullpen suddenly finds a reason to walk past when you´re there? Or the intern who almost walked into a wall staring at your legs last week?”.
Heat slammed into your face. “He tripped”.
“Yeah”, he said. “Over his own growing balls”.
You wanted to argue. To tell him he was wrong, that nobody noticed you, that half the time you felt like furniture with a badge. But you remembered the intern’s pink ears, the way he’d stammered out an apology without quite looking at you, and the words died in your throat.
“It doesn’t matter what they’re looking at”, you said instead, too fast. “I’m there to work”.
“Sure you are”. He leaned forward a little, forearms on his knees. The motion brought him closer, shrinking the space between you. “But tomorrow night, you’re there to work for me. Which means I get to say no beige, no funeral clothes and no hiding behind some ugly-ass blazer”.
You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the folder, feeling shame coil even tighter in your chest. Ugly-ass blazer. You didn’t think you’d ever liked your wardrobe, but you hadn’t thought it was ugly. Not until he said it.
But of course Soldier Boy wasn’t about being gentle or soft or letting things down easy. He was a weapon. Made for war, not comfort. If something needed to be said, he said it. If it hurt, well, you were supposed to get stronger or get out of the way.
You swallowed and nodded, because arguing wouldn’t change anything, not with a man like him, not with years of learning how to take up less space.
So you took a breath, made yourself let it go. There were emails to send, a cat waiting for you at home and a dress on the way that you’d probably hate but had to wear anyway.
“Alright”, you said, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll try whatever you send”.
He watched you closely, like he expected you to break or maybe hoped you wouldn’t. When you didn’t, when you just stood there, small and still but not running, his mouth ticked up at the corner. “Good girl”.
-
By the time you got home, your brain felt like it had been left in the microwave too long.
You went through the motions on autopilot. Keys in the dish, shoes off by the door and bag dropped next to the couch. Marmalade trotted out from wherever she slept her afternoons away, tail high and rubbed shamelessly against your ankles.
“Hey, menace”, you murmured, bending to scoop her up. She flopped into your arms like a sack of warm sand, purring obnoxiously loud. “You’re the only one who likes my cardigans”.
She blinked slowly, smug and unconcerned.
You barely managed to shove a slice of toast into your mouth, when your buzzer went. You froze with crumbs on your fingers and Marmalade twining between your ankles like she’d been the one expecting company. You glanced at the clock above the microwave. 7:12 p.m. Nobody rang your bell at 7:12 p.m.
You wiped your hands on a dish towel and shuffled over to the intercom, thumb hesitating over the button. “…Hello?”, you said, voice doing that embarrassing little wobble.
“Vought delivery”, a bored male voice answered. “Signature required”.
Your stomach dropped. Right. You’d said yes. You buzzed him in.
A minute later there was a knock at your door. You checked the peephole out of habit. A guy in his twenties and windbreaker with the Vought logo over his heart. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
You opened the door a crack, chain still on. “Yes?”.
He lifted an eyebrow, then held up a garment bag. It took up most of your doorway. Sleek black, thick plastic, the kind real people used when they traveled first class. In his other hand was a smaller branded shopping bag, the kind that meant trouble.
“Delivery for…”, he glanced at the tag, mangling your last name, “from Wardrobe, per special request”.
“Special… request”, you echoed faintly.
He sighed. “Look, lady, I’m just the mule. You sign, I drop, I go back to pretending the seventieth floor doesn’t exist”.
You undid the chain and opened the door fully. The garment bag seemed to grow as he stepped in, the bottom nearly brushing your floor.
“Um—just there is fine”, you said, backing up to let him lean it against the wall.
He set the black bag down with a grunt, then handed you a clipboard and a pen.
You looked at the line: your name, your address, the word WARDROBE and then, in a different handwriting, a note in the margin: SB – PERSONAL. Your pulse jumped.
You scribbled your signature before he could say anything. He handed you the smaller bag that was heavier than it looked.
You shut the door slowly and Marmalade immediately trotted over to investigate, nose pressing curiously against the garment bag.
“No”, you said. “Absolutely not. You are not claiming the most expensive thing I’ve ever touched as a scratching post”.
You nudged her gently aside and eased the bag upright, fingers tracing the slick material. Your heart hammered absurdly hard for something as simple as opening a zipper. You pulled it down.
The dress inside wasn’t Vought wardrobe.
You knew that instantly. Not from the color or the shape, but from the way the fabric hung. It didn’t drape like polyester or synthetic satin. It fell in a clean, liquid line, the kind of weight that said the price tag had more digits than your rent.
You reached in with careful hands and eased it out. Dark green. At first glance it looked simple. No beading, no rhinestones, no obvious branding. But the cut— You swallowed.
Thin straps. A neckline that wasn’t obscene, but wasn’t safe either, low enough you knew you’d be hyper-aware of every breath. The bodice nipped in at the waist, the skirt skimming over hips and thighs before flaring slightly just above the knee. There was a slit, a modest one, but still… a slit.
You caught sight of the tag. You recognized the name, even if you’d only seen it on red-carpet coverage and in the fashion pages you pretended not to read in the break room.
You exhaled, a little weak. “Oh my God”.
You checked the other side of the bag on autopilot. No second option, no backup. Just this one dress. You knew in that moment Vought hadn’t paid for this. Caldwell would sooner burn the building down than sign off on this label for a handler.
You glanced at the smaller bag, your stomach sinking, already sure and still not ready. The box inside was matte black with that same designer logo stamped on top. Under it, nested in tissue paper, a thinner velvet case.
You opened the shoe box first. They were black and unmistakable: red lacquer flashing on the soles like a siren. The heel wasn’t insane, but it wasn’t modest either. They looked like the kind of shoes that could ruin your life and your ankles at the same time. You picked one up, thumb running over the arch, feeling a little faint.
Marmalade tried to rub her face against the heel. You yanked it back out of range. “Do you have any idea how much these cost?”, you whispered at her. “Because I don’t. But it’s a lot”. She blinked clearly unconcerned.
You set the shoe down like it was made of glass and reached for the velvet case with hands that were just barely steady. The clasp clicked open. Diamonds.
Not the sparklier-than-usual cubic zirconia the Vought party stash used. Real ones. The bracelet lay in the little groove like it lived there, bright. Between were a matching pair of earrings.
There was a folded piece of Vought-branded paper. You hesitated, then unfolded it.
Try it on.
That was it. No name. No from Soldier Boy, no you’re welcome, no smiley face. Just three words that somehow felt like he was standing in the room.
You sat back on your heels on the living room rug with the dress pooled in your lap, diamonds winking from the coffee table, shoes on the floorboards and tried very hard not to freak out.
“This is insane”, you told the cat.
You stared at the dress again. The way the waist narrowed in. The thought of your body in this thing made your throat close.
This had to be from his own pocket. There was no way Vought signed off on this when wardrobe already had a sponsorship deal with some mid-tier designer who gave them ten red carpet looks for the price of one of these.
You were still staring at the diamonds like they might bite when your phone buzzed across the coffee table.
FaceTime: Trish
You considered not answering. You considered throwing the phone in the laundry basket and pretending you’d fallen asleep at 7:30 like someone with a head injury. Instead, you swiped accept.
Her face filled the screen. She took one look at you, at the garment bag behind you, at the way you were sitting on the rug like you’d been dropped there, and groaned.
“Oh my God, you look like someone just told you you’re drafted”, she said. “Is this about tomorrow? Are you panicking? Blink twice if you’re panicking”.
“I’m… fine”, you lied.
“You’re absolutely not”. Her gaze slid past you. “What´s in the bag?”.
You glanced over your shoulder. You lifted the phone, turned it so she could see the coffee table with the Louboutins and the velvet case.
“Holy shit.”
You gave her a small, helpless shrug.
“Is that—”, she leaned closer, squinting at the shoes, “those are red soles. Those are the ones I have to scroll past on Instagram because they make my bank account cry”.
You set the phone back down so she could see your face again. “There’s also this”, you said, holding up the velvet case and cracking it open.
Her eyes bugged. “Oh cool, love that for you. You’re about to get murdered and rolled into a Hudson River gift bag”.
“They’re real, right?”, you asked quietly. “They look… real”.
“They look illegal”, she said. “Okay, back up—did wardrobe send this, or did… he send this?”.
Your stomach twisted. “The shipping slip said SB – personal”, you admitted.
She slapped a hand over her facemask. “Oh my God. Oh my God. He bought you diamonds?”.
You winced. “When you say it like that I want to throw up”.
“Yeah, that’s fair”. She took a sip of wine through the little mouth gap in her mask. “Okay. Okay. Pros and cons. Pro: you are now the proud temporary owner of enough resale value to pay off your student loans. Con: it’s from a man who does cocaine for breakfast”.
You huffed a weak laugh. “I don’t think you’re helping”.
“Show me the dress”, she said laser-focused.
You hesitated, then stood, propping the phone up against the lamp base so she got a slightly skewed view of the room. You walked over, slipped the hanger off the hook, and turned.
Trish actually made a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a swear.
“Okay”, she said, voice gone almost reverent. “Okay, that’s not a dress, that’s a weapon”.
“It’s missing… a lot of fabric”.
“It’s missing nothing it needs”, she countered. “Look at that waist. And the slit? And the color? You’re gonna look like a poisonous plant”.
“That’s not comforting”, you said.
“It’s the only kind of comforting I offer”, she replied. “Try it on”.
You froze. “Right now?”.
“Yes, right now. You think you’re gonna be less terrified if you wait until five minutes before the car gets here tomorrow?”.
She had a point. You hated that she had a point. You glanced at the closed bedroom door. “If it doesn’t fit, I’m going to spontaneously combust”.
“If it doesn’t fit, I’m marching down to Vought and shoving it up his—”.
“Please do not finish that sentence”, you cut in.
She grinned. “Go. I’ll stay on. Angle me at the mirror. I will coach”.
You scooped up the dress and your phone, retreating to the bedroom with Marmalade trotting along, clearly pleased that the evening had turned into enrichment time.
You set the phone on your dresser, propped against a stack of old paperbacks so the front-facing camera caught most of the room. Trish gave you two thumbs-up from her tiny rectangle.
“Alright”, you muttered to yourself, to her and to the dress. “Here goes nothing”.
You shimmed out of your banana pajamas, folded them out of sheer muscle memory, and hung the dress on the closet door knob. Up close, it was even more obscene in its quality. The zipper glided under your hand without catching once. The lining felt cool and expensive and not at all like the fast-fashion dresses you’d tried on for office parties and put back on the rack because they made you feel like an overstuffed sausage.
You stepped into it carefully, one hand on the wall for balance. The fabric slid up your legs like water. You pulled the bodice into place, heart hammering, and reached back for the zipper, fingers fumbling.
“Need help?”, Trish’s voice floated over. “Do I need to order you one of those dressing maids off Etsy?”.
“I’m fine”, you grunted, lying. Your arms were shaking. The zipper inched up, inch by inch, the dress closing around you in a slow, inevitable hug.
It fit.
You turned toward the mirror and forgot how to breathe.
The green made your skin look warmer, your eyes brighter. The neckline framed your collarbones, hint of cleavage that made your cheeks heat just looking at it. The waist actually looked like a waist, nipped in clean. The skirt skimmed your hips instead of clinging or hanging limp, and the slit flashed a teasing slice of thigh when you shifted your weight.
Your legs looked… long. Not objectively. But longer than you’d ever seen them.
You squeezed your fists at your sides, feeling the unfamiliar absence of sleeves. Your arms were bare. Your shoulders were bare. There was nowhere to hide.
Trish was silent. Alarmingly silent.
“Say something”, you whispered.
Her hand came up, dragging the sheet mask a little askew. “Okay”, she said slowly. “Don’t freak out, but… you look hot”.
Your instinct was to laugh, deflect, protest. “No, I don’t. I look—”.
“You look hot”, she repeated firmly. “Like, ‘who’s the mystery date and how did he pull that off’ hot”.
You stared at the mirror, at the little dip of your waist, the curve of your hips. At the way you weren’t… disappearing.
“I feel naked”, you said.
“You’re covered from collarbone to knee”, she said. “You’re just not buried alive in knitwear. There’s a difference”.
You swallowed. Your throat felt tight.
“What if they stare?”, you asked, voice small.
“They should!”, she said.
“I don’t know if I can do this”, you whispered.
Trish softened. “Hey”, she said. “Listen. You go, you stand next to America’s Most Traumatized Action Figure, you smile at some rich people, you eat a free canapé, and you go home. That’s it. You’re not there to impress them. You’re there because he didn’t want a plastic marketing bot. He wanted you. Cardigans, panic and all”.
Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the dress.
“He doesn’t… want me”, you said, heat crawling up your neck. “He wants a prop that doesn’t annoy him”.
“Sure”, she said unconvinced. “And I buy wine for the antioxidants”.
You looked at yourself again. At the way your shoulders curled in by habit, how your chin dipped, how your hands kept wanting to find something to clutch. You forced your shoulders back, just an inch. Lifted your chin. The reflection changed. Not completely. You were still small. Still soft. Still obviously someone who worked too much and slept too little and had a cat instead of a social life. But you didn’t look like you were apologizing for existing.
You looked like someone who could, maybe, believe that a man like him might spend too much money on a dress and send it to your shitty apartment with two words and the expectation that you’d wear it because he’d said so.
“Okay”, you said again, barely audible.
“You’re gonna knock him on his handsome ass”, Trish said smug.
“Please don’t say that”, you said weakly. “He’ll take it as a challenge”.
She cackled. “True. Alright, twirl. Let me see the back”.
You did, feeling ridiculous, the slit flashing as you turned. The back dipped lower than you expected. You caught sight of the line of your spine, the slope of your shoulder blades. Vulnerable.
“Damn”, Trish muttered. “He is going to lose what’s left of his tiny mind”.
You flushed so hard you could feel your pulse in your ears. “He sees women like this all the time”.
“Yeah”, she said. “´But not in his clothes”.
You swallowed. “They’re not his clothes”.
She gave you a look. “You keep telling yourself that”.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: You try it on or am I wasting my philanthropy here, doll?
You almost dropped the phone. Trish leaned in until her forehead nearly bonked the inside of your screen. “Is that him?”.
“Yes”, you hissed. “Shut up”.
YOU: Yes. It fits.
UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Yeah?
You bit your lip.
YOU: Yeah.
UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Good. I bought it.
Your chest did that weird, traitor squeeze again.
YOU: You shouldn’t have spend money on me
UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: I wanted to.
You stared at that for a long, long second. Then, impulsively, before you could think better of it, you lifted the phone, switched to the front camera, and snapped the quickest photo you could. Just from the collarbone down, head cut off, no face. It showed the neckline, the green against your skin, the way the bodice fit. Your heart tried to escape through your ribs as you attached it.
YOU: So you know your “philanthropy” wasn’t wasted
Trish made a strangled, delighted sound. “You did not just—”.
You did. It was gone. Delivered. You paced the length of your bedroom and back, nearly tripping over the cat as you waited for the dots. They popped up almost instantly. Stayed. Stayed.
Your knees nearly gave out. You sank onto the edge of the bed, green fabric pooling around your thighs, phone clutched in your hand and your pulse roaring in your ears.
Trish was staring at you, mask askew, eyes wide. “Well?”, she demanded.
“He said…”. Your voice came out embarrassingly breathless. “He said ‘that’ll do’”.
She stared another second. Then burst into hysterical laughter.
“Oh my God”, she wheezed. “He’s such an asshole. And you are so gone”.
“I am not”, you protested, but it sounded thin even to you.
She softened again, looking at you over the edge of her wine glass. “Just… be careful, okay? He’s a walking trauma factory with a pretty face and the highest bodycount in history. And I´m not talking about dead bodies”.
“I know”, you said quietly.
“And you’re… you”, she went on. “You apologize to chairs when you bump into them. You were not designed for… this”.
“I know”, you repeated.
But as you sat there in a dress bought by a man who’d once scared you so much you shook holding your tablet, feeling the weight of diamonds waiting on the coffee table and the echo of I wanted to in your chest, you also knew something else: You weren’t backing out.
Not of the gala. Not of the car ride. Not of walking in next to him and pretending you weren’t terrified. You’d been small and safe and invisible for a long time.
Tomorrow night, for whatever twisted, dangerous reason, a volatile, exhausted, impossible man had decided you were going to be seen.
And despite everything—despite knowing better—part of you wanted that. Wanted him to see you.
“All I have to do”, you whispered, more to yourself than to Trish, “is get through the night”.
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 11: Good Direction
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Ten✦
✦summary: dean makes you do things✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: i hope somewhere out there, a man is reading my fanfics to try and figure out how to be a good boyfriend.✦
The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s ten minute to get through the brush fields and small woods to anything else.
You’ve been hoping you wouldn’t have to leave the property. It was plenty big, with a poll that you could hide in the shallow end of, combating the heat. Really, you’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’ve gotten away with it all, just lounging around and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out of orbit.
“You good?” He asks every hour or so, even just poking his head into the room without grabbing anything else.
“Mhm.” You mumble, tucked under the covers.
He frowns. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“
“No, thank you.” You pull the blankets tighter, and he sighs. Stares at you for another moment.
Then Sam calls his name, and he shuffles away. Neither of you have spoken about last night. You have no desire to. It’s a conversation that will only leading to shouting and strange looks and—worst of all—endings.
This isn’t supposed to be an ending. It’s supposed to be a needlessly complicated vacation. Dean promised you there would be nothing to do but lie about being his girlfriend, and eat good food.
He hadn’t mentioned cornering you in bed like a living wet dream, either.
If you bring up that lapse in proper discloser, though, it becomes that bigger conversation. The one you really don’t want to have.
And you’d think Dean didn’t even remember, if he wasn’t acting so weird. Whenever he sees you, his shoulders square and his ears turn oddly red. He drags you to lunch with Sam and Jess—just in the lobby, which is acceptable—and one of his uncles corners him about the shop.
“We’ve got a Thunderbird comin’ in.” Dean tells the older man, grinning proudly.
You love when he’s proud. He gets so stupidly adorable—puffing out his chest and swaggering around—and it makes you want to bite him or punch him, then wrap him up like a baby and kiss his dumb, pretty face.
“You workin’ on it yourself?” The uncle adjusts his baseball cap, and you glare at it.
There aren’t that many uncles. Most are on Mary’s side, and this man looks too… not crazy. Which leaves Dean’s favorite, according to your flashcards and quick lessons.
Dean’s favorite, who’s name you can’t remember. They’re still droning on about tires or whatever—Dean’s tried to explain cars to you many, many time, but you always stop paying attention because of how handsome he is, which is really his fault—and you’re glaring at the uncle, trying to place the name.
It’s something boring. Mike. John. Can’t be John. Frank. Gabe. Fred. Fabian. Fork. Fork isn’t a name. Fred. You already thought of Fred. Enrique. Dean. That’s Dean. Cal. Bonny.
“Bobby!”
You shout too loud, and they both fall silent, staring at you with curious expressions.
“You’re, um- You- Dean-“
He raises his brows, looking far too amused. You’re going to shove him off the balcony later.
“The- The flashcards-“
“Flashcards?” Bobby gives Dean an odd look, he shrugs, and you’re starting to babble.
“Dean, he- He made- Well, I made, but I made him help me, and he said it was stupid but I needed them, and-“ They’re both looking at you like you’re crazy. You’re not crazy. “I have to pee!”
You turn on your heels, and run. Behind you, Bobby chuckles and mutters something to Dean that you don’t want to hear.
If he wants to find you for the rest of the day, he better be ready to find you. You’d lock yourself in the room, but that’s too easy. He’ll suspect you.
You get changed, and slip down to the pool. He’s expecting you in the shallow end. You got to the deep end, cling to the wall, and submerge yourself almost entirely to wash the embarrassment away. It’s not quite as cleansing as you want. Mostly, everything just smells like chlorine.
For the rest of the afternoon, you repeat the cycle. Submerge, clean, hide against the wall and watch the birds and butterflies flit around the gardens. You see a few hummingbirds. It’s rather peaceful.
This hotel would fail a health and safety check, though. Not one lifeguard has appeared, and you’ve been here an hour. You could’ve drowned.
You shriek, when someone finally pokes your head. You recognize the laugh before you turn, and splash water up onto Dean’s legs.
The dick is wearing shorts. And sunglasses, and a tank top with a towel slung over his shoulder. You don’t appreciate being outsmarted, or how hot he looks. It makes your brain uselessly fuzzy.
“Dean, what the hell-“
“Sorry.” He’s still laughing. He doesn’t sound very sorry. “We gotta go, dinner is starting soon.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Do I have to?”
“Yeah. Part of the deal.”
He gives you a pointed look, and you sigh, sinking back into the water.
“Ah- Hold on-“
You made an undignified sound, as Dean reaches into the water, hook his hands under your arms, and pulls you right out.
“Let you spend an extra twenty minutes.” He mutters, wrapping the towel tight around your body.
His jaw is rather clenched. When he brushes against your bare stomach, you watch his nostrils flare.
“Come on, little mermaid. Dinner time.”
Dean picks you up bridal style. For a second, you’re too dazed to remember that you’re supposed to be mad at him.
“You knew where I was?”
“Of course I knew. What-“ He frowns. “Were you trying to hide from me?”
You shake your head. It feels too nice to be carried by him. There’s that familiar heat pooling between your thighs, and it’s not really fair that Dean would do what he did last night, then not move his hand a few inches down and touch you.
Fake. It’s supposed to be fake. He’s not your actual boyfriend. He owes you nothing.
And you try to stick to that rule for the rest of the night. For your own, poor sake.
You both get dressed, and you don’t let yourself think about how good Dean looks in his button down. It’s all white, with his sleeves rolled up and a single button undone, giving you a peek of his chest, and-
No. You spray yourself mentally, like you’re a cat eating human food. Bad.
It’s tragic, though. Dean really looks like he’d taste so good.
“You look good.” He mumbles, offering you his arm.
You take it, and stare straight ahead.
“Thanks. You too.”
He grunts. Neither of you speak too much after that.
It’s not a small crowd. There are family and friends that demand Dean’s attention, and you just keep hanging off his arm. You’re a decoration right now. Someone he can’t point to, and say this is my girlfriend. His hand rests over where you’re holding him, and you try not to think about it.
“Where’d you catch her?” Some asshole with a smirk asks him.
Dean shrugs loosely, tugging you further into his side.
“You don’t catch women, Gordan.” He says, almost lazy and smug. “You lie down, and beg for her to pay attention. Then,” he winks at you. “You get lucky, and she does.”
You blink, your heart doing that annoying little fumble where it demands things. Where it wants you to sink your teeth into him, and never let up. It would like it a lot, if he’d stop talking to these people and just talk to you.
It’s loud. Everything is very warm, and Dean is both the most steady and unstable thing around.
Your nails must be digging into his arm, because he says your name softly, and you find a glass being pressed to your lips.
“Relax.” His voice is all deep, and his lips brush against your ear.
It’s not helping.
“I am relaxed-“
“You looked like you wanted to kill my cousin.”
You grunt. “That’s just my face.”
“No,” Dean snorts. “I know your face, sweetheart, but nice shot.”
“Well, I-“
“Drink.” He sighs, giving you those annoying, puppy eyes. “Please? I tried it, I think you’re gonna like it.”
You can’t say no to him. That’s how you got here in the first place. You take the drink with a sigh, and annoyingly, Dean’s right. You do like it.
It gets you through a lot more family members. You even build up the confidence to adjust Dean’s tie, while he’s talking to his grandparents.
“Aw.” His grandmother—Deanna, you’d been practicing after the Bobby incident—beams between you. “Look at you two. All young and in love. You know,” she leans forward, smirking. “Don’t tell Gramps, but I dream of a young love like that.”
Dean coughs, and you’d be mortified if he wasn’t so flustered.
“Thanks, grandma, that’s- Nice of you-“
“Not for you, boy.” Deanna scoffs. “For me.”
She laughs, Dean chuckles nervously, and his grandfather—Samuel—makes a face at you like he’s heard that joke a million times.
And Deanna might dream of young love for herself, but you want something like that. Something where they grumble and sigh and poke at each other, but both keep holding on. When Samuel mutters that his back hurts, Deanna drags him off to sit down, completely ignoring his protests that he’s fine.
All you can think of is when Dean twisted his ankle, falling off a chair in the garage. You’d put him on non-negotiable best rest for a week, and he’d pouted about it, but within a day he was pretending he was too weak to lift the spoon without your help. You’d rolled your eyes, but helped all the same.
And when you close your eyes and picture that old, certain kind of love, you only see Dean staring back at you. With soft, worn and sturdy affection in his eyes.
God.
This weekend is going to suck.
You’re grateful when you have to sit for the toasts. No one expects anything from you, and you get to watch Dean ramble through the toast he’d been rehearsing through the whole trip. In the car, sitting in the terminal, crouching on the floor waiting for a rental car.
“Sammy.” He starts with a grin, wiping his hands on his pants.
For someone so confident, he hates public speaking. Prepared public speaking. Where he’s supposed to say all the right, emotional things and has to write it ahead of time. You’d suggested he just go off the cuff—he’s far better at that—but he’d refused.
Now, he’s grinning around the room and letting the Sammy hang in the air.
His face is neutral, but his hands. They’re fisting and unfisting and wiping and wringing and-
You catch one. Dean glances at you, and you smile. Squeeze his hand once, and give him an encouraging nod.
Wing it. You mouth, and his shoulders slowly relax.
He turns back to the crowd, lets out a slow, controlled breath, and launches into a story about Sam’s first crush being a girl on the playground who pulled on his hair and called him floppy. How devoted he’d been to getting her to like him. How if he could do that for a chick who wouldn’t share her Scooby snacks, he was going to worship the ground Jess walked on for the rest of their life.
You watch him work the crowd like a show with a soft smile. You know it’s too much. That it’s clear, how much you adore him.
But it’s still part of the fake show, so you allow it. You do adore Dean. He’s perfect.
And you feel something prickle on the back of your neck.
You turn slowly, and it’s John. Staring at you with narrowed eyes, his posture stuff.
Dean must have talked to him. And whatever he said, two things are clear.
John doesn’t love it, and you’re likely to blame.
You look back to your plate and bite your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just appear as an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech.
“To Sam and Jess.” He finishes, and you don’t need to look up. You know.
Dean’s looking at you.
You give him a small smile, raising your glass with the rest of the tent. Something flashes in his eyes. His jaw twitches.
His hand moves. Slow and graceful. You’re not sure he knows he’s doing it.
He grabs your chin, just like in bed. It’s the lightest touch in the world, but it feels like a nuke is being set off in your gut.
You grab his wrist, and a few awwwws echo through the crowd. They read it as romantic. Hadn’t seen it as the silent, panicked plea it was. For Dean not to play with you like this.
But you don’t know how he reads it. Dean just blinks, pulls back, and sits. His arm wraps slowly around your chair.
He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel the aftershocks, shaking in your knees.
It’s the first hole, punched in the dam.
In the morning, you’ll still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin. Tonight you wipe some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then suck it clean. He keeps his arm you. You both drink, relaxing slowly. A few people come up to you. Speak mostly to Dean, no matter how he tries to include you in the conversation. He starts to get tense about halfway through the night.
You take a risk. Place your hand, right on his thigh, and rub gently.
Dean jerks, and you start to move away.
He stops you. You look at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he offers you the first real smile of the night.
You smile back. That’s real, too
Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster.
You wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket.
It smells like him. You shove it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up.
✦Chapter Twelve✦
✦End note: people gonna be asking "when are you kids getting married" all weekend✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 11: Good Direction
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Ten✦
✦summary: dean makes you do things✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: i hope somewhere out there, a man is reading my fanfics to try and figure out how to be a good boyfriend.✦
The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s ten minute to get through the brush fields and small woods to anything else.
You’ve been hoping you wouldn’t have to leave the property. It was plenty big, with a poll that you could hide in the shallow end of, combating the heat. Really, you’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’ve gotten away with it all, just lounging around and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out of orbit.
“You good?” He asks every hour or so, even just poking his head into the room without grabbing anything else.
“Mhm.” You mumble, tucked under the covers.
He frowns. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“
“No, thank you.” You pull the blankets tighter, and he sighs. Stares at you for another moment.
Then Sam calls his name, and he shuffles away. Neither of you have spoken about last night. You have no desire to. It’s a conversation that will only leading to shouting and strange looks and—worst of all—endings.
This isn’t supposed to be an ending. It’s supposed to be a needlessly complicated vacation. Dean promised you there would be nothing to do but lie about being his girlfriend, and eat good food.
He hadn’t mentioned cornering you in bed like a living wet dream, either.
If you bring up that lapse in proper discloser, though, it becomes that bigger conversation. The one you really don’t want to have.
And you’d think Dean didn’t even remember, if he wasn’t acting so weird. Whenever he sees you, his shoulders square and his ears turn oddly red. He drags you to lunch with Sam and Jess—just in the lobby, which is acceptable—and one of his uncles corners him about the shop.
“We’ve got a Thunderbird comin’ in.” Dean tells the older man, grinning proudly.
You love when he’s proud. He gets so stupidly adorable—puffing out his chest and swaggering around—and it makes you want to bite him or punch him, then wrap him up like a baby and kiss his dumb, pretty face.
“You workin’ on it yourself?” The uncle adjusts his baseball cap, and you glare at it.
There aren’t that many uncles. Most are on Mary’s side, and this man looks too… not crazy. Which leaves Dean’s favorite, according to your flashcards and quick lessons.
Dean’s favorite, who’s name you can’t remember. They’re still droning on about tires or whatever—Dean’s tried to explain cars to you many, many time, but you always stop paying attention because of how handsome he is, which is really his fault—and you’re glaring at the uncle, trying to place the name.
It’s something boring. Mike. John. Can’t be John. Frank. Gabe. Fred. Fabian. Fork. Fork isn’t a name. Fred. You already thought of Fred. Enrique. Dean. That’s Dean. Cal. Bonny.
“Bobby!”
You shout too loud, and they both fall silent, staring at you with curious expressions.
“You’re, um- You- Dean-“
He raises his brows, looking far too amused. You’re going to shove him off the balcony later.
“The- The flashcards-“
“Flashcards?” Bobby gives Dean an odd look, he shrugs, and you’re starting to babble.
“Dean, he- He made- Well, I made, but I made him help me, and he said it was stupid but I needed them, and-“ They’re both looking at you like you’re crazy. You’re not crazy. “I have to pee!”
You turn on your heels, and run. Behind you, Bobby chuckles and mutters something to Dean that you don’t want to hear.
If he wants to find you for the rest of the day, he better be ready to find you. You’d lock yourself in the room, but that’s too easy. He’ll suspect you.
You get changed, and slip down to the pool. He’s expecting you in the shallow end. You got to the deep end, cling to the wall, and submerge yourself almost entirely to wash the embarrassment away. It’s not quite as cleansing as you want. Mostly, everything just smells like chlorine.
For the rest of the afternoon, you repeat the cycle. Submerge, clean, hide against the wall and watch the birds and butterflies flit around the gardens. You see a few hummingbirds. It’s rather peaceful.
This hotel would fail a health and safety check, though. Not one lifeguard has appeared, and you’ve been here an hour. You could’ve drowned.
You shriek, when someone finally pokes your head. You recognize the laugh before you turn, and splash water up onto Dean’s legs.
The dick is wearing shorts. And sunglasses, and a tank top with a towel slung over his shoulder. You don’t appreciate being outsmarted, or how hot he looks. It makes your brain uselessly fuzzy.
“Dean, what the hell-“
“Sorry.” He’s still laughing. He doesn’t sound very sorry. “We gotta go, dinner is starting soon.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Do I have to?”
“Yeah. Part of the deal.”
He gives you a pointed look, and you sigh, sinking back into the water.
“Ah- Hold on-“
You made an undignified sound, as Dean reaches into the water, hook his hands under your arms, and pulls you right out.
“Let you spend an extra twenty minutes.” He mutters, wrapping the towel tight around your body.
His jaw is rather clenched. When he brushes against your bare stomach, you watch his nostrils flare.
“Come on, little mermaid. Dinner time.”
Dean picks you up bridal style. For a second, you’re too dazed to remember that you’re supposed to be mad at him.
“You knew where I was?”
“Of course I knew. What-“ He frowns. “Were you trying to hide from me?”
You shake your head. It feels too nice to be carried by him. There’s that familiar heat pooling between your thighs, and it’s not really fair that Dean would do what he did last night, then not move his hand a few inches down and touch you.
Fake. It’s supposed to be fake. He’s not your actual boyfriend. He owes you nothing.
And you try to stick to that rule for the rest of the night. For your own, poor sake.
You both get dressed, and you don’t let yourself think about how good Dean looks in his button down. It’s all white, with his sleeves rolled up and a single button undone, giving you a peek of his chest, and-
No. You spray yourself mentally, like you’re a cat eating human food. Bad.
It’s tragic, though. Dean really looks like he’d taste so good.
“You look good.” He mumbles, offering you his arm.
You take it, and stare straight ahead.
“Thanks. You too.”
He grunts. Neither of you speak too much after that.
It’s not a small crowd. There are family and friends that demand Dean’s attention, and you just keep hanging off his arm. You’re a decoration right now. Someone he can’t point to, and say this is my girlfriend. His hand rests over where you’re holding him, and you try not to think about it.
“Where’d you catch her?” Some asshole with a smirk asks him.
Dean shrugs loosely, tugging you further into his side.
“You don’t catch women, Gordan.” He says, almost lazy and smug. “You lie down, and beg for her to pay attention. Then,” he winks at you. “You get lucky, and she does.”
You blink, your heart doing that annoying little fumble where it demands things. Where it wants you to sink your teeth into him, and never let up. It would like it a lot, if he’d stop talking to these people and just talk to you.
It’s loud. Everything is very warm, and Dean is both the most steady and unstable thing around.
Your nails must be digging into his arm, because he says your name softly, and you find a glass being pressed to your lips.
“Relax.” His voice is all deep, and his lips brush against your ear.
It’s not helping.
“I am relaxed-“
“You looked like you wanted to kill my cousin.”
You grunt. “That’s just my face.”
“No,” Dean snorts. “I know your face, sweetheart, but nice shot.”
“Well, I-“
“Drink.” He sighs, giving you those annoying, puppy eyes. “Please? I tried it, I think you’re gonna like it.”
You can’t say no to him. That’s how you got here in the first place. You take the drink with a sigh, and annoyingly, Dean’s right. You do like it.
It gets you through a lot more family members. You even build up the confidence to adjust Dean’s tie, while he’s talking to his grandparents.
“Aw.” His grandmother—Deanna, you’d been practicing after the Bobby incident—beams between you. “Look at you two. All young and in love. You know,” she leans forward, smirking. “Don’t tell Gramps, but I dream of a young love like that.”
Dean coughs, and you’d be mortified if he wasn’t so flustered.
“Thanks, grandma, that’s- Nice of you-“
“Not for you, boy.” Deanna scoffs. “For me.”
She laughs, Dean chuckles nervously, and his grandfather—Samuel—makes a face at you like he’s heard that joke a million times.
And Deanna might dream of young love for herself, but you want something like that. Something where they grumble and sigh and poke at each other, but both keep holding on. When Samuel mutters that his back hurts, Deanna drags him off to sit down, completely ignoring his protests that he’s fine.
All you can think of is when Dean twisted his ankle, falling off a chair in the garage. You’d put him on non-negotiable best rest for a week, and he’d pouted about it, but within a day he was pretending he was too weak to lift the spoon without your help. You’d rolled your eyes, but helped all the same.
And when you close your eyes and picture that old, certain kind of love, you only see Dean staring back at you. With soft, worn and sturdy affection in his eyes.
God.
This weekend is going to suck.
You’re grateful when you have to sit for the toasts. No one expects anything from you, and you get to watch Dean ramble through the toast he’d been rehearsing through the whole trip. In the car, sitting in the terminal, crouching on the floor waiting for a rental car.
“Sammy.” He starts with a grin, wiping his hands on his pants.
For someone so confident, he hates public speaking. Prepared public speaking. Where he’s supposed to say all the right, emotional things and has to write it ahead of time. You’d suggested he just go off the cuff—he’s far better at that—but he’d refused.
Now, he’s grinning around the room and letting the Sammy hang in the air.
His face is neutral, but his hands. They’re fisting and unfisting and wiping and wringing and-
You catch one. Dean glances at you, and you smile. Squeeze his hand once, and give him an encouraging nod.
Wing it. You mouth, and his shoulders slowly relax.
He turns back to the crowd, lets out a slow, controlled breath, and launches into a story about Sam’s first crush being a girl on the playground who pulled on his hair and called him floppy. How devoted he’d been to getting her to like him. How if he could do that for a chick who wouldn’t share her Scooby snacks, he was going to worship the ground Jess walked on for the rest of their life.
You watch him work the crowd like a show with a soft smile. You know it’s too much. That it’s clear, how much you adore him.
But it’s still part of the fake show, so you allow it. You do adore Dean. He’s perfect.
And you feel something prickle on the back of your neck.
You turn slowly, and it’s John. Staring at you with narrowed eyes, his posture stuff.
Dean must have talked to him. And whatever he said, two things are clear.
John doesn’t love it, and you’re likely to blame.
You look back to your plate and bite your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just appear as an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech.
“To Sam and Jess.” He finishes, and you don’t need to look up. You know.
Dean’s looking at you.
You give him a small smile, raising your glass with the rest of the tent. Something flashes in his eyes. His jaw twitches.
His hand moves. Slow and graceful. You’re not sure he knows he’s doing it.
He grabs your chin, just like in bed. It’s the lightest touch in the world, but it feels like a nuke is being set off in your gut.
You grab his wrist, and a few awwwws echo through the crowd. They read it as romantic. Hadn’t seen it as the silent, panicked plea it was. For Dean not to play with you like this.
But you don’t know how he reads it. Dean just blinks, pulls back, and sits. His arm wraps slowly around your chair.
He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel the aftershocks, shaking in your knees.
It’s the first hole, punched in the dam.
In the morning, you’ll still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin. Tonight you wipe some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then suck it clean. He keeps his arm you. You both drink, relaxing slowly. A few people come up to you. Speak mostly to Dean, no matter how he tries to include you in the conversation. He starts to get tense about halfway through the night.
You take a risk. Place your hand, right on his thigh, and rub gently.
Dean jerks, and you start to move away.
He stops you. You look at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he offers you the first real smile of the night.
You smile back. That’s real, too
Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster.
You wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket.
It smells like him. You shove it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up.
✦Chapter Twelve✦
✦End note: people gonna be asking "when are you kids getting married" all weekend✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: Assigned to manage Soldier Boy, you become the only person who can keep him under control. But as tension turns into dangerous attraction, keeping things professional becomes impossible.
-requested-
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 5776
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You’d learned a long time ago that if you walked fast, carried a tablet and looked mildly stressed, nobody questioned why you were anywhere.
So you moved down the 82nd floor hallway with your usual careful speed, hugging your stylus to your chest and kept your eyes on the glowing Vought-blue carpet lights instead of the framed posters of The Seven staring down at you like disappointed parents. The PR bullpen buzzed behind glass with ringing phones and clackingkeyboards.
You were almost to your desk when Trish leaned over her monitor and hissed your name.
You paused, clutch tightening around the stylus. “Yeah?”, you answered, soft enough that she had to lean closer to hear.
“Caldwell wants you”, she said, jerking her chin toward the corner office. The blinds were half-closed, but you could see his outline, pacing with a phone pressed to his ear. “He’s been on a call with Legal for, like, twenty minutes. Have fun”.
Your stomach dipped. Caldwell only called people in for two reasons: you’d screwed up… or he was about to make your life worse.
You nodded, throat a little dry and changed direction. The door was half-open. You stopped, smoothed your blouse with your free hand and knocked lightly with your knuckles.
“Yeah”, came his voice, clipped and irritated.
You slipped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click. Caldwell stood by the window, navy suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up. Up close, you could see the sheen of sweat at his hairline. On his screen, a muted news feed rolled. Fire and smoke and the big white letters: SOLDIER BOY: AMERICA’S FIRST HERO RETURNS.
You stared at the chyron for half a heartbeat too long.
“Sit”, Caldwell said, dropping into his chair. He rubbed his temples for exactly three seconds, then locked his gaze on you. “You’re… ah—”. He glanced down at the corner of his monitor where your HR profile was pulled up.
You gave him your name. “PR assistant, floor 82. I help with—”.
“The social copy, yeah, yeah. You do the cute captions and the emails and whatever”. He waved a hand. “You’ve been here… what, a year?”.
“Fourteen months”, you said quietly. You weren’t sure why you added the extra two, but they felt important. Like you were trying to prove you could endure.
“Right”. He slapped his palms against his thighs. “You’re getting a reassignment”.
“Did I—”.
“You’re not in trouble”, he cut in. “Actually, Legal likes you. You follow directions. You don’t tweet”. He squinted at the screen. “You don’t tweet, right?”.
You shook your head quickly. “No, sir”.
“Good. Don’t start”. He hit a key and your profile minimized; another window replaced it: a deck about the Soldier Boy ‘Legacy Campaign’, all glossy renders and slogans. AMERICA’S FIRST, AMERICA’S BEST. Your pulse kicked up a notch.
“We’ve got a situation upstairs”, Caldwell said. “You know about the comeback, obviously”.
You nodded. You’d spent the last two weeks editing press releases that stretched the word hero to the breaking point.
“He’s… high-maintenance”, Caldwell went on. There was a tiny, bitter smile at the corner of his mouth that told you high-maintenance was the polite version. “Every assistant we’ve tried to put on him has resigned within a week. One filed for workers’ comp. One’s in therapy. One’s… Well, no one has seen her in quite a while”.
“Is he… hurting them?”. The question slipped out before you could swallow it.
Caldwell made a face. “Not physically. HR would’ve had a field day. But he’s… He’s a lot. And right now, a lot of our usual senior handlers are tied up with the new Seven’s promo. So”. He steepled his fingers, looking like he really wanted to be somewhere else. “We need somebody… low-profile. Someone who listens more than they talk. Someone who won’t… antagonize him”. You swallowed.
“You’re quiet”, he said simply, like it was a line item on a spreadsheet. “You’re good with details. You aren’t… intimidating”. His eyes flicked over your small frame, the cardigan you wore even though the building was warm, the shy eyes. “You’re not going to try and tell him how to be a star. He hates that”.
Your heart thudded dully against your ribs. “What exactly would I be doing?”.
“Scheduling. Filtering comms. Making sure he shows up where we need him and doesn’t murder any photographers”. Caldwell shrugged. “You’ll be his PR point of contact. You report to me, but he thinks you report to him. That’s important”.
You blinked. “You want him to think he’s my boss”.
“We’re letting him feel like his own man this time”, Caldwell said, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “He’s technically ‘leading his own legacy brand’. It makes him more… compliant. Less likely to throw cars. You just… be nice. Keep him pointed at the right cameras”.
Nice. You could do nice. You’d lived your life around sharp edges and raised voices by learning exactly how soft you had to be not to set things off.
Still, your fingers trembled a little as you folded them in your lap. “Do I… have a choice?”.
Caldwell grimaced. “Between this and going back to writing A-Train’s Instagram captions about heart health? Not really”.
You thought of your empty apartment. The microwave dinners and the stupid plant that kept dying no matter where you moved it, and the way your cat, Marmalade, slept pressed against your ribs like you were the last warm thing on earth. You also thought of the rent increase notice sitting neatly on your kitchen counter.
“No”, you said, forcing a tiny smile. “I guess I don’t”.
“Great”. Relief washed over his features so fast it almost stung. He slid a glossy badge across the desk. It had your photo on it, but the access level was higher. “This gets you to his floor, his suite, the private training areas. Don’t use any of that without explicit instructions. And if he tells you to do anything that sounds… illegal, don’t write it down. Come to me”.
You picked up the badge.
“Oh, and one more thing”. Caldwell leaned back, chair creaking. “Don’t take it personally if he’s an fucking asshole. That’s… him”.
You left his office with the new badge clipped to your cardigan and your old one tucked carefully into your bag. The bullpen noise seemed louder now, as if the entire floor knew and was pretending not to stare.
Trish looked up when you passed. “Well?”, she stage-whispered.
You paused, eyes on the floor. “I’m going upstairs”, you murmured.
Her eyebrows shot up. “To the museum?”.
That’s what everyone called it. Those restricted floors above the main corporate hive, where Vought kept relics and special projects and anyone too dangerous to let wander.
“Soldier Boy”, you added even quieter.
Trish let out a low whistle. “Shit. They must really hate you”.
You managed a small laugh, because that was what you were supposed to do. “Guess so”.
-
Inside the elevator, you watched the numbers climb: 83, 84, 85. Your ears popped faintly.
You’d read his file, of course. They’d given you an abridged version hastily sanitized for internal PR use. War hero. Patriot. Long absence due to classified operations. Re-entry to public life pending controlled rollout.
They left out the parts that leaked online. The grainy footage, the conspiracy threads, the rage-filled posts from people whose parents and grandparents remembered a very different man than the one in the old posters.
You’d seen those too.
The elevator chimed softly and the doors slid open into a carpeted hallway that was very unlike the chaotic bullpen downstairs. It was quiet up here. Too quiet.
Your new badge unlocked the glass security door with a single beep. A guard glanced up from his stool behind a desk, eyes flicking from your face to the screen in front of him. He checked your name against something you couldn’t see, then nodded once.
“Suite 87-C”, he said. “End of the hall, last door on the right. You buzz in. If he doesn’t answer, you go away. You don’t knock. You don’t try again”.
“Yes, sir”, you murmured, even though the “sir” felt odd. You weren’t used to talking to people who carried guns.
The hallway smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and some lingering cologne that was too heavy, too old-fashioned. Framed photos lined one wall: black-and-white shots of Soldier Boy in the ‘40s, grinning with his shield slung over his back; a color one from the ‘80s, all forced smiles.
You stopped at the last door. There was a sleek panel beside it, a little camera eye watching. Your heart hammered loud enough that you were sure the microphone picked it up. You nudged the buzzer with your knuckle.
There was a pause. Then, from behind the door, a crash. Glass? Metal? It was hard to tell. A muffled voice swore, edged with something that sounded like a growl. You almost stepped back. Almost.
A second later the lock thunked and the door swung open. He filled the doorway.
You’d seen his face a hundred times in edited footage and restored posters, but the real thing was different. Bigger. More… present. Broad shoulders in a dark green shirt with the sleeves pushed up, forearms thick with muscle and marked by faint scars that didn’t show on camera. Stubble shading his jaw. Hair a little too long, a little too messy, like he’d run his hands through it until it stayed wherever it fell.
His eyes were what caught you, though. Not the vivid color the marketing decks liked to exaggerate, but a tired, bright green that flicked over you in one quick sweep and then narrowed.
You realized you were staring and snapped your gaze down to somewhere around his collarbone.
He smelled like sweat and smoke, layered over an expensive aftershave that didn’t quite cover the rest.
“Who the fuck are you?”, he asked.
Your throat tried to lock up. You forced it open. “I’m—”. You gave your name, stumbling just a little over the first syllable. “From PR. They… assigned me to you. As your…”. You hesitated, then remembered Caldwell’s wording. “Point of contact”.
Something in his expression twitched. Not quite a flinch, not quite a smirk.
“They send another fucking babysitter, huh”, he said. His voice was lower than you expected, with a rasp that scraped lightly against your nerves. “The fuck happened to the last one? She finally grow a fucking spine and quit or she just get tired of choking on my balls?".
You swallowed. “I… I don’t know, sir”.
He snorted. “Don’t call me ‘sir’. Makes me feel like I’m back in fuckin’ boot camp”. He stepped back from the door without inviting you in but also without closing it, which you decided to take as permission. “It’s Soldier Boy. Or… whatever the hell they’ve got on the posters these days”.
“Just Soldier Boy, sir”, you heard yourself say before you could stop, the PR script reflexive. “America’s First, America’s Best”.
His mouth curled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. That”.
You stepped inside. The suite looked less like the polished living spaces they showed on the behind-the-scenes specials and more like a hotel room someone had been living in too long. Curtains half-open, letting in a slant of afternoon light that caught dust motes in the air. A coffee table crowded with empty bottles, takeout containers, and a remote with its back missing. One of the flat-screens on the wall was cracked down the middle.
The air was warm, bordering on stuffy. Music played faintly from somewhere. A rock song from decades ago, tinny through a speaker.
You shifted your tablet to your other hand, suddenly very aware of how out of place you looked with your neat skirt.
He shut the door with a thud and walked past you, dropping into an armchair that creaked under his weight.
“So”, he said, leaning back and letting his eyes drift over you again, slower this time. Measuring. “What are you? Twenty? You look like you´re barely out of fucking diapers”.
You shook your head. “Twenty-three”.
“Same fucking thing”. He snorted, scratched his jaw while gaze lingering on your hands where they gripped the tablet. “Jesus Christ. You look like you’re about to faint”.
“I’m not”, you said, voice coming out barely above a whisper.
One corner of his mouth ticked up. “Sure you’re not”.
Your cheeks warmed. You looked down at your screen, opening the schedule app more for something to do than because you thought he cared.
“I have your upcoming media appearances”, you managed. “And some talking points from PR. We were hoping to go over—”.
He made a sharp noise that was technically a laugh but felt more like a shove. “Yeah, that’s not happening”.
You blinked, fingers freezing on the tablet. “I’m sorry?”.
“You’re not sorry yet, doll”.
The word hit you like someone had flicked your ear. Soft, almost lazy, but aimed perfectly.
You’d heard men say it in movies. No one had ever said it to you.
Heat flared under your skin, embarrassingly fast. Your palms went damp. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the way you were standing with your shoulders slightly hunched, toes pointed inward, trying to make yourself smaller without even thinking about it.
He saw it. You could tell. Those tired green eyes sharpened just a fraction, watching the way your fingers tightened around the tablet, the way your gaze skittered away from his.
“You blush easy”, he observed, like he was commenting on the weather.
You opened your mouth, no idea what you were going to say, and then closed it again. Your tongue felt too big.
You cleared your throat. “We, um… we could at least prioritize what you do want to do. If you tell me what you’re comfortable with, I can—”.
“Comfortable”, he repeated, like it was a foreign word he didn’t trust. “That some new PR buzzword? ‘Make sure big bad Soldier boy feels emotionally validated’?”.
You flinched before you could stop yourself. Barely, just a tiny twitch in your shoulders, but his eyes cut to it.
“Relax,” he said. The way he said it made it sound like an order, not advice. “I’m not gonna bite you”.
You weren’t entirely sure you believed that.
He leaned forward abruptly, elbows on his knees, forearms bulging against the shirt. “You know what all the other ones did?”, he asked. “The little assistants. Handlers. Whatever the fuck they call you”.
You shook your head, your voice getting stuck halfway up your throat. “No”.
“They came in here with their little clipboards and their tight power suits, all wet and excited.'Oh Solider Boy, sir! I´m so excited to work with you'”, he mimicked in a high tone that sounded like half the women in Vought’s PR leadership. “Told me what to say. What words I couldn’t use. Like those prissy little bitches had any idea what words I’ve actually seen”.
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking there. For a moment his gaze drifted past you, like he was looking at something over your shoulder that wasn’t actually in the room.
“They start talking quotas and engagement metrics and female demographics”, he went on. “Telling me to ‘tone it down’ so the rich moms don’t clutch their pearls. Like those same thirsty bitches weren’t writing me fan letters about how they wanted to polish my shield with their tongues”. He snorted.
Something about the way he said it, so damn casual, made your stomach flip. Your face went hot again, heat creeping up your neck. You didn’t respond fast enough. His eyes slid back to you and locked on. “You blush fucking everywhere”.
You shifted your weight, fingers tightening on the tablet. “I… I’m just here to help with your schedule, Soldier Boy”.
“You keep saying that like it means something,” he said. “Like that badge makes you bulletproof.”
His gaze dropped, slow and unapologetic, traveling down your throat, over the line of your cardigan, along the shape of your skirt. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of look that said he’d never once in his life thought he had to be.
You’d seen men look at women like that in bars, on the subway, even at Vought parties when they thought nobody was watching. You’d never had it directed at you. Not like this. Not so openly. Your skin crawled and buzzed at the same time.
He huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “You always dress like a librarian?”, he asked.
You blinked. “What?”.
“The sweater. The skirt. The little… whatever the fuck that is”, He gestured vaguely at your blouse, fingers drawing a careless line through the air. “You from the church outreach program or something?”.
“N-no”, you said. “I just… like cardigans".
He smirked. “Yeah, I bet you fucking do”.
The words were nothing, really. Just sound. But the way he said them… your whole body understood there was something dirty underneath them, even if your brain didn’t know where to put it.
You opened your mouth, clinging to the one thing you knew, your job. “I really just need to make sure—”.
One second he was slouched in the chair, the next he was on his feet, the fabric of his shirt stretching across his shoulders as he pushed past the coffee table without looking down. An empty bottle tipped and rolled, thunking against the leg of the table.
“Hold that thought, doll”, he said over his shoulder. “America’s best needs his vitamins”.
You went still.
He crossed to the desk by the far wall, the one piece of furniture that looked like it came standard with the suite, all dark wood and built-in power ports. The top was a mess with stacked papers, a half-open drawer and a tray that probably once held pens and now held something else.
He flicked the edge of a small, mirrored square with two fingers, turning it so the light hit it. There was a little line of white powder on it. Tight and neat.
Your stomach flipped. You’d seen it in a bathroom at a Vought party once, when you’d opened the wrong door and closed it so fast your hand shook for ten minutes after. You’d never seen anybody do it so casually in front of you, like he was reaching for a mint.
He picked up a 100$ bill from the desk with the kind of familiarity that said this wasn’t his first time, or his hundredth. He didn’t look at you as he bent over the mirror, one hand braced on the wood.
You should’ve turned away. You knew that. HR training videos, company policies, every warning label you’d ever internalized told you that watching your assigned supe snort an illegal substance was not something you ever wanted to have to describe in a deposition.
But you didn’t move. Your feet felt rooted to the carpet.
There was a quick, sharp sound as he inhaled, nostrils flaring. The line disappeared. He snorted again, straightening up with a low groan and let his head tip back for a second like he was letting it hit.
Your skin prickled, watching the muscles jump in his throat.
“Fuck”, he muttered, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. “They cut this shit worse every year”.
He turned then, catching you looking. You dragged your gaze away too late.
A slow, mean little grin pulled at his mouth. “What’s the matter, doll?”, he asked. “Never seen a man have his afternoon snack?”.
You swallowed, your tongue felt dry and useless. “That’s… uh… that’s not exactly… FDA approved”.
He barked out a laugh. “You really are straight outta the fucking manual, huh”.
He didn’t go back to the chair. He stayed by the desk, hip leaning against it, arms crossing over his chest as he watched you. The room felt even smaller with him standing.
“You ever tried it?”, he asked.
“N-no”, you said immediately.
“No?”. He tilted his head, eyes raking down you again, slower this time. “Figures. Bet you haven’t tried much of… anything”.
You opened your mouth, no clue what you thought you were going to argue with. “I—”.
“Don’t fucking bullshit me”, he cut in. “You scream ‘good girl’ from a mile away. I could smell the fucking virgin on you in the hallway”.
Heat slammed into your face so fast you actually swayed. “That’s not— you can’t—”.
“Oh, I can”, he said, almost amused. “Little skirt. Little… 'cardigan'. Jumping every time I raise my voice”. He tapped his nose with one finger. “You think I don’t know how to spot a tight pussy? I’ve had half this country’s prom queens lining up to suck my balls”. He said it like a brag and a complaint at the same time.
Your grip on the tablet tightened until your knuckles ached. “My… personal life isn’t relevant to your media strategy”, you managed.
He stared at you for a beat, then slowly started to laugh.
It wasn’t nice laughter. It rolled out of him like something rough-edged and dark, but there was a glint of something else under it, too. Interest. Surprise. Like he’d expected you to dissolve or bolt, and here you were, still standing, still talking.
“You’re cute when you try to sound… professional”, he said.
Your throat closed up around whatever you wanted to say back. You dropped your eyes to the tablet, focusing on the calendar again.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to”, you said quietly. “About… that”. You nodded toward the mirror, the powder. Him. “Or anything, really. My job is to make sure you know where you have to be and when, and what the cameras are expecting. That’s it”.
“No pep talks? No ‘we believe in your redemption arc, Soldier Boy’?”, he mocked, voice pitching up in a fake-bright cheer.
You shook your head. “That’s… not my style”.
“Huh”. He uncrossed his arms, pushing off the desk. “Maybe they finally sent someone useful”.
He walked toward you again in a slow saunter that made every instinct in your body scream at you to move. You made yourself stay still, rooting your feet to the carpet like they were nailed down.
He stopped close. Too close. The smell of the powder mingled with sweat and smoke and aftershave, filling your head. Your chin tipped up without your permission so you could keep looking at his face and not at his chest.
“Here’s what you’re gonna do for me, doll”, he said, voice dropping a notch. “You’re gonna take all their cute little emails and their pointers and their ‘we think it would be best if’ and you’re gonna filter the fucking shit. You hear me?”.
You nodded. It was either that or let your head spin.
“You don’t bring me shit with words like ‘empower’, ‘journey’, or ‘healing’”, he went on. “You don’t put me in a fucking room with any daytime talk-show hosts who look like they bake fucking cookies for a living. And if some idiot in a suit wants me to apologize on camera for shit I’m not sorry for?”. He leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek. “You tell ’em I said they can kiss my star-spangled ballsack”.
Your breath stuttered in your lungs. “That’s… a very clear brief”.
“Good”. He smiled, all teeth. “Didn’t peg you for the type who likes mixed signals”.
-
You didn’t remember much of the walk back to your desk. You remembered Caldwell’s mouth moving, remembered words like progress and boundaries and we need him on side, not in rehab, but they slid right off you, your head still back in that warm, messy suite with the cracked TV and the man who’d said I could smell the virgin on you like talking about the weather.
You nodded in the right places. You sent the follow-up emails. You flagged the talking points that would make him walk out and rewrote them until they sounded less like apologies and more like something he might actually let you read out loud.
You rode the subway home with your tablet clutched to your chest while the jerky movement of the train jostling you against strangers.
By the time you reached your building, the sky was already dark. Your feet ached. Your head did, too.
Your apartment greeted you with the same familiar quiet. You shut the door with your hip, dropped your bag by the shoe rack and toed off your flats, wiggling your toes against the cool wood floor. The only real light was the orange glow from the streetlamp filtering through your beige curtains.
Marmalade appeared from under the coffee table like a conjured thing, stretching her back in an elegant curve before trotting toward you with a chirp.
“Hey, baby”, you murmured, dropping into a crouch to scratch under her chin. Her purr rumbled against your fingertips, loud for such a small body. “Sorry I’m late. Vought decided I’m a leash now”.
She blinked at you with wide green eyes and head-butted your hand like she agreed everyone at Vought was the worst.
You fed her, scooping the wet food out of the can with a little fork and wrinkling your nose at the smell. She dove in immediately with her tail twitching. You poured yourself cereal for dinner because the idea of cooking anything more ambitious than boiling water felt like climbing a building.
Later, after the dishes were rinsed and stacked and your tablet was charging on the nightstand, you stood in your tiny bathroom and changed into your favorite pajamas. They were ridiculous. Pastel blue with bright yellow bananas printed all over, the top just a little too big and the shorts just a little too short. “So people know you’re a fruit”, your sister had cackled as you’d unwrapped them on christmas.
You’d kept them because they were comfortable, because they felt safe, because nobody ever saw you in them but Marmalade and the walls.
You caught your reflection in the mirror over the sink and stilled.
You’d washed your makeup off. Your face looked even younger without it. Bare. Your hair had slipped out of its neat work style, falling around your shoulders in soft, uneven waves. The banana print made you look like you should be doing homework, not negotiating with a man who did drugs in front of you and called you doll like it was an insult.
You tipped your head, studying yourself like you were someone else.
Did you really scream good girl from a mile away? Was it that obvious? Did men like him just… see that, the way you saw tracking links and click-through rates?
Heat crept up your neck at the memory of his voice: I could smell the virgin on you in the hallway.
You groaned, dropping your face into your hands for a second, fingers pressing into your eyelids until little sparks popped in the dark.
“This is fine”, you muttered to your reflection when you looked up again. “It’s fine. He’s a misogynist asshole with a drug habit and a god complex. He says gross stuff to get a rise out of people. That’s all”. Your reflection stared back, unimpressed.
You tugged at the hem of the pajama shorts, suddenly aware of how much bare skin they showed. Which was stupid. Nobody was here. Nobody but you and the cat. Still, your brain insisted on playing back the way his gaze had dropped, slow and invasive, taking in everything from the line of your cardigan down. Like he’d meant to make you feel naked even when you weren’t.
You turned sideways, looking at the curve of your hip, the slope of your shoulders. You weren’t anything special. Just… Soft. The kind of body that disappeared in group photos unless you were in the front row.
Maybe that was the point, you thought, thumb rubbing absently at the faint indent where your waistband had rested all day. Maybe that was why he’d dialed it back, just a fraction. Because you weren’t a polished PR executive in heels. You weren’t another supe. You weren’t a threat.
You were just… the girl in the cardigan with the tablet and the banana pajamas.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You jumped, heart leaping stupidly into your throat. For a second you just stared at the lit-up screen through the bathroom doorway, stupidly convinced it was him somehow knowing you were thinking about him. You shook yourself, padded out to the bedroom, and picked it up.
Trish: U alive or did the museum eat you?
A weak laugh escaped you. You sat on the edge of the bed.
Trish: He that bad?
You hesitated, thumbs hovering. How did you even summarize Soldier Boy in a text?
'He did coke in front of me and called me a virgin’ seemed like maybe not the thing to put in writing.
You: He’s… a lot. But I still have a job, so that’s something?
Trish: lol that’s the Vought bar for success! Don’t let him make you cry. HR says if he makes you cry three times you get a free cupcake at the holiday party.
You snorted softly despite yourself.
You: Wow, benefits package.
Trish: Anyway. Proud of you for not quitting. Call me if you need to scream into a pillow.
You sent a little heart emoji, then put the phone face-down. Marmalade finished eating and jumped up onto the bed in a practiced hop, circling once before curling up against your thigh, her purr starting instantly. You stroked her fur with light fingers, staring at the ceiling.
You should’ve been thinking about logistics. Tomorrow’s wardrobe email. Which outlets might be desperate enough for an exclusive to agree to his conditions. How to phrase “no, he will not be apologizing” without causing an internal meltdown.
Instead, your brain looped through the same ten seconds of the afternoon on repeat.
You’d seen him on screens your whole life. He’d always seemed… not real, exactly, but larger than life. A cardboard cutout in motion.
Today had been the first time you saw the seams. The way his hands shook, just a little, before he snorted that line. The tiredness in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.
You should’ve been horrified.
You were, a little.
You were also something else, and that was the part that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.
Your breath came shorter the more your mind replayed it: him standing too close, powder on his desk, that lazy, filthy I could smell the virgin on you, like he’d known something about you you’d never said out loud to anyone.
The knowledge of your own reaction, how your body had answered before your brain, sat heavy and sour in your chest. Like you’d swallowed something you weren’t supposed to and it was just… sitting there, not going away.
You shifted on the mattress. Marmalade made an annoyed little noise at being jostled and resettled herself more firmly against your stomach.
“Great", you muttered into the dark. “Now I’m a cliché”.
You squeezed your eyes shut, like that would help. It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse. Without the ceiling to stare at, there was nothing to distract you from the way your pulse insisted on picking up whenever your traitor brain supplied more detail than you’d asked for.
Like the thickness of his forearms when he leaned on his knees. The way his voice roughened when he was angry. The heat that had come off him when he stood close.
You hated it.
You hated that your body responded at all, that some ancient, stupid part of you reacted to danger and power and that crooked, mean little smirk like you were wired wrong. That the same man who could probably level your whole building if he sneezed too hard could make you feel shaky and… aware of yourself in a way you’d spent most of your life successfully ignoring.
“Absolutely not”, you whispered to the ceiling, opening your eyes again. “We are not doing this. He’s a supe”.
You rolled onto your back, then onto your other side, then onto your stomach, as if changing position might shake your brain out.
It didn’t. Every time you settled, your thoughts slid right back to that suite.
You tried to picture him the way the internet did: the old posters, the ridiculous suit, the glossy, Vought-approved version of him they were trying to resurrect. Somehow that was worse. The real one, the dirty, irritable, half-broken man who stood too close and did lines off a mirror… he made a kind of awful sense. The posters didn’t.
Your cheeks burned hot against the pillow. Shame prickled under your skin. What kind of person went home and lay awake thinking about someone like that? You were supposed to be better. Smarter. You’d spent twenty-three years making sure nobody could reach in and flip any of your switches. Now some angry relic had walked into your life and apparently found the panel immediately.
Marmalade shifted again. You slid your fingers into her fur.
“He’s just a job”, you told her softly. “Like a brand account. A… very loud, very dangerous brand account in a suit”. Your cat, unsurprisingly, did not disagree.
You clung to the thought like a life raft. A job. That was all. You’d survived mean CEOs and tearful actresses and one senator who’d tried to put his hand on your knee under the table during a donor dinner. You could survive this.
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 7338
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
By seven months, you were convinced your skin had turned into some kind of Ben-magnet.
He was all over you. All the time.
Not even subtle about it, either. Hands on your hips when you cleaned the kitchen, a palm at the small of your back every time you stood up, fingers hooked in your belt loops just because. He’d pull you into his lap on the couch like you weren’t carrying a whole extra set of tenants, thumb rubbing idle circles over the swell of your stomach, mouth at your neck, voice low in your ear with all kinds of intent he couldn’t cash fully anymore without leaving you wrecked for a week.
He’d mellowed his pace. A little. But it didn’t stop him from looking at you like you were the hottest thing that had ever happened to him every time you walked into a room.
The team knew by now. There was never really a chance they wouldn’t. You started showing early with twins, and by seven months there was no hoodie big enough to hide the way you’d rounded out. The house had become home base too often for them not to see.
Frenchie handled it by treating the pregnancy like the most exciting science experiment of his life.
“Ah, mon dieu, look at her”, he said now, standing in one of the kids’ rooms with a paint roller dripping pastel green. “You are radiant, petite. Like a slightly homicidal Madonna”.
You sat on an old drop cloth in the doorway, huge water bottle in hand, one of Ben’s t-shirts stretched over your stomach so tight it might be classified as a crime. “I’m huge and my ankles look like bread”, you said. “But thanks”.
Kimiko snorted silently, standing on a stepstool to tape the corner of the ceiling. She’d picked the colors with you this morning because you’d woken up yesterday, looked at the old beige walls, and burst into tears.
“Why?”, Ben had said, half-asleep.
“I hate them”, you’d sniffed. “They’re sad. Our kids are not being born into sad beige”.
He’d kissed your forehead and muttered, “Alright, we’ll fight the walls too”, and texted Frenchie before he’d even had coffee.
Now, Kimiko grinned down at you from the ladder, signing better and nodding at the paint.
“Yeah”, you said, smiling weakly. “Better”.
Ben leaned against the hall wall, arms crossed, watching the operation like a foreman at a chaotic job site. He’d tried to take the roller from Frenchie twice already; Frenchie had smacked his hand away and called him “Papa Possessive”.
You shifted, trying to get comfortable. One of the twins booted your ribs in protest.
“Hey”, you muttered, rubbing the spot. “Calm down in there. You’ll get a room, I swear. Two, even”.
Ben’s eyes softened. He pushed off the wall and came over, dropping into a kneel in front of you. “Which one?”, he asked.
You grabbed his hand and pressed it to your side. “Front kicker. Back lurker’s taking a nap”.
He waited.
There it was, another sharp little thump beneath his palm. His whole expression changed, going open, soft in that way you still weren’t used to. “Yeah”, he murmured. “That’s my bruiser”.
“They’re fetuses, Ben”, you said. “They don’t know what bruising is”.
“Tell that to your internal organs”, he said, smirking when you rolled your eyes.
Behind you, someone cleared their throat.
Annie stood in the doorway opposite, arms folded, a faint frown line between her brows. She’d shown up an hour ago with muffins and that complicated look she always wore around Ben now. Part wary, part resigned, part begrudgingly okay only because of you.
She watched him with his hand on your belly. “You sure you’re okay, Y/N?”, she asked. “You need… anything?”.
You knew what she meant. Do you need out. Do you need help. Do you need someone not literally made in a lab with rage issues hovering over you.
You gave her a small, honest smile. “Yeah”, you said. “I’m okay”.
Her gaze flicked to Ben again. “You know I still don’t like this, right?”.
Ben didn’t bother looking up. “Sure”.
“I’m serious”, Annie said. “You don’t get to skip all the damage you’ve done just because you can change a diaper”.
“Who said I’m changing diapers?”, he grumbled. “I was planning on hiring the french fuck”.
Frenchie pointed his roller threateningly. “You cannot afford me, mon ami”. Kimiko cackled.
Annie sighed, looking back at you. “I just… want you to have a choice”, she said softly.
“I know”, you said. “I do”.
“And I want you to live”, Hughie added, appearing over her shoulder balancing a paint tray like it was an explosive. “All three of you. Four. Whatever. I suck at math but you get the idea”.
You snorted. “Me too”.
He winced. “Sorry”.
You waved him off, already used to Hughie’s anxiety coming out sideways. He’d been the one Googling “supe pregnancies” at two a.m. and texting you articles with captions like ignore the Vought propaganda, just drink water.
MM hadn’t come inside. He’d stood on the sidewalk earlier, hands in his pockets, looking up at the house with that long, tired gaze.
“You good?”, you’d asked, one hand on the porch rail, the other pressed to your back.
“Doesn’t matter if I am”, he’d said. “Question is, are you?”.
“I’m getting there”, you’d said.
He’d nodded once. “You need anything”, he’d said, “you call. Not him”. A jerk of his head at Ben, who’d been hauling paint cans out of the trunk. “Me. I’ll bring the car. Or a lawyer. Or a frying pan”.
Butcher… had been Butcher.
The day you’d told them, he’d stared at you for a long, unreadable second, then taken a slow sip of his beer.
“So if those little buggers pop out with laser eyes and start killing folk”, he’d said eventually, almost conversational, “I’m calling Vought myself. Let ’em deal with it”.
Ben had punched him.
Not hard enough to hospitalize, but hard enough that Butcher had actually gone down, chair clattering, hand pressed to his jaw as he laughed up at the ceiling.
“Look at you”, he’d rasped. “Daddy Bear. Knew there was something rotten in that head of yours”.
You’d banned Butcher from the house for a week after that. “Previous trauma”, you’d said stiffly when Frenchie asked. No one argued.
You were terrified. Still.
Some nights you lay awake next to Ben, staring at the ceiling, feeling the twins shift and turn and wondering what the hell you were doing thinking you could be anyone’s mother when you still sometimes forgot to eat.
Other nights, you’d wake up to find his hand already there, warm and protective over your bump, his face slack with a kind of peace you’d never seen on him before, and the fear would quiet down to a low hum.
He pressed a kiss to your belly now, through the thin cotton of the t-shirt, quick, almost like he didn’t realize he was doing it, then pushed to his feet with a groan.
“Alright”, he said, clapping his hands once, slipping back into that bossy drawl, “you’re done supervising. Couch. Feet up. I’ll bring you something that pretends to be food”.
“I don’t want food”, you said. “I want this wall finished before I change my mind again and make you repaint it”.
Frenchie gasped dramatically. “Mon dieu, she is drunk with power”.
Ben rolled his eyes. “She’s seven months pregnant with twins. She gets whatever color she wants. You wanna argue, take it up with her hormones”.
You made a face. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here”.
He bent down, braced his hands on either side of your shoulders on the door frame, and kissed you with enough heat under it, that Annie looked away and Hughie pretended to be very invested in the fine print on the paint can.
When he pulled back, his mouth quirked. “I know exactly where you are, sweetheart”.
Your cheeks went warm but you groaned and let him help you up anyway, one hand on his shoulder, the other under your belly, feeling absurdly grateful and overwhelmed and too young and too far in to ever think about getting out.
As he steered you toward the stairs, one big hand splayed over your lower back, the sounds of your strange, mismatched little family arguing about paint shades echoing down the hall, you thought: You hadn’t planned any of this. You still didn’t know if you were ready. But for the first time, as the twins rolled restlessly inside you and Ben’s thumb rubbed idle, reassuring circles at your spine, you believed, just a little, that ready or not, you weren’t doing it alone.
-
You’d thought missions were hard. Turned out, missions had nothing on two six-pound humans with lungs like smoke alarms and zero respect for sleep schedules.
First night home, the house didn’t feel like your house anymore. It felt like a bomb someone had left on your couch. Two bombs, wrapped in tiny fox-print onesies, breathing in short, squeaky little snuffles that made your heart hurt just to listen to.
The twins had finally knocked out for exactly eleven minutes at the same time. You spent all eleven staring at them in the bassinet like they might stop breathing the second you blinked.
Ben, of course, used the window to grumble.
“Two girls”, he muttered for the fifth time that hour, leaning back on the couch, cradling the remote in one hand and a warm, impossibly small foot in the other. “Not even one boy. House is gonna be full of fucking hormones and glitter”.
“You say that like you’re not the most dramatic person in this room”, you sniffed, wiping your face with the heel of your hand.
Your voice came out thick.
You were crying. Again.
You couldn’t seem to stop.
It wasn’t even big sobs most of the time. Just… leaking. Your eyes refused to stay dry. Every squeak, every hiccup, every little fist flail set something off in your chest.
You’d been home less than six hours and you were already convinced you were going to kill them by accident.
Wrong bottle temp, wrong angle, forgetting to burp, falling asleep with one of them on you and smothering her, tripping down the damn stairs. Tiny, horrible scenarios looped in your brain like a highlight reel of worst-case.
Ben pretended not to notice at first. Or tried.
“Could’ve had at least one little bastard to throw a ball with”, he went on, carefully tucking the miniature foot back under the blanket in the bassinet. “Someone to teach how to piss standing up. Now I gotta learn about… barrettes. Or whatever the hell people put in girls’ hair”.
“You could still throw a ball with them”, you mumbled. “Girls can do that too”.
“Yeah, yeah”, he said, waving a hand. “I get it. Progress. I’m just saying, odds-wise? Two outta two is a goddamn conspiracy”.
You hiccupped a laugh that turned watery halfway through. He caught that.
“Hey”, he said, softer, eyes sliding from the twins to you. “You’re leaking again”.
“I know”, you said miserably, scrubbing at your face. “I can’t— it won’t stop”.
“Yeah, I noticed”, he said. “Pretty sure the neighbors noticed”.
You made a wounded noise.
He sighed and pushed off the couch, coming over to the armchair where you’d planted yourself like a stunned koala. You were half-curled, knees up, one of those stupid maternity robes wrapped around you like armor.
He crouched in front of you. Up close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes too. He was tired. The difference was, he didn’t look like he was about to shatter.
“I am going to kill them”, you sniffed. “Within twenty-four hours. I’m going to drop one. Or feed them wrong. Or fall asleep in the wrong position and their necks will—”.
“Hey”, he cut in, firm. “No, you’re not”.
“You don’t know that”, you said, your voice climbing. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Ben. I’ve never even kept a plant alive. And now there’s two of them. Two. They’re so small, they shouldn’t be this small—”.
“They’re bigger than they were two days ago”, he pointed out. “Docs cleared ’em. They wouldn’t have let us take ’em if you were gonna explode them by looking at them wrong”.
From the bassinet, one of the girls let out a little grunt, face scrunching. The other one twitched, kicked, then both of them started up in stereo: thin, reedy cries that somehow managed to sound offended.
You jolted, half-rising. “Oh God—”.
“I got ’em”, Ben said, pushing to his feet.
He moved carefully, hands steady as he slid one arm behind each tiny neck, scooping both girls up at once like he’d been doing it for years.
“What’s with the sirens, huh? You were sleeping. Sleep’s good. I recommend it”. He swayed automatically, just a little shift of his weight. The twins quieted a notch. Not silent, but less frantic, like the motion told them we’re not alone in a language older than words.
You watched him, torn between awe and panic.
He grumbled under his breath, but his hands, those hands that could snap metal and throw men across rooms, were unbelievably gentle. Thumb stroking the downy hair on Twin A’s head, knuckles nudging Twin B’s little chin when she rooted hungrily against his shirt.
“Yeah”, he sighed. “I know. Food. All you broads ever think about”.
You made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “You did not just call our newborn daughters ‘broads’”.
He shot you a look over their tiny heads, eyes warmer than his tone. “Please. They’re gonna run this house. Might as well start talking to ’em like management”.
The crying sharpened again. Tiny faces turned red. Little fists punched the air.
He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Get the bottles”.
“I—what if I mix them wrong?”, you blurted. “What if it’s too hot? Too cold? They’ll aspirate or get colic or—”.
“Hey”, he said, voice going firm again. “We have instructions. We have a kettle. We have a doctor on speed dial. And we have me, who has handled explosives with less precision than I’m currently handling these two”. He bounced them once, gentle. “You follow the scoop. You test it on your wrist. I double-check. Nobody dies”.
Your eyes stung again.
He saw it. “Y/N”, he said quietly. “You’re not alone anymore”.
Something in your chest cracked at that.
You nodded, wobbly, and shuffled to the kitchen, moves still weird from the C-section. Your hands trembled a little as you measured powder, added water, shook the bottles. But you did it. You brought them back in.
Ben had settled on the couch, one baby in each arm like he’d grown extra limbs. He looked up at you, and for a moment you saw past the dark circles and the gruffness to something that almost hurt to look at… this fierce, stubborn pride.
“Look at ’em”, he said, as you passed him one bottle. “Two tiny hostages to fortune”.
“That’s a horrible way to put it”, you said, sinking down next to him.
You sank down next to him, the cushion dipping under your weight. Up close, the girls looked even smaller. Two little bundles in identical onesies, but already so different.
Liv, in Ben’s left arm, was squirming like she had somewhere to be, face scrunched, fists flailing. Ava, in his right, was more of a slow burn with eyes half-lidded, mouth working, little forehead wrinkling only when she really meant it.
“Here”, Ben said, nodding at his right side. “Take Ava. Liv’s already trying to fight the bottle, she can deal with me”.
Your stomach swooped. “I’ll… drop her”, you said. “Or hold her wrong. Or her head’ll—”.
“Y/N”, he cut in, still patient but firm. “You’re not gonna drop her. Come on. You can handle a gun, you can handle eight pounds of potato”.
“She’s six”, you muttered, but your hands were already hovering.
He shifted, angling his arm so Ava was closer to you. “One under the head, one under the butt”, he instructed. “You don’t have to lift a car, just scoop”.
You swallowed, slid one palm under the warm weight of her skull, the other under her diapered butt, and lifted.
She was… nothing. Feather-light. Heat and squirm and soft cotton.
You held your breath like that alone would keep you steady, muscles locked, arms rigid.
“Okay”, Ben said. “You don’t have to hold her like she’s a live grenade”.
“I am holding a live grenade”, you hissed.
He snorted. “Tilt her a bit. There. See? She’s not made of glass”.
Ava settled against your chest, her cheek pressing into the robe, tiny fingers flexing once. Her mouth opened automatically, little head bobbing as she searched.
Right. Food.
You fumbled with the angle, trying to remember what the nurse had said: keep her head higher than her stomach, tip the bottle just enough, not too much, watch for the air bubble… until the math started frying your brain.
Then suddenly the nipple bumped her lips and she latched, strong little pull making the bottle tug. “Oh”, you breathed.
“Yeah”, Ben said, a grin tugging at his mouth as he offered Liv her own bottle. “They don’t mess around”.
Liv grabbed at his shirt with one fist, other arm windmilling like she was fighting an invisible enemy, but she latched too. Less finesse, more fight.
You looked down at Ava. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, eyes unfocused, whole body relaxing by degrees as she drank. Her hand came up, barely, resting against your thumb like she’d done it a thousand times. You realized you hadn’t taken a full breath since you lifted her.
“See?”, Ben said quietly. “You’re doin´great”.
“I’m shaking”, you whispered.
“Little bit”, he agreed. “She doesn’t care”.
You risked loosening your death grip, just enough to let your shoulders drop half an inch. You adjusted the bottle like you’d seen in videos, tilting it slowly so the milk kept up with her.
“That’s it”, he murmured. “You got it”.
For a few seconds, the only sounds in the room were soft sucking, tiny snuffles, the low hum of the fridge.
“She’s so… calm”, you said after a moment, staring at Ava’s little relaxed face. “Is that normal?”.
“She’s not dumb”, Ben said. “She’s got food and warmth and you. Why would she panic?”.
Your throat got tight.
Across from you, Liv spat the nipple out briefly to let out a disgruntled squawk, then latched again with renewed fury.
Ben chuckled. “And this one’s gonna be my problem”.
“Yeah”, you said, smiling crookedly. “Liv’s definitely yours”.
“She’s loud, pissed off, and always hungry”, he said. “It’s like looking in a mirror”.
-
By four, the twins had opinions. On everything. Shoes, breakfast, which cartoon theme song was superior, who got which color cup. And now: bikes.
You were twenty-two and still felt, some days, like a kid playing house. But your kids were out on the sidewalk in front of your actual house, helmets strapped on crooked, knees already scabbed from other adventures, staring down two tiny bikes like they were wild animals that might bolt.
Ava’s was sky blue with little white stars on the frame. Liv’s was red, of course. Ben had insisted. “If she’s gonna crash into things”, he’d said, “she might as well look like a warning sign”.
He was jogging behind them now, one big hand on the back of each seat as they wobbled down the street. You sat on the front steps with a bottle of water, watching, heart in your throat.
“Pedal”, he called. “You gotta pedal, not just point ’em where you wanna go. That’s not how physics works”.
“What’s fizz-icks?”, Ava asked, legs pumping carefully, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.
“Stuff falls down”, he said. “You’ll meet it later”.
Liv, naturally, was trying to go faster than her sister, feet windmilling. “I’m doing it!”, she yelled. “Daddy, look, I’m doing it!”.
“You’re half doing it”, he said. “Eyes up, terror. Watch where you’re—”. Her wheel clipped a tiny crack in the sidewalk. For a split second, she hung there. Then the bike tipped, her feet slipped, and she went down hard, knees scraping across the concrete with an awful sound you felt in your teeth.
“Liv!”, you shouted, already halfway off the steps.
She hit, rolled, and then her scream came. Tears sprang instantly to her eyes, cheeks flushed pink.
Ava skidded to a stop, eyes huge, lower lip trembling. “Livvy?”.
You took two steps before you saw where Liv was running.
Not to you. To him.
She scrambled up, leaving the bike in a sad little heap, and sprinted on shaky legs straight for Ben, arms up. “Daddy!”, she wailed. “My knees!”.
He caught her without missing a beat, scooping her up under the arms and setting her on his hip in one smooth motion. Gravel and dirt smeared her shins; both knees were already blooming with ugly red scrapes.
“Oof”, he said, holding her out just enough to see. “You took a chunk outta the sidewalk, huh?”.
“It huuuurts”, she sobbed, burying her face in his neck.
He rubbed a big hand up and down her back. “Yeah, I bet. Sidewalk won that one”.
You reached them, breath a little fast. “Let me see”.
Liv turned, still clinging to Ben’s shirt with one hand. She had gravel stuck in the skin, blood already sliding in slow, thick lines down to her socks. Your stomach twisted.
“Okay”, you said, voice coming out softer than you meant. “Okay, we’re going inside. Kitchen. I’ll fix it”.
Liv sniffed, eyeing you warily. “It’s gonna sting”.
You forced a smile. “A little. But I’m really good at this. Remember?”.
She hesitated.
Ben bounced her gently. “Hey”, he said, “you’re tough, right?”.
She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand. “Yeah”.
“And Momy´s the best at making it not hurt”, he went on. “Way better than me”.
You shot him a look. He shrugged like well, you are.
Liv sniffled, thinking it over. Then she stretched toward you, transferring her little weight from his arms into yours. “Okay”, she mumbled, trying to be brave.
Your heart did a stupid flip as you settled her on your hip, careful not to bump her knees against you. Ava was at your side in an instant, tiny hand sliding into yours.
“Livvy, you fell”, she said solemnly.
“You saw”, Liv huffed, tears still clinging to her lashes. “Sidewalk was mean”.
You herded them toward the house. Ben stayed behind a second to right the bikes, then followed, jogging up the steps.
He hung back in the doorway as you sat Liv on the kitchen counter, rolling away her leggings gently.
“Okay”, you said, taking a breath. “Rule one: nobody touches until I say so. Rule two: Liv is allowed to yell any words that aren’t really bad”. Liv sniffed. “Like… crap?”.
You bit back a laugh. “That one’s borderline, but I’ll allow it this time”.
Ava climbed up onto a chair to watch, wide-eyed, clutching her stuffed owl.
You pulled the first aid kit from the cabinet, overstocked, always, because you knew how this family lived, and snapped it open. Alcohol wipes, tweezers, bandages with cartoon characters on them. Your hands shook only a little as you wet a cloth and began wiping away the worst of the blood.
Liv hissed. “Ow”.
“I know”, you murmured. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do it without hurting at all”.
“You’re not hurting her”, Ben said from the door. “Sidewalk did that. You’re fixing it”.
You focused on the task, picking out tiny bits of grit, cleaning around the raw patches as gently as you could.
“Hey”, you said quietly, to distract her. “What kind of Band-Aid do you want? Foxes or dinosaurs?”.
“Dinosaurs”, she said immediately, voice wobbling. “They’re tougher”.
“Foxes are tough too”, Ava piped up. “They’re sneaky”.
“You can have foxes next time”, Liv decided magnanimously.
You breathed around a smile and opened the dinosaur bandages.
Cleaning stung. She flinched, little fingers clenching on your shoulder, but she didn’t yank away. She watched you, lower lip trembling, trusting you to fix it even though it hurt. That undid you more than the blood.
“Almost done”, you murmured. “You’re doing so good, baby”.
“Don’t call me baby”, she muttered automatically, and that, somehow, made your eyes burn. You smoothed the Band-Aids on, one on each knee, little green T-rexes grinning up from her skin. “There”, you said. “Battle scars”.
Liv sniffed, looking down. “They look cool”.
“Yeah, they do”, Ben agreed, stepping closer. “You took a hit and got back up. That’s the important part”.
“I didn’t cry that much”, she said.
“You cried enough”, he said. “And crying’s allowed”.
You swallowed. Your fingers lingered around the edges of the bandages, making sure they were sealed. “You okay?”, you asked her quietly.
She looked at you like you’d asked if the sky was blue. “You fixed it”.
Something in your chest went hot and tight. For all the times they pushed, all the whining and backtalk and boundary-testing, in moments like this they still saw you as the person who made things better. Even when you weren’t sure you knew how.
You helped her off the counter, setting her gently on her feet. She tested her weight, wobbling only a little. “I can still ride”, she declared.
You opened your mouth to say maybe we take a break, but Ben cut in. “Damn right you can. You’re not gonna let one dumb crack beat you”.
You shot him a look. “She just fell, Ben”.
“And she got back up”, he replied. “We don’t bubble-wrap ’em every time they kiss the pavement, or they’ll never learn”.
Liv looked between you, like a tiny referee.
Ava tugged on your sleeve. “Can I have a Band-Aid too? For… preventive”.
You snorted. “That’s not how Band-Aids work”.
She pouted. “But Livvy got one”.
“Got two”, Liv corrected smugly, sticking her legs out. “’Cause I’m brave”.
You sighed, already reaching for the fox ones. “Fine. One on each knee. Drama queens”.
They always danced on your soft spots. It was like they’d been born knowing exactly where they were. Sometimes you worried you were too gentle, that they’d steamroll you right into the floor. That’s where Ben came in.
“Alright”, he said, clapping his hands once, breaking up the Band-Aid war. “Here’s the deal. You can go back out and try again, but you listen to what I say. No racing yet. You focus on balance first. You don’t, I yank you off those bikes and you’re on tricycles till middle school”.
“Daddy!”, Liv groaned. “Tricycles are for babies”.
“Then don’t make me prove it”, he said, dead serious.
Ava nodded solemnly. “Okay. We listen”.
He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at them. “I mean it. I turn around and see you trying to ramp off the curb, we’re done”.
You watched the exchange, the way they straightened under his tone, took him seriously in a way they didn’t always do with you.
Sometimes it stung, how easily they obeyed him, how they’d push you ten times but stop at one look from him. Then you’d remember you’d never been able to shout without feeling sick, never had anyone model what firm-but-not-cruel looked like for you. You were still learning.
He caught your eye, read the flicker of something there, and his expression softened.
“You coming back out?”, he asked you.
You hesitated, glancing at the clock. “I should probably start dinner. And… my heart might stop if I see her fall again”.
He stepped close enough that the girls couldn’t hear him murmur, “You did good”.
You shrugged, embarrassed by how much that landed. “I just stuck stickers on”.
“You kept her from freaking out more than she needed to”, he said. “You’re the one she wanted fixing it, even after she ran to me first”.
You glanced at Liv, at Ava, at their matching Band-Aids, at the way they were already bouncing on their heels, ready to launch themselves back into danger.
“Yeah”, you said quietly. “Okay”.
He kissed your forehead, quick, then raised his voice. “Alright, tiny hellions, round two. Let’s see if we can make it to the stop sign without any more bloodshed”.
They whooped and bolted for the door, helmets askew, feet pounding.
You watched them go with your chest tight but steadier than before.
-
The girls went down hard that night. Bike crashes, Band-Aid drama, post-dinner sugar crash… it all finally caught up. By eight-thirty, both of them were starfished in their beds, hair stuck to their foreheads, mouths open in identical angles.
You stood in doorway that connected their rooms for a long time anyway, watching their chests rise and fall. Just making sure.
Ben leaned in the hall behind you, one shoulder on the wall, arms crossed. “They’re breathing”, he murmured. “I checked twice”.
You rolled your eyes, but your fingers tightened on the doorframe. “Yeah, well. Three makes it official”.
He didn’t rush you. Just waited until you finally stepped back and eased the door mostly shut, leaving it cracked. The hallway light painted him in soft yellow. Bare feet, t-shirt and sweats. Very off-duty Soldier Boy.
“You okay?”, he asked.
“I’m fine”, you lied, heading for your room.
He snorted. “Sure”.
You changed into an sleep shirt, teeth brushed, face washed, going through the motions while your brain replayed the day: Liv’s knees hitting concrete, Ava’s wide eyes, the way they both looked at you like you actually knew what you were doing.
By the time you crawled into bed, every muscle in your body felt like it had been wrung out.
Ben came in a minute later, flicking off the overhead light and leaving the room in soft lamplight. He climbed in on his side.
You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling. So he rolled onto his side to face you, head propped on his hand. “Alright”, he said. “Spill it”.
You tried for innocent. “Spill what?”
He gave you a look. “Whatever’s chewing on you. You get this little crease right here—”, he traced a knuckle lightly between your brows, “—when you’re stuck in your head. Been there all night”.
You sighed, staring past him. “I yelled at them today”.
“Yeah”, he said. “They were aiming the hose at the neighbor’s window. It was earned”.
“But I yelled”, you insisted. “Like… really yelled. They looked at me like I’d hit them”.
His eyes softened. “You raised your voice once in four years. Congratulations, you’re officially a parent”.
“It felt…”, you searched for the word, “wrong”.
He shifted closer, one hand sliding over your stomach. A habit now, even though the bump was long gone. “You didn’t call them names. You didn’t scare them for fun. You didn´t punch them. You said ‘no’ loud enough to cut through the chaos”.
“They still cried”, you said.
“Yeah”, he said. “Kids cry when they hit a boundary. Doesn’t mean the boundary’s bad”.
You swallowed. “What if I’m just… like them? The people I grew up with. What if I think I’m better and I’m not?”.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re not them”.
“You don’t know that”, you shot back.
He didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I do. You patch them up like they’re made of spun sugar. You apologize when you screw up. You overthink every fucking thing. Abusers don’t lose sleep worrying they’re turning into abusers, sweetheart. They just fuckin´ sleep”.
You went quiet. His hand slid from your stomach to your hip, thumb brushing absently over cotton.
“You’re soft with them”, he said. “That’s not a weakness”.
“Sometimes it is”, you whispered.
“Sometimes they need soft”, he countered. “Sometimes they need me. Loud, mean, ‘no means no, tuck your chin when you fall’ me. That’s the deal. You give, I push. They get both”. You let that sit. "But even if you´re mostly soft, you´re allowed to yell sometime".
After a minute, your voice dropped. “You think I’m doing okay? Really?”.
He huffed. “No”.
You flinched. He hooked a finger under your chin, making you meet his eyes.
“I think you’re doing better than okay. I think you’re doing more than anyone ever did for you. And I think you won’t see it till they’re old enough to throw it in your face and make you cry at graduation”.
A wet laugh escaped you. “You’re very specific”.
“Seen some things”, he said. “Kid remembers who sat on the edge of the tub and washed the gravel out, not who bought the bike”.
You blinked hard.
He must’ve seen your eyes starting to shine, because he made a face. “Hey, hey. We’re off-duty from crying for at least one night. House rule”.
“I don’t remember agreeing to that”.
“You did in the fine print”.
You smiled, small. He lay back, tugging you gently until you rolled toward him. You ended up half on your side, your forehead tucked under his chin, his arm a heavy, warm line along your back. He started working the fingers of his free hand into the muscles at the base of your skull. You hadn’t even realized how tight they were until they started to unknot.
“Christ, you’re wound up”, he muttered.
“Gee, I wonder why”, you mumbled into his shirt.
“Could be the whole ‘keeping two tiny maniacs alive’ thing”, he said. His thumb found a knot in your shoulder and pressed, just right. “Breathe”.
You obeyed, pulling in air that smelled like detergent and him.
He dragged his hand down your spine, kneading gently at the spots he knew always hurt. Between your shoulder blades, the dip in your lower back. He’d learned your map by now: where you held tension, where you curled in when you were scared, where to touch to make you laugh when you were about to spiral.
“How’s your head?”, he asked after a while.
“Lighter”, you admitted. “Still noisy”.
“Yeah”, he said. “That’s gonna be true till they’re thirty”.
“That’s not comforting”.
“Wasn’t meant to be”, he said, lips curving against your hair. “Just accurate”.
His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, palm warm on your bare back, slow circles imprinting calm there. “You know what I see?”, he said.
“I’m afraid to ask”.
“I see you on the sidewalk”, he said. “Girl bleeding on concrete, you shaking like you’re the one hurt, and you still doing the thing. Cleaning, bandaging, talking her down. I see you letting Ava cry in your arms instead of telling her to ‘toughen up’ when she’s overwhelmed. I see you reading the same book four times because they ‘weren’t listening yet’”.
You snorted into his chest. “You listen when I read, too”.
“I like the voices”, he said. “But the point is, you show up. Over and over. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared you’re screwing it up”.
“That’s the bare minimum”, you said.
He made a low, dismissive sound. “They notice. They might not remember this exact day, this exact Band-Aid, this bike. But they’re gonna grow up with this baseline idea that mom is there. Mom fixes what she can and sits with them when she can’t”. Your throat closed. “And yeah”, he added, “they’re gonna dance on you. Because they know you love ’em no matter what”.
“Isn’t that… bad?”, you whispered.
“It’s annoying”, he said. “But that’s what unconditional looks like. Doesn’t mean we don’t correct ’em. That’s where I come in. I get to be the wall they bounce off when they push too far. I’m good at being a wall”.
You closed your eyes, feeling his chest move under your cheek when he talked. “You’re not too soft”, he said. “You’re exactly as soft as they need. And if they push you over, I’ll pick you up and tell them to knock it off”.
You swallowed, fighting tears. “You really think we can do this?”.
He chuckled. “We already are”.
Silence settled, heavier but less sharp. His fingers kept tracing lazy paths up and down your spine. You felt your body start to finally, finally let go of the day, of the constant bracing, the ready-to-sprint tension.
“You’re a good dad”, you mumbled into his shirt, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them.
He went still for half a second. Then he huffed, a little disbelieving. “Yeah?”.
“Yeah”, you said. “They run to you when they’re proud and when they’re scared. That’s… kind of the job”.
He kissed the top of your head, quick. “I got good material to work with”.
You groaned. “You can’t take a compliment like a normal person, can you?”.
“I’m evolving”, he said. “Slowly”.
-
You woke up a couple hours later to something sharp poking your ribs. A tiny elbow.
“Move over”, a small voice hissed in the dark. “You’re hogging Daddy”.
You groaned, rolling onto your back as a four-year-old carefully clambered over you like you were terrain. The mattress dipped again on Ben’s other side, followed by a whispered, “Ow, Liv, you’re on my hair”.
The lamp clicked on. Ben squinted up at the ceiling, one hand already catching a stray knee before it met somewhere very sensitive. “Why”, he rasped, “are there terrorists in my bed”.
Liv, all wild hair and dinosaur pajamas, flopped dramatically across his chest. “Bad dream”, she announced.
Ava curled in closer to your side, fingers sneaking under your arm, face pressed against your shirt. “Mine too”, she said, much quieter.
You blinked, still half-asleep. “You okay?”.
She nodded, but her little body was trembling the tiniest bit. You wrapped an arm around her, tugging her in until she could curl against your ribs.
Ben sighed, but his hand was already covering most of Liv’s back, big palm moving slow. “Dream about what?”, he asked.
“Big… building. Falling. You were… gone”, Liv whispered.
“Hey”, he said, voice softening a tiny bit. “I’m not going anywhere. Who else is gonna yell at your boyfriends?”.
“Gross”, she muttered automatically, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
He glanced over at you, at Ava tucked under your chin, eyes already half-closed now that she’d made it to your side of the bed. “You too?”, he asked her.
She nodded against you. “You got… mad at me”, she mumbled, words blurring. “Didn’t want you to be mad”.
Your chest squeezed.
“I’m not mad at you”, you said, kissing her hair. “Promise”.
“Ever?”, she breathed.
You hesitated. “Sometimes I’ll be mad”, you admitted. “When you run into the street. Or draw on the walls. Or throw your peas at your sister. But not… the kind of mad that means I don’t love you anymore. That never happens. Okay?”.
She hummed, already slipping back toward sleep.
Liv poked Ben in the chin. “What about you?”.
“I’m mad at you right now”, he said.
She scowled. “Why?”.
“You woke me up”, he said, expression deadpan. Then he tipped her face up with one finger, green eyes serious. “But I don’t stop loving you, either. You get that?”.
She stared at him for a second, then nodded, small. “Yeah”.
“Good”, he muttered, tugging the blanket up over the three of you. “New rule. You scare your mom enough she cries, I’m mad at you. You mess with her, you mess with me. That’s lifelong”.
You snorted. “They’re four”.
“Never too early for policy”, he said.
Liv yawned again and wriggled down between you, one hand on his chest, one foot shoved under your leg like she could anchor herself to both of you at once. Ava was already boneless at your side, breath warm against your collarbone.
For a minute, the room was full of nothing but breathing. One heavy radioactive supe, two tiny snuffly girls, and you, caught in the middle.
“You know they’re gonna forget this”, you murmured, voice low so you didn’t wake them. “The bad dreams, the dinosaur Band-Aids, sneaking into our bed”.
“Maybe”, Ben said. His fingers found yours above the blanket, linking lazily. “But it sticks. Somewhere”.
You watched Liv’s face, soft in sleep, Ava’s lashes tangled on her cheeks. Two tiny storms who already knew exactly how to ride your nerves and your heart at the same time.
“One day they’ll be taller”, you said quietly. “Mouthier. Not so easy to fix with cartoons and popsicles”.
Ben huffed. “Oh, I know. They’re gonna come home pissed off at the world, slam doors, say things they don’t mean. Maybe say ’em to you instead of me ’cause they think you’re safer”. His jaw flexed. “They start treating you like you’re the enemy, I’ll remind ’em who held the Band-Aids”.
You glanced at him. “You promise?”.
He looked back, steady. “I promised the minute I put ’em in that car seat, babe”.
You lay there, sandwiched under small limbs and big promises, listening to your daughters’ breaths even out, feeling the weight of four years settle over the heavier weight of… all the years still coming.
The tantrums. The scraped knees. The slammed doors. The days when “Mommy” turned into “you don’t get it” and “I hate you”, sharp as glass.
You didn’t know yet how bad it would sting when Ava and Liv became teenagers and tried your patience and your heart in brand new ways.
You didn’t know how it would feel to stand in your kitchen years from now, your grown girls throwing words like knives, until Ben’s voice cut across the room, hard and furious, reminding them exactly who’d stayed, who’d patched, who’d loved them first.
But that was another story.
Right now, there were just two four-year-olds wedged between you and the man who kept his palm spread over all three of your hands under the blanket, like he could hold the whole mess together by touch alone.
You breathed in, out.
One night at a time. One scrape at a time. One promise at a time.
And whether they remembered this or not, you would.
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 4171
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The cab dropped you two off in front of a brick building that looked more like a converted house than a clinic. No flashy signage, just a small brass plate by the door with a name you couldn’t pronounce and “M.D.” after it.
You were still half in airport mode. Your skin was dried out from the flight, your hair up in a hasty tie and Ben’s hoodie was hanging off your shoulders because you’d started shaking somewhere over the Atlantic and never really stopped.
Ben paid the driver and turned to you. “You good?”, he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just… ready to get this over with”.
He snorted softly. “This is the easy part, kid”. He caught himself, jaw clenching. “Y/N”. Of course you didn’t call him on it.
Inside, the “waiting room” was three mismatched chairs, an old coat rack and a fish tank that held exactly two very unimpressed fish. A fading poster about quitting smoking curled at the corners. There was no receptionist, just a sliding glass window and a bell.
Ben ignored both and rapped his knuckles on the wood frame. “Doc?”, he called. “It’s me”.
A gruff voice answered from somewhere down the hall. “You ain’t got an appointment, boy”.
“Since when did I need one?”, Ben shot back.
Heavy footsteps approached. A moment later, the inner door opened and an old man stepped out. White hair, thick brows and glasses hanging from a cord around his neck. He wore a button-down shirt with rolled sleeves and a stethoscope he clearly forgot was still around his neck. He squinted. Then his face creased into something between a grimace and a smile. “Well, I’ll be damned”, he said. “Fucking Benjamin”.
Ben’s mouth pulled into a lopsided smirk. “Hey, Doc”.
“You’re supposed to be dead”, the man said, eyeing him up and down. “Or retired. Or in a hole somewhere”.
“Been busy”, Ben said.
“Clearly”. The old man’s gaze slid past him to you, half-hiding in the hoodie. “That yours?", he asked Ben. Your stomach flipped.
Ben stepped half aside so you weren’t shielded but still… covered. “Y/N, that´s Stein. He patched me up more times than I can count. Doc, this is…”. He hesitated just a fraction. “My girl”. Your cheeks warmed.
Stein’s eyes softened at that. “You’re even more trouble than you look”, he said. “Come on in”.
He led you down a narrow hall into a small exam room with peeling white paint an cabinet doors that didn’t quite shut. An ancient-looking ultrasound machine parked in the corner like a relic. You sat.
Ben took the chair by the wall but didn’t sit back, he leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, watching everything.
Stein washed his hands at the tiny sink. “So”, he said, like he was asking about a sore throat, “What’s the crisis?”.
You glanced at Ben, then back at the doctor. Your voice felt small. “I… took a test. Two, actually”.
Stein nodded, like he’d already guessed. “How late?”.
“Three months”, you said.
His eyebrows went up. “That’ll do it”.
He looked at Ben. “You tell her the odds?”.
“I told her they said I was a goddamn brick wall”, Ben said, jaw tight. “They also said a lot of other bullshit”.
Stein snorted. “Vought lies. You didn’t believe them, did you?”.
“Back then?”, Ben shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t care”.
Stein’s eyes flicked between the two of you, taking in more than you wanted him to. “And now you do”.
Ben didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Stein sighed, the sound of it so old and familiar, like this wasn’t the first time he’d been dragged into Soldier Boy-adjacent chaos.
“Alright”, he said. “We do this proper. History, exam, labs, then we take a look. You eat anything today?”.
“Half a muffin.”
“Good enough”. He pulled a clipboard from the counter and flicked a few pages. “Any pain? Bleeding? Fever?”.
“No”, you said. “Just… I´m tired. Nausea sometimes. Sore boobs”. You winced at your own bluntness.
He nodded unbothered. “Sounds about right. When was your last period exactly?”.
You gave him the date as best you could remember. He scribbled and made a little “hmm” noise, then set the clipboard down.
“Lie back, lift the shirt”, he said. “We’ll start with the fun part”.
Your heart leapt into your throat. “Already? Don’t you need blood or—”.
“We’ll do that too”, he said. “But you flew in from god-knows-where and your nerves are shot. This tells us more, faster”. He flicked the old machine on with a practiced smack. It beeped to life, the screen flickering. He pulled over the cart, snapped on gloves and squirted cold gel onto your lower belly, making you flinch.
“Sorry”, he grunted. “This thing doesn’t warm up. Hold still”.
The probe was shockingly cold when he pressed it gently against your skin. His eyes were on the screen as he moved it, angling, searching.
Meanwhile you stared at the ceiling with your heart pounding.
Ben stood now, unable to stay in the chair, hovering at your side.
Stein’s brow furrowed. He adjusted the angle, pressed a little deeper.
“Come on, you little parasite”, he muttered. “Where are you hiding…”. Then he stopped. His shoulders eased. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “There you are”, he said softly.
You pushed up on your elbows, trying to see something. Your chest tightened. “That’s…?”.
“That’s a baby”, Stein said.
Your hand found Ben´s and clenched. He squeezed back, hard enough to steady you but not enough to hurt.
The doc adjusted the probe, tilting it. “Hold on”, he murmured. “Don’t get misty yet, I’m not done”.
You frowned. “Is something wrong?”.
He didn’t answer right away. He moved the probe an inch, then another, angling down and to the side. The screen shifted again. Another dark oval slid into view. Your stomach dropped.
“Ah”, Stein huffed, like a puzzle piece had clicked into place. “There you are. Thought I saw something tucked back there”.
You stared, your brain catching up too slow. “Wait. Is that still… the same…?”.
“Mm-mm”, he said. “That’s two”.
You blinked. “Two what?”.
He gave you a look over the top of his glasses. “What do you think? Christmas ornaments? Two babies, kid. You’re cooking a matched set”.
The room went silent. Even the old machine’s hum seemed to cut out for a second. You felt Ben go rigid beside you.
“Twins?”, he said, like the word itself was obscene.
“Fraternal, best I can tell from this angle”, Stein said, as calmly as if he was calling the weather. He tapped a few keys, the measurement lines popping up on each dark pocket in turn. “Two sacs, two passengers. Both measuring about the same. Hell of a trick for someone who was supposedly shooting blanks”.
You let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sob. “You’re… sure?”.
He tilted the probe so you could see clearly: two separate little spaces, each with its own tiny gray blob inside.
“Positive”, he said. “Trust me, I’ve been staring at these things longer than your boyfriend’s been radioactive. One’s snuggled in closer to the front, other’s tucked back high. That’s why it took a minute”.
You swallowed. Twice. Failed both times. “Ben”, you said weakly. He didn’t answer, so you turned your head.
He wasn’t watching you. He was staring at the screen like someone had hit him with a truck made of feelings. Both hands were on you now. One clamped around your fingers, the other hovering near your stomach like he didn’t know whether to touch or not. His eyes flicked from one little blob to the other, back and forth, like he was counting and kept getting the same impossible number.
“Two”, he said, very quietly. “There’s… two”.
“Yeah, genius”, Stein muttered. “Keeps happening when you idiots think biology is optional”.
Ben ignored that completely.
“Doc”, he said with his voice rough. “They’re okay? Both of them?”.
“Heartbeats are good”, Stein tapped a key and the room filled with sound. A rapid but steady thudding. “There’s one…”. He shifted the probe a hair. A second, slightly different rhythm joined the first. Not perfectly in sync, just offset enough you could tell them apart. “…and there’s the other”, Stein finished. “Two distinct heart rates. Little speed-monsters, both of ’em”.
Whatever air you had left in your lungs left on a trembling exhale.
“That’s—”, you started, then had to stop, choking on the word. “That’s them?”.
“Yep”, Stein said. “That’s your whole circus”.
You stared at the monitor, tears blurring the blobs, or sacs or.. the flickers. You’d barely wrapped your head around one. Two was… beyond you.
You felt Ben’s thumb start moving against your knuckles, clumsy little circles like he was trying to soothe himself and forgot whose hand he was holding.
“Fucking shit”, he whispered. “I overachieved”.
A wet laugh burst out of you, half-hysterical. “Yeah, congratulations. You didn’t just break science, you punched it in the face”.
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, too, still looking a little shell-shocked. “Vought says I can’t knock anyone up, I give ’em twins”.
Stein clicked a few more buttons, snapped a couple of stills, then glanced at you both. “You two planning on breathing at any point, or should I get the oxygen?”.
You sucked in a shaky breath. “Are twins… more risky?”.
“Can be”, he said honestly. “More to watch. But from what I see right now? They look fine. You’ll need regular checkups, more than a standard pregnancy, but it’s not a death sentence. Assuming”, he added, giving Ben a pointed look, “you keep her out of gunfights and away from explosions like a sane man”.
Ben didn’t even smirk at that. He dragged his gaze away from the screen long enough to meet Stein’s eyes. “She’s done”, he said, no room for argument. “They’re done. No more missions. You´re done. I´ll tell Butcher you´re radioactive for the next year for all I care”.
You opened your mouth to protest, maybe habit, reflex, but he cut you a look that shut it down fast.
“Don’t”, he said quietly. “I’m not losing you or them because you think you gotta prove something”. You just closed your mouth.
Stein turned the sound down, the tiny heartbeats fading to a ghost in the machines as he wiped the gel from your belly. “You can sit up”, he said. “I’ll get the lab stuff ready. Try not to fall off the table thinking about college tuition”.
You pushed yourself up slowly. Ben was there immediately, hand at your elbow, the other still clutching the little strip of grainy photos Stein handed over. He looked at them like they might disappear if he blinked. Two little shapes. Side by side in black and white.
He swallowed hard. “We made two”, he murmured, a little stunned and a little proud. Well, more than a little. “Guess I really don’t do anything halfway, huh?”.
You laughed again, still helpless. “Never thought I’d wish you were less effective”.
He finally looked up at you then, and there was something blazing behind the shock. Fear, yeah, but also this fierce, stunned joy that made your chest hurt.
“Hey”, he said softly. “Look at me”.
You did.
“We’ll figure it out”, he said. “However big this shit gets. However loud. However many… tiny terrorists you end up carrying”. His mouth twitched. “We got this”.
You nodded, the word ours settling somewhere deep and shaking you apart in a way that somehow put you together at the same time.
Stein cleared his throat, shuffling in a drawer for vials. “Alright, lovebirds”, he grumbled. “Save the epiphanies, we still got blood to draw. And you—”, he pointed at Ben, “—sit down before you face-plant. You’re white as a sheet”.
“I’m fine”, Ben said.
You squeezed his hand. “Sit”, you echoed.
He sighed but sat. But his knee stayed pressed against the exam table, his shoulder in easy reach, the little ultrasound strip clutched between his fingers like he’d finally found something he actually wanted to protect more than his own warped, indestructible hide. Two somethings. Well, three.
-
One month later, Ben bought a house. Like, an actual house.
You stood in the gravel driveway in front of it, hoodie unzipped over the first pair of stupid maternity jeans you’d finally caved and bought, staring up at the two-story place like it might disappear if you blinked wrong.
White siding, dark roof and a porch that wrapped halfway around. A scraggly yard that could be nice if someone cared about it. A Big old tree out front with branches stretching over the street. Not a mansion, not a shack. Just… a house.
“Pretty sure this is illegal”, you said eventually. “People like us don’t get houses. We get bunkers and safe houses and places with mold”.
Ben snorted beside you, jingling the keys like a kid with a new toy. “Relax. Deed’s legit. Papers are signed. I even paid the damn taxes”.
“With what?”, you asked. “Vought reward points?”.
He smirked. “Back pay. I finally got my hands on my money from before they stuck me in the Russian popsicle machine. If they want it back, they can try and pry it from my cold, glowing hands”. He bumped your shoulder with his. “Come on. Before you decide you’re allergic to normal”.
Inside, the air smelled like dust and wood and fresh paint in a couple of rooms. The living room was big and empty, sunlight slanting through bare windows onto worn hardwood floors. There was a fireplace. An actual fireplace.
You turned in a slow circle. “This is…”.
“Weird?”, he offered.
“Yeah”, you said. “Weird”.
He watched your face, that half-smirk pulling at his mouth. “Wait till you see the kitchen. It has counters that aren’t metal. And a dishwasher”.
You let him tow you through the downstairs. Kitchen, dining room, a little office space he muttered something about turning into “mission command” even though you weren’t supposed to be doing missions anymore.
Then he steered you toward the stairs. “Careful”, he said, hand at the small of your back.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m pregnant, not ninety”.
“You’re both”, he said. “You get winded putting on socks now”.
“That’s your fault”, you muttered climbing.
You were already showing; just enough that the hoodie didn’t quite hide it anymore. A soft curve low under your ribs, more obvious in the mornings and after you ate. Ben had noticed the second it started and hadn’t shut up since.
“You’re really gonna bring two extra passengers into my house and then complain about being tired?”, he’d grinned earlier that week, palm curving over the new roundness. “Selfish”.
Upstairs, he stopped you in the hallway, one hand over your eyes. “No peeking”, he ordered.
“Ben—”.
“Trust me”, he said, steering you forward. “You’ll like this one”.
He pushed the door open, guided you a few steps inside, then let go. You blinked.
Sunlight poured through a wide window overlooking the patchy backyard. The walls were bare, but someone, definitely not him, had patched the plaster and smoothed the corners. The floor was empty, just clean wood and light.
Two doors stood on the far wall. Two rooms. It hit you then. “Seriously?”, you said, your throat tight.
He shrugged, aiming for casual and missing it by a mile. “Figured they should have their own spaces". He gestured. “That one’s a little bigger. Maybe for the firstborn”. His mouth twitched. “Unless they both come at once and fight over it. In that case, they can arm-wrestle”.
You didn’t move. You felt… frozen. Like your brain had hit some kind of emotional overload and pulled the plug. He noticed.
“Hey”, he said, a little softer. “You alright?”.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, fingers linking over the stretch of fabric at your middle. “It just… looks real in here”, you said with a thin voice. “Italy was… vacation. The apartment was… temporary. Even the ultrasound was just a screen. But this—”. Your eyes flicked to the window, the walls, the closets, back to him. “This looks like… forever”.
His jaw worked. “That’s the idea”, he said quietly. “You said you never had a place that was yours. So”. He spread his hands. “Here”.
A hysterical little laugh escaped you. “You bought us a house”.
“Yeah”.
“A house-house”.
“Last I checked”.
“With rooms for kids”, you said, like if you said it out loud it might make more sense. “And a fireplace. And probably a water bill”.
“Among other adult horrors”, he said. “Garbage day. People asking to borrow tools”.
You laughed weakly, then went quiet.
He watched the way your shoulders curled in, the way your eyes flicked away from the doorway that led to another room what would clearly be a nursery, then back to the floor. “You’re not breathing again”, he said.
You dragged in air, but it didn’t help much. “I just… I’m nineteen, Ben. I dropped out and ran away, then killed supes and hid in shitty apartments and now I’m… here? In a house? With—”, your hand fluttered helplessly at your stomach, “—them?”.
He didn’t flinch at the number. You’d said it before. You were legal, he’d drawn the line, you’d crossed it together.
But this was different.
He stepped closer, leaning his shoulder against the door frame across from you. “You want the truth?”, he asked.
“That would be refreshing”, you muttered.
“I don’t know what I’m doing either”, he said. “I’ve blown up tanks and flown planes and done PR tours on three continents. I’ve never bought a fuckin´ crib”. His mouth twisted. “Kinda thought my skill set wouldn’t ever include ‘learn how to install a baby gate without breaking the wall’”. You snorted, despite yourself.
He pushed off the frame and came to stand in front of you, hands slipping into his pockets, giving you space without stepping away. “You’re scared ’cause you’re young”, he said. “I’m scared ’cause I’m old. You think you’re too early, I think I’m too late. Congratulations, we cancel each other out”.
You made a face. “That’s not how it works”.
“Sure it is”, he said. “If we say so”.
You sighed, looking down at your stomach. It was rounding more every day, your shirts tugging a little tighter. Sometimes, when you lay still, you swore you felt a weird flutter… gas, probably, but your brain turned it into something else.
“I feel like…”. You hesitated, searching for the words. “Like I skipped levels. Like I was supposed to have other… lives first. Parties. Stupid jobs. Bad apartments that are mine instead of Butcher’s. Maybe a shitty, age-appropriate boyfriend who cried when I dumped him”.
Ben’s expression barely flickered at that, but his eyes went a shade darker. “If you want a shitty little boyfriend, I can throw a rock at the nearest college”.
“Shut up,” you said, but there was no heat in it.
He looked around the room, the empty walls, the clean floor, the doorways to the not-yet-rooms. “Look”, he said, more serious, “you didn’t get those lives. You got this one. Raw deal in a lot of ways, sure. But it’s the one we’re standing in”. He met your gaze again. “You don’t have to pretend to be thrilled. You don’t have to do the now-days mom thing where you’re ecstatic about every stupid onesie. You wanna be pissed you’re young and got drafted into parenthood early? You get to be pissed”.
You swallowed. “And you?”.
He shrugged, a little helpless, a little fierce. “I’m… happy”, he admitted. “In my own fucked-up way. I didn’t think I got this. At all. House. You. Them. Any of it”. He glanced at your stomach and his voice went softer. “Feels like I stole something back they tried real hard to take”.
The words dug under your ribs.
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m not happy”, you blurted. “I am. I just… my brain keeps switching between ‘wow, this is amazing’ and ‘holy shit, I am a child, someone call an adult’”.
He snorted. “Honey, there are no adults. Just other motherfuckers with mortgages”.
You huffed a laugh, wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. He stepped in closer, finally, and rested both hands lightly on your sides, thumbs curving under the small swell of your bump. “You got scared when we found out about them”, he said. “I weren’t sure then either. But… I still wanted ’em. You wanted them, right?”. You nodded, throat tight. “That hasn’t changed”, he said. “What can changed is where we are when it all hits. I don’t want you raise my kids in a apartmet with a chair under the doorknob. I want you here. In a bed that doesn’t sag. With a working lock and a room ready for them if you decide to keep ’em with me”.
Your heart stuttered. “If?”.
He held your gaze. “It’s your life”, he said. “I’m all in if you are. Hell, I’m already halfway to buying fucking little shoes. But if you wake up tomorrow and say you can’t do this, I’m not chaining you to the white fence with a smile and a lie”. You stared at him, floored by the bluntness. “You want out”, he went on, voice only a little shaky, “we talk. You want in, we paint these walls whatever stupid color you want and I learn how to assemble fucking furniture without killing anyone”.
You looked around the room again. At the blank space, the open doorways, the sunlight. At his big hands resting on your body like you were something to protect, not trap.
“I want in”, you said, quietly but clear. “I’m just… terrified”.
He let out a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good”.
“Good?”, you repeated incredulous.
“Yeah”, he said. “Means you’re paying attention”.
You let out a shaky laugh.
He dipped his head, kissed your forehead, lingering there for a second. “I’ll be happy enough for both of us for a while”, he murmured. “You catch up when you can”.
You closed your eyes, letting that sink in. When you opened them, he’d pulled back enough to look at you, that irritating smirk creeping in again. “Besides”, he added, tone turning teasing, “you’re already halfway to that funny walk. You kinda waddled getting out of the cab”.
You gaped at him. “I do not waddle.”
“You kinda do”, he said, eyes flicking down, amused. “Little bit of… sway”.
“That’s your children stretching my ligaments, you asshole”, you said, swatting his shoulder.
“Our children” he corrected, smug. His hands slid around to the small of your back, tugging you in until your bump pressed against his stomach. “And for the record? You look good. Think I might have a thing for the whole… ‘could stab me if I say the wrong fucking thing’ vibe”.
“You have a thing for being punched”, you muttered, but your cheeks heated anyway.
He grinned. “Only by you”.
Silence settled again, softer this time.
You looked past him, out the window at the tree in the yard, at the stretch of grass that could someday be full of plastic toys and tiny shoes and two little people who didn’t exist anywhere but a fuzzy ultrasound and the gentle outward push of your belly.
You were still young. Too young, maybe. Still scared.
But as Ben stood there with his hands warm on your back and his stupidly hopeful eyes on your face, in a house he’d bought with blood money to try and build something that wasn’t all damage- you felt something else weave through the fear. Not all-out, movie-montage joy. But somehing. The beginning of wanting this.
“You’re really okay with this?”, you asked one more time, needing to hear it.
He glanced around at the empty room, then back at you. “Babe”, he said, “I bought a goddamn house. I´m in deep”.
You snorted, soft. “Fair”.
He squeezed your sides, mouth curving. “Come on. Let’s go check out the backyard".
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 4467
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The Italian sun was hotter than you’d imagined. The sky above the Amalfi coast was blinding blue, all salt breeze and sun-warmed tile and not a hint of Vought billboards or safe house tension in sight. Your apartment was small, but the water was just a hundred steps down the crooked street.
Right now you were in the bathroom, twisting under the mirror, trying to decipher which tie went where and how the hell these bottoms counted as “coverage”. Ben had bought you a new bikini. A european one.
You squinted at your reflection, huffing as you tried to knot a stubborn strap behind your back.
You fought the suit another minute, growling as the top twisted around itself for the third time.
“Oh, come on”, you muttered, wrestling with a loop. Then the tie snapped out of your fingers, the knot half-done and the whole thing threatening to come loose.
“Ben!”, you shouted, frustration tipping into laughter, “I need help!”.
You heard the heavy tread of his feet and the kitchen noise cut off. He didn’t even bother with the door, just stuck his head in, eyebrows raised, sunglasses still perched on his head.
“Thought you said you were a grown woman who didn’t need a damn thing from me”, he said, a smirk already threatening at the corners of his mouth.
You shot him a glare over your shoulder, arms twisted behind you and the bikini top dangling uselessly. “Yeah, well, I also said I wouldn’t die of embarrassment in a tiny Italian bathroom, and look how that’s going”.
He came in, making the room feeling smaller instantly. He let the door swing shut behind him and reached for the dangling strings.
“Turn around”, he ordered, with his voice softer than usual.
You did, cheeks burning, letting your arms drop.
He took his time, much more than was strictly necessary, and sliding the straps into place, while his knuckles were brushing your bare skin. His breath was warm at your ear. “Relax”, he said quietly, knotting the tie with effortless precision. “You look good”.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but you didn’t move away. “I look like I got lost in a pile of spaghetti”.
He made a noise, something between a laugh and a hum, and his hands lingered on your hips, pulling you back against him, bare skin to bare skin. “If spaghetti looked like this, I’d never fucking eat anything else”.
You felt the laughter catch in your throat, nerves fluttering as you let yourself lean back against his chest, the last of your anxiety dissolving in his touch.
“Alright”, he said, mouth brushing your shoulder, “let’s see how many Italians we can make crash their fucking scooter today”.
You snorted, turning to swat him on the chest, but he only grinned wider.
“Come on”, he said, tugging you toward the door. “Beach is waiting”.
At the beach, you’d barely had time to pick a spot when Ben reached over, hooked an arm behind your knees and another around your back, and just… lifted.
“Ben—!”, you yelped, instinctively grabbing his shoulders as your feet left the ground. “Put me down!”.
“Nope”, he said, already striding toward the water, utterly unbothered. “You’ll chicken out and sit there reading a menu in bad Italian for an hour”.
You clung tighter. “I can walk!”.
“Yeah”, he said. “But this is funnier”.
The sea breeze whipped at your hair, droplets of salt spray already kissing your calves as he waded in. The water was bright blue up close and clearer than anything you’d seen back home.
You squirmed. “Seriously, put me down, you asshole”.
He huffed. “Christ, you’re heavier than last time”.
Your jaw dropped. “Wow. Thats fucking Rude”.
“Not my fault”, he grunted, adjusting his grip, arms flexing under you. “You’ve been eating lasagna like there’s a war on”.
“You’ve been feeding me lasagna like there’s a war on!”, you shot back. “That’s your fault and your weird love affair with italian food. You bought me gelato twice yesterday”.
“Yeah, well”, he said, smirking up at you, “looks good on you”.
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the sun. You resisted the urge to hide your face in his shoulder while he took another few steps. The water was swirling around his knees now, then his thighs, cool and sharp against your skin where it splashed. He stopped when the water reached just under his chest, waves lapping at your calves where they dangled. He adjusted his grip again, sliding one hand a little higher on your back, the other under your thighs, holding you up like you weighed nothing.
“You know I´m obsessed with you, right?".
You stared at him, sun and salt and stupid tears stinging the back of your eyes.
He didn’t even blink, like the answer was obvious. “Yeah. Like the kind of obsessed that buys gelato twice and pretends it’s just because it was on the way”. His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed steady on yours. “You can call me an asshole all day, I’ll take it. But don’t you ever think for a second I’m not crazy about you”.
“Ben”, you said, voice a little unsteady.
“What?”.
“Throw me”, you said. “Before I get sappy”.
He barked out a laugh and without warning, tossed you forward into the water. You hit the sea with a squeal and a splash.
He was still laughing when you broke through, pushing your hair out of your face.
“You said throw you”.
“You launched me!”, you spluttered, shoving water at him. “I’m gonna drown”.
“You float”, he said. “I’ve seen it”.
You lunged at him, sending another wave in his direction. He let you splash him once and twice, then reached out, snagged you around the waist, and pulled you back against his chest, both of you half-submerged now with the water warm around your hips.
“Hey”, he said, low enough that only you could hear over the crash of the waves.
You looked up, breath still a little fast, cheeks flushed from more than the swim.
“I mean it".
You just nodded since your throat was way too tight.
-
Open suitcase, crumpled receipts and a trail of sand from the door to the bathroom. You were digging for a clean shirt when your fingers brushed cardboard. You glanced down. Tampons. A half-full box, flaps open, shoved in the corner where you’d tossed it when you first unpacked.
You stared at them for a beat with your brain blissfully blank.
Then something ugly and cold slid down your spine. You hadn’t touched that box since… you tried to remember. Before the safe house mission with the sniper. Before the couch. Before that night you turned eighteen and everything jumped tracks. Before the couch.
You sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Your shirt was long forgotten in your hands.
Your period was always a mess. Stress, bad sleep, shitty food, the constant whiplash of near-death… it all did a number on your body. You’d skipped before. Came late. Came early. It was chaos. But not like this.
You did the math, staring at the box like it had personally betrayed you.
Last time had been… the week you got your hip sliced open. Before Ben changed the bandage in the safe house. You’d grumbled about the timing, shoved pads in your pocket, doubled up on painkillers and pretended it was fine.
That was… almost three months ago. Your mouth went dry. Three. Whole. Months.
You glanced toward the half-open bathroom door. Steam was still fogging the mirror from Ben’s shower. You could hear the faucet dripping, the faint clink of him in the kitchenette humming under his breath, probably making coffee too strong for mortals.
Your heart started to hammer. No. You grabbed for excuses with both hands.
Stress. You’d almost died, more than once. Missions back-to-back, adrenaline spikes, moving to a new place, your whole life turning itself inside out. Bodies did weird shit under pressure. Cycles went off the rails all the time.
Three months, though.
You swallowed and pressed your palm flat against your stomach, as if you’d feel something different. It was just… you. A little softer maybe, from Italy’s carbs and gelato, but not—no.
You thought of what he’d said in bed: “Didn’t find out till way down the line it wasn’t on the menu”. The V. Sterile. “Not on the menu”.
Your throat tightened. It couldn’t be that. He couldn’t. You couldn’t. You’d half let yourself go reckless because of it, somewhere in the back of your head. No condoms. No pills. Supes didn’t make babies. Not naturally. Your brain threw up cruel questions anyway.
What if Vought was wrong? What if you’re the exception? What if you’re late and stupid and this is your own fault?
Your hands shook.
“Babe?”, Ben’s voice drifted in from the other room, casual. “You seen my other boot? The dumb Italian one. Looks like an idiot’s boat shoe”.
You startled so hard the box flipped, tampons spilling over your clothes. One bounced onto the floor at your feet. You stared at it like it was a grenade.
“Uh—no”, you called, voice way too high. “Haven’t seen it”.
Silence from the kitchen.
“You good in there?”.
You scrambled for normal. “Yeah! Just—dropping everything I own. As usual”.
You shoved the tampons back into the box with shaking hands, stuffed it into the suitcase, and yanked the zipper halfway closed like that might shove the thought away too. It didn’t.
Your pulse skittered and your mind ran ahead of you: How would Ben feel?
You remembered his hand on your belly last week, his thumb stroking idly as you lay on the beach. The way he’d talked about kids like they were something he’d buried and stamped classified years ago.
You didn’t know if this was real. You didn’t know if you could even be. But you knew one thing: You had to know. Really know. Not “maybe”, not “what if”, not mental math and panic and guessing.
A pharmacy was two streets over. You’d walked past it yesterday.
“Ben?”, you said, stepping out of the bedroom.
He was standing by the counter, in a soft t-shirt and those stupid Italian shoes, hair still wet and a coffee mug in hand. When he saw your face, his brows pulled together instantly. “What’s wrong?”, he said, just like that. No warm-up. No joke.
You forced your shoulders to loosen. “Nothing. Just… thinking I might walk down, grab some stuff. Shop. Whatever”.
He frowned. “What stuff?”.
Your brain offered up pregnancy test way too loud.
You swallowed it. “Girl stuff. Boring stuff”.
His eyes flicked over your bare legs, your hand still subconsciously hovering near your stomach and the way you weren’t quite meeting his gaze.
He set the mug down, lips pressing into a line. “You sure you’re alright?”.
You lied. “Yeah. Just… restless… Sand’s gotten into… everything”.
He studied you a second longer. You felt stripped bare, like he could see every thought stamped on your forehead. Then he nodded once. “Alright. Don’t let some creep talk you into buying fake sunglasses for a hundred euros. And take your phone”.
You managed a smile. “Yes, dad”.
That earned you a faint eye roll and the ghost of a smirk, but his eyes were still sharp.
You grabbed your bag, slipped on sandals with hands that didn’t feel like yours, and stepped out into the blinding Italian sunlight.
You walked on autopilot. Your heart thudded all the way there and louder still when you stepped into the cool, white pharmacy.
The shelves were full of unfamiliar brands, everything labeled in Italian. You wandered until you found the section with little boxes covered in pastel colors. It was weirdly quiet.
You grabbed the first recognizable test with shaking fingers, then a second, just in case. The woman at the register didn’t even blink, just handed you a flimsy plastic bag and a soft “grazie”. You murmured something back and walked home in a fog.
A few minutes later, you slipped inside your rental to find Ben on the couch with one arm draped along the back cushions, watching the door the second it opened. His eyes immediately dropped to the bag in your hand. “Get what you needed?”, he asked.
You tightened your grip around the plastic with your pulse in your throat. “Yeah. Just… shampoo. Stuff”.
He looked like he wanted to call you on it. Instead, he nodded once, slow. “Bathroom’s all yours”.
You practically bolted, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The little room suddenly felt too small.
You set the bag on the sink, pulled the tests out and stared at them. The instructions were half in Italian, half in tiny pictures. And all along, your stupid hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
You’d faced supes. Guns. Explosions. You’d watched Ben take bullets, watched people die, watched buildings fall.
But this? This stupid little plastic stick? Terrifying.
You took a breath and you did what you had to do.
Then you set the test on the edge of the sink, sat down on the closed toilet lid, and buried your face in your hands while the clock in your head screamed.
Five minutes later, the little plastic window might as well have been a gun barrel pointed at your face.
You watched the color creep across it, breath shallow, fingers digging into your knees. One line bloomed fast. The control line. The second took longer.
For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined the faint shadow of it. Stress or the light. Anything.
Then it darkened. Undeniable pink.
Positive.
Your ears buzzed. The tiny bathroom tilted, the edges going swimmy and your heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.
No.
No, no, no.
You grabbed the second test with hands that barely felt attached to your body and went through it again. Same steps. Same shaking. Same stupid waiting.
Same result. Two lines. Twice.
Your mouth was dry. Your thoughts had turned into fog. Words like impossible and supe and V and this can’t be happening collided uselessly in your head.
You don’t even know how long you sat there with your elbows on your knees and both tests dangling between your fingers, while staring at nothing.
But eventually Ben knocked.
“Y/N? You fall in or something?”.
You flinched so hard the tests nearly slipped from your hand. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t form a plan. The idea of hiding it, shoving the sticks in the bin and pretending, vanished the second you pictured his face if he found out later. If something happened. If you didn’t say it.
Your legs felt like they were filled with sand when you stood.
Then you opened the door.
He was right there in the little hall with one hand braced on the frame and worry already etched between his brows. The TV behind him was still murmuring some Italian show no one was watching. His eyes swept your pale face, then dropped to your hand. To the two small white sticks. He frowned. “What’s that?”.
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
He reached, carefully, closing his fingers around one of them, easing it from your grasp. He turned it over in his hand, squinting at the little window, at the lines.
“That a… medical thing?”, he asked, voice gone flat. “You sick? You catch something?”.
You swallowed. “It’s a pregnancy test”.
He went very still.
You saw the exact second his brain went somewhere sideways. Saw his eyes harden and pull back, like he’d just taken a hit he hadn’t seen coming.
“Yeah?”, he said slowly. “And, uh… whose is it?”.
You blinked, thrown. “What?”.
He held the test up a fraction. “You waving around somebody else’s fucking problem at me, or you wanna tell me why you’re in my fucking bathroom crying over two pink lines?”.
“I—”, your throat closed. “It’s mine, Ben. Obviously”.
Something ugly flickered across his face. Hurt, confusion and anger tangled up. “You didn’t think to mention that before you started shacking up in my bed? When exactly did we fit in the fucking part where you went and got knocked up?”.
For a breath, all you could do was stare at him.
Then the shock boiled over into something sharp and hot and way easier to hold than fear.
“Oh my God!", you snapped, voice cracking. “Are you fucking serious right now?”.
His eyes narrowed. “You gonna answer the fucking question?”.
“Yeah, sure, let me check my schedule!”, you shot back, words tumbling out fast and mean because if you slowed down you’d break. “Was it before or after you practically moved into my freaking vagina for two months straight? You wanna run the timeline together?”.
“Y/N—”.
“No, really”, you barreled on, half-hysterical. “At what point between ‘taking my virginity on the safe house couch’ and ‘dragging me to another country and barely letting me out of bed’ did I have time to go sleep with someone else? You think I’m teleporting dick in on my lunch break?”.
His mouth opened, closed. Some of the color drained from his face.
“You haven’t left me alone for more than five minutes since my birthday”, you said, quieter now but shaking, tears burning hot at the corners of your eyes. “You’ve been there every night. Every morning. Every time. So if you wanna know whose it is—”. You jabbed a finger at his chest, the test wobbling in his hand. “Do the damn math, Ben!”.
Silence. Ben stared at you like he was trying to see straight through your skin. Then he looked down at the test again, at the twin pink lines. His throat worked.
“That’s—”, he started. “That’s not possible”, he mumbled.
You laughed, a broken little sound that had nothing funny in it. “Yeah”, you said, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand. “That’s what I thought too”.
Ben just stood there. He looked… wrong. Like someone had pulled the ground out from under him but he was still standing on muscle memory. His hand tightened around the test until the plastic creaked.
“They said I couldn’t”, he muttered, more to himself than you. “They tested it. For weeks". His mouth twisted. “Vought doesn’t leave that kind of thing to chance”.
“I know what two lines mean”, you said with your chest tight. “Twice”.
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Could be wrong. Could be a bad batch or—shit, I don’t know, Italian cheap knockoff”.
You held up the other stick, your hand still shaking. “Two different brands, Ben".
He stared at it. At you. At the bathroom like it might offer backup.
“Have you been sick?”, he asked suddenly, too fast. “Throwing up, dizzy, anything—”.
“Yes”, you snapped. “Because we keep nearly dying and you keep wearing me out and Italy keeps feeding me dairy. I thought it was stress. Or jetlag… Or you”.
He winced.
You exhaled, the anger burning itself down to something more raw. “I haven’t had a period in three months”, you said quieter. “My body’s never been this late. Not even when things were at their worst. I checked twice. I did the test twice. You can tell yourself it’s fake, but I’m the one living in it”.
Silence stretched.
Then he finally sank down onto one of the kitchen chairs like his knees had given out, the test still dangling between his fingers. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked… lost.
“If this is real”, he said slowly, “that means they lied”.
You let out a humorless huff. “Pretty on-brand for them”.
His jaw clenched. “No, you don’t get it. They built my whole life on that. On what I could and couldn’t do. If they screwed this up, if they knew—”. He broke off, something ugly and hot flashing in his eyes.
You realized, distantly, that part of his panic wasn’t just about what was happening to you now, it was about every woman he’d ever touched while believing he couldn’t do this. Every risk he hadn’t thought was a risk.
He stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked back up at you. The anger was still there, but it had shifted direction.
“Guess I shouldn’t have said that”, he rasped. “About you fucking with someone else. That was—”.
“Yeah”, you cut in. “That was bullshit”.
He nodded once, no defense. “Yeah”. His eyes met yours, steady now, if still rattled. “You’re right. I’ve been glued to your hip since the couch. I just…”, he blew out a breath, “I just… It Doesn’t exactly line up with what I’ve been told for decades”.
You swallowed and your shoulders started sagging a little in relief you didn’t want to admit to. “I get it. Kind of”.
He glanced down at the test again, thumb brushing the plastic like it might change.
“You feel okay?”, he asked. “Any pain?”.
“Just… weird”, you admitted. “Stomach’s been off. Tired. Thought it was you dragging me around Europe like a backpack”.
He snorted before he set the test down very carefully on the table and stood. Then he came closer. Close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep his face in view.
“Come here”, he said.
You didn’t move at first. Your feet felt rooted. His expression softened a fraction.
“I’m not gonna yell”, he added. “Just… c´mere”.
You stepped toward him and he reached out, slowly, and rested his warm palm flat against your lower stomach. You watched him watch his own hand, disbelief and something like awe warring in his eyes. Your throat tightened. He huffed out a small, strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh if there hadn’t been so much emotion caught in it.
Then his arm slid around your back and he pulled you in. Your forehead hit his chest and the rest of you followed, fingers bunching in his t-shirt like you were afraid the tile might drop out from under you next. You felt smaller than you had in a long time. Not because of him, but because of everything. The weight of what might be sitting under his hand and the way your whole life had just pivoted on two faint pink lines in a foreign bathroom.
His chin settled lightly on the top of your head. For a guy who could snap steel, he held you like you were made of blown glass. “We’re gonna need to go to a fucking doctor”, he murmured into your hair. “For blood work. And CT or.. whatever the hell they do these days. Find out if it’s true”.
You swallowed. Your voice came out small. “Here?”.
You pictured yourself trying to mime “hi, I might be pregnant with a supe’s baby” at some Italian doc. Your stomach rolled.
“I don’t… speak enough”, you admitted. “I can order coffee and point at gelato. That’s it”.
He sighed, the sound rumbling through his chest against your cheek. “Yeah”, he said. “Didn’t think that far ahead when I decided to play tourist”.
He was quiet a second, his thumb rubbing slow circles at the small of your back like he was soothing himself as much as you.
“I guess Europe’s on pause for now”, he finally said, resigned. “We go back”.
You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Back where?”.
“States”, he said. “Somewhere I can actually read the medical paperwork before I break someone’s nose”.
“New York?”, you asked.
His mouth twisted. “Where else? That’s where the devils we know are. And I’d rather be on a continent where I understand the swear words if something goes wrong”.
Panic fluttered in your chest at the thought of stepping back into that mess of Butcher, of Vought, the whole rotten pile, while this sat under your ribs.
You searched his face. “You sure?”.
He held your gaze for a long beat. Something settled behind his eyes.
“I’m sure I’m not running”, he said. “That’s what I got right now. The rest…”. He huffed, self-deprecating.
You nodded, a little dazed. “So… we go back”.
“Yeah”. He glanced past you, toward the window where a slice of sea and sky showed between the shutters. “I’ll book flights. We go straight to a doc that doesn’t have Vought stamped on the door".
“We tell the others?”, you asked, stomach flipping.
He considered it. “Not yet”, he said. “Not till we know for sure. I’m not handing Butcher fresh ammunition based on two pieces of plastic and a panic attack”.
You exhaled, a little of the pressure easing. “Okay”.
His hand shifted, fingers splaying a little wider over your belly. It was so light it barely felt like a touch, but you felt it everywhere.
“You’re gonna eat”, he said, slipping back into that bossy tone that had somehow become… steadying. “And drink water. And sit your ass down on the flight, no heroics, no heavy lifting, no sprinting through airports because you ‘don’t wanna miss duty free’”.
You made a face. “That was one time”.
“One time too many”, he said. “You’re… on a different list now”.
“Asset?”, you asked, grimacing at the word.
He shook his head, expression hardening like the idea offended him. “No. You’re mine. That’s the list”.
You let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay”, you said again. “We go home”.
He softened, just a touch, reaching up to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. “Hey”, he said. “You’re allowed to freak out”.
“I am freaking out”, you said. “Internally. Loudly. You just can’t hear it over your own crisis”.
That pulled a real, rough-edged laugh out of him. “Yeah, well. Guess we’re in this one together too”. He bent his head, pressing a brief, firm kiss to your forehead. “Get dressed”, he said against your skin.
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 6484
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You woke up. For a second you didn’t remember the room, or the aches deep in your muscles, or why the blanket that covered you smelled faintly of sweat and… whatever. Then you shifted and everywhere between your thighs lit up with a deep, pleasant soreness. Then memory slid into place in a messy and out-of-order rush.
The couch. Ben. The way he’d taken care of you after. You’d drifted, lost in exhaustion and his heartbeat, so deep you might’ve slept through an earthquake.
Now, you blinked your eyes open to the soft light seeping through the blinds. You stretched experimentally, just a little, careful of the ache, and realized you were wearing his shirt. You definitely hadn’t put it on yourself. The last thing you remembered, you’d been too limp to move. Your own clothes were nowhere in sight, but you didn’t even care.
Somewhere across the room, you heard a zipper and the low clink of metal on leather. Ben stood by the cracked mirror, half-dressed in his supe suit, with his hair still wet from a shower. He was moving quietly, like he was trying not to wake you, but even half-assembled he looked huge.
You made a soft, questioning noise in your throat, still bleary. Ben’s eyes flicked to you and something about the look, possessive, fond and a little smug, made your belly flip all over again.
“Morning, sleeping beauty”, he rumbled, adjusting a strap on his vest. “You planning on joining the land of the living, or you want me to tell Butcher you died of exhaustion?”.
You groaned, dragging the blanket higher over your bare thighs. “If he asks, tell him I was killed by a natural disaster”.
Ben snorted. “You’re not dead. Just worn out”. His gaze lingered on the expanse of bare leg below the hem of his shirt, something satisfied flickering in his eyes before he forced himself to look away. “You should get dressed. The idiots’ll be here soon and I’m not explaining why you’re naked except for my shirt”.
You laughed, but it came out shy, your cheeks heating as you sat up slowly. You caught him watching and you couldn’t help but grin. “You’re just embarrassed because you got soft last night”.
He raised a brow, buckling his belt. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing soft about me right now”.
You snorted, swinging your legs off the couch. Your skin was dotted with bruises and love bites, little marks that only made the memory heavier.
Ben watched you for another heartbeat, his expression unreadable. Then he came over, crouching beside the couch, one hand gentle on your knee as he looked you over, checking for anything he might’ve missed. “You okay?”, he asked, just a bit quieter now.
You nodded, letting your fingers tangle in the loose hem of the shirt. “Sore. Good sore”.
He smiled, a really fucking rare one, and brushed his thumb over your knee. “Good”.
A knock sounded, sharp and sudden, at the door. You both jumped, adrenaline fizzing through the peace.
“Shit”, Ben muttered, pushing to his feet. He finished zipping up his vest. “Get dressed. I’ll stall them”.
You made your way to the bathroom. Ben, for all his grumbling, had gathered up every scrap of your clothes (panties, jeans, even your socks) and stacked them neatly on the closed toilet lid. Folded. Folded.
You snorted, pressing a hand to your mouth to muffle a laugh.
Your body ached in a hundred places. Inside and out, every muscle humming with the memory of his hands, his mouth and his weight pinning you to the couch. But you didn’t regret a single second.
You peeled off his shirt slowly and breathing in the lingering scent of him. You pulled your underwear back on, wincing a little at the tenderness, then jeans, then your bra and shirt. Every movement felt strange, like your skin didn’t quite fit right anymore, too alive and new and stretched in all the right places.
You glanced at yourself in the mirror as you buttoned your jeans, pausing at the flush on your cheeks, the wild look in your eyes and the marks blooming on your throat. You looked different. Older, maybe. Like someone who’d been claimed and cherished and wrecked, all at once.
You smoothed your hair, ran cold water over your wrists and tried not to think too hard about what came next.
When you heard voices drifting from the kitchen, you padded down the hall.
“…I am telling you, mon coeur, this is the best bagel in the city within walking distance of a crime scene”, Frenchie was saying.
You stepped into the doorway. Frenchie, still in his jacket, had a cardboard tray of coffees on the table and a paper bag already ripped open, bagels spilling out. Kimiko sat on the counter, swinging her legs.
Ben leaned against the opposite counter in full suit and a mug in hand.
Three heads turned when you walked in. You were suddenly very glad you’d checked your reflection twice.
Frenchie brightened. “Ah! Tiens, the ghost of the safe house appears”. His eyes flicked to the microwave clock, then back to you. “You´re here… early”. He squinted playfully. “Very early”.
Kimiko cocked her head, watching you closely. Her nose started wrinkling a little, like she smelled something she couldn’t quite name.
Ben’s gaze swept over you once, quick. His jaw ticked almost imperceptibly when he saw you wince the tiniest bit stepping over a loose board.
“Couldn’t sleep”, you said, going straight for the bag like that was the most important thing in the room. “You two forget your keys again?”.
Frenchie pressed a hand to his chest. “We chose to knock. It is called manners, petite”.
“You also texted ‘open the door we are keyless again’”, you said, grabbing a bagel.
“That is… a separate issue”, he said. “Been here long?”, he asked casually, tearing his bagel in half. “Or did you simply teleport from your mysterious little flat in the sky?”.
You bit into yours to buy time. “Got in… earlier”, you said around a mouthful. “Beats traffic”.
Frenchie’s eyes narrowed, playful but sharper than usual. “Ah bon? And our dear Captain?”. He jerked his chin at Ben. “You are here before nine? Voluntarily? This is… how you say… deeply suspicious”.
Ben didn’t even look up from his coffee. “Somebody’s gotta make sure she doesn’t get herself killed on her way to the fridge”.
“You both beat us here”, Frenchie said, zeroing in now. “You, I expect late. You, I expect dramatic entrance”. He flicked his gaze between you, then gasped theatrically. “Mon dieu. Have you been… responsible?”.
He said the last word like it tasted bad.
You rolled your eyes, feeling your face warm anyway. “Maybe I just wanted first pick of the bagels”.
“Liar”, he said cheerfully, but let it drop.
Kimiko hopped off the counter and crossed to you. Up close, she scanned your face, your shoulders, your neck. Her eyes lingered on a faint purplish smudge just under your jaw, the one you’d missed.
Her gaze snapped to Ben. Then back to you.
You widened your eyes at her. Don’t.
Her lips curled, just a little, like she’d been given the best gossip of her week and was graciously choosing not to weaponize it. She gave your arm a quick squeeze, then went to steal Ben’s mug, taking a sip like she owned it.
He let her, which told you just how off-balance he still was.
The front door clicked again. This time no knock. Just the scrape of keys and Butcher’s muttering.
Annie stepped in first, shaking rain out of her hair, followed by Hughie juggling a folder and a reusable coffee cup. MM followed.
“Oi”, Butcher said, sniffing. “Smells like sadness and stress. Must be Tuesday”.
His gaze bounced around the room.
“You two are up with the birds”, he said, nodding at you and Ben. “Lose a bet?”.
“Couldn’t sleep”, you said for the third time that morning.
“Training”, Ben said at the same time.
There was a brief, awkward pause. MM’s eyebrow twitched upward. “Huh”.
Annie’s eyes flicked between you and Ben, lingering a second too long, then dropped to your neck. Her mouth pressed into a line. “You’ve got a—”, she started, then stopped herself. “Never mind”.
You surreptitiously tugged your collar up.
Hughie, bless him, zeroed in on the bag instead. “Are those… bagels?”, he asked. “Because I will sell everything for one”.
“Sold”, Frenchie said immediately.
“Alright, enough breakfast foreplay”, Butcher said, clapping his hands once. “We’ve got Vought’s filth to sort through”. He dropped a stack of files onto the table with a thud. “Gather ‘round, children”.
You slid into a chair, ignoring the way sitting made your thighs protest. Ben took his usual spot behind you, one hand braced on the back of your chair. If anyone noticed how close he was standing, they didn’t say anything.
MM spread the files out, starting in on the rundown.
Every so often, you felt the lightest brush of Ben’s fingers at the top of the chair… maybe accidental, maybe not. Once, when you shifted and your face tightened, his hand settled there a little more firmly, steadying what no one else could see.
No one here knew you’d been sleeping on this couch more nights than not.
No one here knew exactly what had happened on it last night.
To them, it was business as usual: one more job, one more meeting, one more day sticking it to the most powerful corporation on earth.
To you, every second felt double-exposed.
“Y/N”, MM’s voice pulled you back. “You got that?”.
You blinked, then found your place on the map, brain snapping into gear. “Yeah”, you said. “Vent access. Same as last time, only dirtier”.
“Perfect”, he said.
Butcher launched into the next part of the briefing. The table hummed with argument and strategy, the way it always did.
Behind you, Ben shifted his weight.
“Eyes up, kid”, he murmured under his breath, low enough that only you could hear. “Lot of moving parts today”.
You didn’t look back at him, but the corner of your mouth ticked up. “I’m not a kid”, you whispered back.
His hand gave the chair a tiny tap, like a secret punctuation only you would notice.
“Yeah”, he said quietly. “I know”.
-
Pre-mission ritual: eat whatever’s left in the kitchen and pretend none of you might die in an hour.
You drifted toward the living room, just to stand, stretch your legs and shake off the briefing.
Hughie wandered with you, scrolling through his phone. “I’m just saying”, he was rambling, “if Vought did ever try to make a dating app, it would be—”. He dropped onto the couch. Onto that couch. The only one.
You froze mid-step.
He bounced once, settling back with a sigh. “Okay, this is… damp”, he muttered. “Why is this damp?”.
You could still see last night in your head if you let yourself: your knees braced there, his hand there, the way— Nope. Abort.
Ben, from the doorway, went very, very still.
Kimiko paused mid-bite on a piece of bagel, eyes flicking from Hughie to the cushions, then to you, then to Ben. Her nose scrunched faintly. Her gaze sharpened like she’d just caught a whiff of something again.
“…probably condensation”, you blurted. “Radiator’s weird”.
“The radiator’s across the room”, Hughie said, frowning. He patted the cushion, then sniffed his hand. “And it smells like someone spilled… I don’t know. Something Funny?“.
You had to look away before you lost it, biting your cheek so hard you tasted blood. There was no universe where you were going to admit what really made that cushion damp. Especially not with Ben just inside the door, statue-still, watching the whole thing with that iron control that made you suspect he was just as close to losing it as you.
Hughie’s face twisted. “This is definitely not water”, he said, then wiped his palm on his jeans. “God, what did I just sit in?”.
Kimiko, who’d been watching with hawk-like intensity, shrugged one shoulder and signed something quick at you when Hughie wasn’t looking. You caught the gist: Your secret is safe. But ew.
You shot her a look equal parts gratitude and mortification.
Frenchie drifted in, pausing behind the couch. He leaned in, sniffed once, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Ah, oui, that is… the scent of love”, he said, straight-faced, but with the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You made a strangled sound, barely keeping your water down. Ben looked like he wanted to throttle someone, maybe Hughie, maybe Frenchie, maybe himself.
Hughie got up fast, rubbing his hands together, clearly unsettled. “I’m gonna… yeah. I’ll just, uh, get a chair”.
But he barely got up, when MM’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Let’s go, people! Gear up or get left behind”.
Butcher clapped his hands, ready to get moving. “If anybody left bodily fluids on the furniture, you’re on cleanup duty”.
You felt your cheeks go red all over again. Ben looked straight ahead, a little smirk threatening to ruin his whole soldier-boy image.
Then you grabbed your vest and headed for the door, the chaos of the team swirling around you, everyone falling into old rhythms. You made a mental note: next time, not on the couch. Just… anywhere with a washable surface. Just… not the couch.
-
Gear-up always felt the same. Except it didn’t feel the same. Not with Ben this close.
You were tightening the straps on your vest when his shadow fell over you. Ben’s hand landed on the front buckle, his big fingers brushing yours aside like you were a kid trying to help in the garage.
“Too loose”, he muttered, cinching it tighter. The motion pulled you a fraction toward him, your nose almost bumping his chest. “You wanna keep your ribs or not?”.
You swallowed. “Kinda attached, yeah”.
He huffed and gave the strap one last firm tug, his knuckles grazing the side of your breast. If he noticed, he didn’t let it show. His gaze stayed on the gear, not your face.
“Stay behind me when we breach”, he said, already shifting to check the side straps. “No hero shit”.
You rolled your eyes. “That’s Kimiko’s department”.
“And yours, lately”, he said, low. “Cut it out”.
You didn’t get a chance to answer, cause MM called positions while Frenchie started humming something that was definitely not calming.
The target was another Vought satellite site. A nondescript office building with too much surveillance for the amount of “legitimate business” going on. The plan was simple: Annie and Kimiko on heavy hitters, Frenchie and MM on cleanup and Hughie and Butcher running support and extraction.
You? Eyes, ears, and get-in-get-out through tight spaces. Normal.
Except you didn’t get three steps from the van door before Ben was there, falling into stride at your side like it had been assigned.
You frowned. “You’re supposed to be point”.
“I am point”, he said. “You’re with me”.
“That wasn’t—”.
“New plan”, he cut in. “Congratulations, you’ve been upgraded to ‘never leaving my fucking sight’”.
You shot him a look. “You realize I’m more useful when I’m not welded to your shoulder, right?”.
“You’re plenty useful right there”, he said. “I can see you”.
“You don’t have to—”.
“I do, actually”, he said. “Turns out I sleep better when you’re not bleeding out in a stairwell”.
That shut you up.
You reached the side entrance. MM nodded at Ben. “You take point, we stack behind. Y/N, you—”.
“With me”, Ben said automatically.
MM’s eyes flicked between you for a second. He filed that away, you could tell, but didn’t comment. “Fine. Just don’t steamroll the rest of us… Captain”.
“No promises”, Ben muttered, but there was no real bite in it.
Inside, it was the usual.
You moved like you always did. The difference was him. Every time you ducked ahead to check a corner, his hand shot out, catching the back of your vest, the strap of your backpack or the crook of your elbow. Not yanking you back, just… reeling you in, keeping you within arm’s reach.
“Slow the fuck down”, he muttered the third time. “Walls aren’t going anywhere”.
“You brought me for recon”, you whispered. “You want recon, you gotta let me get eyes”.
“Then stay where I can see you”, he said.
“You can see me fine”, you hissed. “Supe eyes, remember?”.
He grunted but didn’t argue.
The deeper you got, the worse it became. Not the threat, no… his orbit.
When you boosted yourself into a ceiling panel to crawl across a blocked hallway, he paced directly underneath, shadow tracking your movement like he could catch you if you fell.
In the server room, while Frenchie and Annie argued about whose method of extraction was faster, you catched him watching you.
You raised an eyebrow. “You know I can walk and not spontaneously combust, right?”.
“Debatable”, he said. “You bruise like fruit”.
“Yeah, well, you’re…”, you gestured at all of him, “overkill”.
His mouth quirked. “Get used to it”.
You wanted to say you’re being weird because of last night. You wanted to ask him if he was going to do this forever, if he expected you never to take a risk again just because he’d decided you were… his, aparently. You didn’t.
Mostly because an alarm started blaring.
“Time’s up!”, Butcher yelled. “Five minutes till this place fills with piss and vinegar. Move your arses”.
The sprint to the extraction point was a blur. You almost slipped on a step slick with something you didn’t want to identify. You didn’t hit the ground, because Ben’s hand clamped around the back of your vest, hauling you upright so fast your feet left the concrete for half a second. “Got you".
“I had me”, you shot back, breathless.
“Not the way I like”, he said.
You also didn’t have a comeback for that.
By the time you piled back into the van, your lungs burning and ears ringing, you were wired and wrung out in equal measure. Frenchie flopped dramatically, Hughie tried not to hurl, Annie leaned her head back against the metal with her eyes closed. You slid into your usual spot. Ben sat beside you this time. Not across. Not near the door. Right there, his knee touching yours when the van lurched.
You stared at him for a second. “You know if you baby me on every mission now, they’re gonna notice”, you murmured only for him too hear.
“Let ‘em”, he grunted, not looking at you, staring straight ahead. “They can be annoyed you’re alive. I don’t care”.
“It can’t always be like this”, you said. “You can’t always throw yourself in front of every bullet”.
He finally turned his head, his eyes finding yours. “Watch me”.
Your heart did that annoying, traitorous stutter. You bumped his shoulder lightly with yours. “You’re impossible”.
He smirked, just a little. “You picked me”.
You hated how much that made you want to smile.
So you did. Just a bit. Only for him.
-
The day dragged endless after the mission. Debrief, patch-up, and pizza boxes scattered across the kitchen while Butcher threatening to kill Frenchie if he sang another word. By evening, everyone peeled off.
You were wiping down the counter, mind already drifting toward a hot shower and maybe a half-hearted attempt at sleep, when you realized Ben wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.
You found him by the door, suit still filthy, splattered with someone else’s blood. He was holding up your jacket, dangling it by the collar like he expected you to snatch it out of his hand.
“C’mon”, he said, voice rough. “Let’s go”.
You blinked, your hands pausing over the dish towel. “Go where?”.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna fuck you on that couch again”. He jerked his chin at the living room, mouth twisting in disgust. “It’s officially haunted. You come with me”.
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “What, you got a hotel room now?”.
He snorted but looking personally offended. “What, you think I’ve been jerking off in broom closets this whole time?”. He shook your jacket a little. “I got an apartment”.
You stared. “Since when?”.
“Since I decided I was sick of waking up with Frenchie’s fucking socks on my face”, he muttered. “You coming or you wanna keep arguing semantics in a kitchen that smells like old ass?”.
You hesitated. “You… never said anything”.
“Didn’t know I had to send out a change-of-address card”, he said. “C’mon, kid—”, he caught himself, jaw tightening, “—Y/N. Before change my mind”.
You stepped closer, grabbing the jacket from his hand. “Fine. But if this is a Craigslist murder situation, I’m haunting you”.
He rolled his eyes, but you saw the quick, satisfied flicker in his expression when you shrugged the jacket on. “If I was gonna kill you”, he said, opening the door, “I’d have done it with my dick buried deep inside you, sweetheart”.
“Wow”, you muttered, following him into the hallway. “Reassuring”.
You fell into step beside him automatically, your shoulder brushing his arm as you headed down the stairs. “So”, you said, “where is this very real, definitely-not-fake apartment?”.
“Couple blocks over”, he said. “Walkable. I’m very urban now. Fit right in”. He gestured vaguely at himself; bloody suit, battered shield and dried gore. “Nobody looks twice”.
You huffed a laugh. “That’s the worrying part”.
The walk didn’t take long. He kept you on the inside of the sidewalk, between him and the buildings, like it was instinct. Again you didn’t comment on it.
The apartment building he led you to was old brick. The kind of place with more locks than is strictly legal and a lobby that smelled faintly of cigarettes and pine cleaner. He punched in a code, then used an actual key on the inner door.
“Wow”, you said as you stepped into the stairwell. “Keys and a code? Somebody’s paranoid”.
He glanced back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yep”. Him. He was paranoid.
The door to his place had three separate locks. He went through them fast, muscle memory, then shouldered it open so you could go in first.
You stepped into… a box. But a lived-in box.
Small living room with an old couch (mercifully less cursed than the safe house one), battered coffee table, TV on a crate. A kitchenette with exactly one pan on the stove and a dish rack full of mismatched mugs and a pair of heavy boots by the door.
You toed off your shoes automatically. “Huh”.
“That bad?”, he asked, shutting the door behind you. You heard the locks slide home in quick succession.
“No”, you said. “It’s… you”.
“Meaning it’s ugly and functional and probably smells like blood”.
You sniffed. “And weed”.
He snorted, moving past you toward the bathroom. “Shower’s this way. You’re bleeding on my floor”.
You looked down. A thin line of dried red trailed from a scrape on your arm you’d forgotten about. “That’s your blood”, you said.
“Doesn’t matter”, he called back. “It’s still rude”.
You followed him but pausing in the bathroom doorway. He stared at himself in the mirror for half a second, then started stripping the armor off, dropping pieces into the tub for later.
“Go”, he jerked his chin toward the shower. “Get the worst of it off. I’ll order food before you pass out”.
“You should shower first”, you said. “You look like a crime scene”.
“I’ll be right behind ya”, he said, already digging his phone out of a pocket, thumb flying over the screen. Clearly knowing his way with his phone by now. He shot you a quick wink, like this was just another night and not… whatever it was.
You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did that annoying little flip anyway. So you turned on the water, got undressed and stepped under the spray. You braced your hands on the tile, letting it run over your neck, your back and your bruised shoulders.
Muffled through the door, you caught fragments of his voice until the bathroom door squeaked open behind you and a little chill slipped in with the draft. You’d just started rinsing the shampoo from your hair when you felt Ben’s presence. Unmistakable, big and solid, blocking half the light as he pulled the curtain aside and stepped in behind you.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached past you for the soap, his shoulder brushing yours. His body crowded the tiny space, filling it like he belonged there.
“Move over”, he grumbled, nudging you with his body. “I need water”.
You huffed a laugh and made room, pretending you weren’t suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of skin he might see.
You risked a glance at him, at his hair pushed back, jaw shadowed, green eyes half-lidded and unreadable. “Thought you said you’d be behind me”, you said, tone teasing.
He snorted. “Didn’t say how close. S’my shower. Besides—”, he caught your chin lightly, tilting your face up, “—can’t let you use all the hot water”.
His touch lingered a second longer than necessary, his thumb traced your jaw, before he kissed you. Firm and sure, with nothing hesitant about it. The kind of kiss that said mine.
Your back hit the cool tile, steam curling around your shoulders, and you felt his arm slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He cradled your smaller body against his like it was the most natural thing in the world, while the water was beating down over both of you, slicking your skin. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head up so he could kiss you even deeper, tongue coaxing yours until your knees went soft. You pressed closer, arms coming up around his neck, fingers tangling in the damp hair at his nape. He made a low, satisfied sound in his chest and nipped your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp and him grin.
He broke the kiss only when you both needed air, resting his forehead against yours, noses brushing. His hand stayed firm at your back, holding you in the small space between his body and the wall. “Yeah”, he murmured, voice roughened by more than just the water, “this is definitely better than that fucking couch”.
-
You barely left Ben’s apartment the next few days. It was like the world shrank down to the four battered walls, the thud of rain against the window and the constant weight of him beside you… above you, behind you or everywhere you turned.
When Butcher called, Ben answered on speaker, with his voice low and unbothered. “I’m occupied”. No explanation. No room for negotiation.
You echoed the same to Annie’s texts, not bothering to add a lie. “Taking time off”, you typed and left it at that.
No one pushed. Maybe they knew better. Maybe they didn’t want to know.
In the quiet, Ben was… relentless. Sometimes teasing, sometimes rough, sometimes slow enough to make you ache, but always there, always in control until you were boneless and shaking under his hands.
He kept you close, only letting you leave the bed for food or water or the rare, shared shower; though half the time, that just meant you ended up right back where you started, dripping and tangled together in the sheets.
You learned every inch of his body, his scars and his freckles. The map of his shoulders and the way his mouth found places you didn’t even know could feel that good. He made you come until you forgot your own name, until you had no idea if it was day or night, until you’d lost count of how many times you’d begged for more.
He wasn’t gentle all the time, but he was always careful. Even when he had you on your knees, hands braced against the mattress, hips snapping into you hard enough to make the headboard crack the wall, he never let you forget that you could stop him with a word.
You never wanted to.
Sometimes he’d flip you onto your back and fold you in half, fucking you so deep and slow that tears spilled down your cheeks and you clung to his biceps for dear life. Other times he’d pull you into his lap, let you ride him at your own pace with his hands locked on your hips and his mouth trailing lazy bites down your throat while muttering filth in your ear until you came apart all over again.
He liked to see how far he could push you, how many times he could make you shake and cry out, and when you went limp and overstimulated, he’d hold you close, lips soft against your temple with his hand rubbing slow circles down your spine.
Between it all, you slept curled up together, his arms wrapped tight around you, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
In those quiet moments, with his thumb tracing circles over your skin and his breath warm in your hair, you understood what it meant to feel safe for the first time in your life.
He didn’t say much about it, but every look and every possessive grip on your hip when you shifted too far away told you everything you needed to know.
-
You were draped over him like you’d melted there. Your skin was still warm, limbs loose and your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat thudded slow and heavy under your ear, the rise and fall of his ribs gently rocking you without either of you moving much.
The room was dark. The only light came from the streetlamp sneaking past the blinds. The sheets were twisted around your legs and the air humid with leftover heat and the faint tang of sweat and detergent.
Ben had one arm hooked under your shoulders and the other resting on his stomach with a blunt pinched between two fingers. He took a slow drag, the tip flaring orange, then exhaled toward the ceiling. The smoke curled lazy before disappearing into the shadows. You watched it, eyes half-lidded.
“What’re you thinking about?”, he asked eventually, voice low and rough, vibrating through your cheek.
You hesitated. “You really wanna know?”.
He snorted softly. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask. I’d turn the TV on and ignore you”.
You huffed a tiny laugh, fingers tracing idle patterns over his ribs. “Okay, then”. You let your mind drift, the words unspooling easier than you expected. “I was thinking about… leaving”, you said quietly. “Not now. Just… someday”.
His chest tightened under your hand, just a fraction. “Leaving what? The team?”.
“New York”, you said. “The country. All of it”. He went still.
You kept talking, eyes on the ceiling. “Like… actually seeing stuff, you know? Not just flying past it or blowing it up. Other countries. Different cities. Hotels that don’t have bloodstains under the bed. Places where Vought isn’t stamped on every screen”.
Ben took another drag, slower this time. The ember lit his jaw for a second.
“Where would you go?”, he asked.
You shrugged against him. “I don’t know. Paris, maybe. Just to piss Frenchie off by going without him. Some tiny village in Italy where nobody has a phone. Japan. I wanna see Tokyo at night. And somewhere stupid and touristy, like those beaches where the water’s stupidly blue and people get drunk on overpriced cocktails”.
He hummed. “You in a little bikini, drinking something with an umbrella in it”.
Heat crawled up your neck. “That’s not the only part”.
“Didn’t say it was”, he said. “Just saying I can picture it”.
You hid your face a little more against him. “Mostly I just… wanna know what it’s like to exist somewhere without constantly checking exits. Without thinking about where I’m gonna sleep that night. Without wondering if a supe’s gonna come through the wall while I brush my teeth”.
His hand, resting on your shoulder, tightened just a little. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “Can see the appeal”.
“What about you?”, you asked, tilting your head enough to look up at him. “If you could do anything. Be anywhere”.
He didn’t answer right away. You watched his eyes go distant, unfocused, like he was looking at something only he could see on the cracked ceiling.
“Not a lot of places in the world that want a walking weapon with a bad attitude”, he said after a moment.
“That’s not what I asked”, you said softly.
He took one last drag from the blunt, then reached over to crush it out in the ashtray on the nightstand. His chest rose and fell under your hand, heavier now. He stared at the ceiling another beat, then blew out a breath.
“Used to think about a house”, he said finally. “Back when I was still playing hero for cameras. Some little place with a yard. Maybe a dog. Neighbors who didn’t know what I could do. Just thought I was some guy who got up too early and drank too much coffee”.
You tried to imagine it…. Ben in a normal house, picking up mail, yelling at a lawnmower. Weirdly, it… fit.
“And kids”, he added, almost offhand.
Your heart clenched. “You… wanted kids?”, you asked.
He kept his eyes on the ceiling. “Didn’t think about it much at first. Too busy being carted around like a prop. But later… yeah. Kinda did”. His mouth twisted. “Didn’t find out till way down the line it wasn’t on the menu”.
You were quiet. "There something in the V?”, you asked carefully.
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Turns out when they rebuild you from the inside out, they don’t give a damn if you can make rugrats after. Useless side-feature. They wanted soldiers, not… dads”.
“You ever… try?”, you asked, then winced. “Sorry, that’s—”.
“It’s fine”, he said. “No. Not really. Too many contracts, too much travel. Plenty of women, sure, but…”, he shrugged under you. “Never the right… setup, I guess. And by the time I thought maybe I’d want to actually know some kid with my eyes, it was a moot point”.
You studied his profile for a moment.
“You still think about it?”, you asked quietly.
He was silent for a long moment.
“Sometimes”, he said. “I see some idiot yelling at his kid in a grocery store because they knocked over cereal, and I think, ‘You have no idea how easy you’ve got it’”. His voice went rougher. “If I’d ever had something like that, I… probably would’ve ruined it. But I still think about it”.
You shifted up a little, propping your chin on his chest so you could see his face. “You wouldn’t have ruined it”.
He gave you a look like you’d said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Sweetheart, I can blow up buildings by sneezing wrong. I am not exactly father of the year material”.
“You’re better than you think”, you said. “You already take care of a bunch of idiots who never listen and constantly try to hurt themselves”.
“That’s different”, he said.
“Is it?”, you asked. “You yell, you protect, you show up. That’s more than most”.
He didn’t answer that. Just stared at the ceiling again, jaw working.
You hesitated, then laid your cheek back over his heart, wrapping your arm a little tighter around his waist. “For what it’s worth”, you murmured, “you don’t have to actually share DNA with someone to be… that. To be family”.
“Yeah”, he said, after a beat. “So they tell me”.
You swallowed. “And if I ever… I don’t know. End up with that… stupid little house somewhere, and a kid who knocks over cereal—”. You felt your throat get tight. “I’d still want you there”.
His hand slid up from your shoulder to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you a little closer.
“Yeah?”, he said quietly. “You’d let the walking war crime near your hypothetical future spawn?”.
You smiled against his skin. “Please. You’d be the one teaching them how to swear properly”.
He snorted, a genuine sound, his chest rumbling under your ear. “Damn right”.
You lay there in the quiet after that, with the smoke fading from the air and the night sounds of the city filtering in through the window.
“You know none of this is guaranteed, right?”, he said eventually, voice soft. “You, me, the next mission. Any of it”.
“I know,” you said. “That’s why we get to want stuff anyway”.
He was quiet. Then: “You really wanna see Tokyo?”.
“Yeah”, you said. “And Italy. And that stupid blue water”.
“Maybe”, he said slowly, “when we’re done blowing holes in the worst of ’em… we take a trip”.
Your heart gave a stupid leap. “We?”.
He shifted, just enough that his lips brushed your hair. “You think I’m letting you wander around foreign countries alone?”, he muttered. “You’d trip into a dictator’s bunker”.
You laughed, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, even though you hadn’t realized they’d gotten damp. “You planning on terrifying customs everywhere we go?”.
He smirked. “Gotta have hobbies”.
You closed your eyes, listening to the steady beat under your cheek, the rough comfort in his voice and the ridiculous, terrifying hope curling up inside your chest. You didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. Next month. Next year. But right now, in that too-small bed in that too-small apartment and with his hand in your hair, you let yourself want it anyway.
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 6484
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You woke up. For a second you didn’t remember the room, or the aches deep in your muscles, or why the blanket that covered you smelled faintly of sweat and… whatever. Then you shifted and everywhere between your thighs lit up with a deep, pleasant soreness. Then memory slid into place in a messy and out-of-order rush.
The couch. Ben. The way he’d taken care of you after. You’d drifted, lost in exhaustion and his heartbeat, so deep you might’ve slept through an earthquake.
Now, you blinked your eyes open to the soft light seeping through the blinds. You stretched experimentally, just a little, careful of the ache, and realized you were wearing his shirt. You definitely hadn’t put it on yourself. The last thing you remembered, you’d been too limp to move. Your own clothes were nowhere in sight, but you didn’t even care.
Somewhere across the room, you heard a zipper and the low clink of metal on leather. Ben stood by the cracked mirror, half-dressed in his supe suit, with his hair still wet from a shower. He was moving quietly, like he was trying not to wake you, but even half-assembled he looked huge.
You made a soft, questioning noise in your throat, still bleary. Ben’s eyes flicked to you and something about the look, possessive, fond and a little smug, made your belly flip all over again.
“Morning, sleeping beauty”, he rumbled, adjusting a strap on his vest. “You planning on joining the land of the living, or you want me to tell Butcher you died of exhaustion?”.
You groaned, dragging the blanket higher over your bare thighs. “If he asks, tell him I was killed by a natural disaster”.
Ben snorted. “You’re not dead. Just worn out”. His gaze lingered on the expanse of bare leg below the hem of his shirt, something satisfied flickering in his eyes before he forced himself to look away. “You should get dressed. The idiots’ll be here soon and I’m not explaining why you’re naked except for my shirt”.
You laughed, but it came out shy, your cheeks heating as you sat up slowly. You caught him watching and you couldn’t help but grin. “You’re just embarrassed because you got soft last night”.
He raised a brow, buckling his belt. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing soft about me right now”.
You snorted, swinging your legs off the couch. Your skin was dotted with bruises and love bites, little marks that only made the memory heavier.
Ben watched you for another heartbeat, his expression unreadable. Then he came over, crouching beside the couch, one hand gentle on your knee as he looked you over, checking for anything he might’ve missed. “You okay?”, he asked, just a bit quieter now.
You nodded, letting your fingers tangle in the loose hem of the shirt. “Sore. Good sore”.
He smiled, a really fucking rare one, and brushed his thumb over your knee. “Good”.
A knock sounded, sharp and sudden, at the door. You both jumped, adrenaline fizzing through the peace.
“Shit”, Ben muttered, pushing to his feet. He finished zipping up his vest. “Get dressed. I’ll stall them”.
You made your way to the bathroom. Ben, for all his grumbling, had gathered up every scrap of your clothes (panties, jeans, even your socks) and stacked them neatly on the closed toilet lid. Folded. Folded.
You snorted, pressing a hand to your mouth to muffle a laugh.
Your body ached in a hundred places. Inside and out, every muscle humming with the memory of his hands, his mouth and his weight pinning you to the couch. But you didn’t regret a single second.
You peeled off his shirt slowly and breathing in the lingering scent of him. You pulled your underwear back on, wincing a little at the tenderness, then jeans, then your bra and shirt. Every movement felt strange, like your skin didn’t quite fit right anymore, too alive and new and stretched in all the right places.
You glanced at yourself in the mirror as you buttoned your jeans, pausing at the flush on your cheeks, the wild look in your eyes and the marks blooming on your throat. You looked different. Older, maybe. Like someone who’d been claimed and cherished and wrecked, all at once.
You smoothed your hair, ran cold water over your wrists and tried not to think too hard about what came next.
When you heard voices drifting from the kitchen, you padded down the hall.
“…I am telling you, mon coeur, this is the best bagel in the city within walking distance of a crime scene”, Frenchie was saying.
You stepped into the doorway. Frenchie, still in his jacket, had a cardboard tray of coffees on the table and a paper bag already ripped open, bagels spilling out. Kimiko sat on the counter, swinging her legs.
Ben leaned against the opposite counter in full suit and a mug in hand.
Three heads turned when you walked in. You were suddenly very glad you’d checked your reflection twice.
Frenchie brightened. “Ah! Tiens, the ghost of the safe house appears”. His eyes flicked to the microwave clock, then back to you. “You´re here… early”. He squinted playfully. “Very early”.
Kimiko cocked her head, watching you closely. Her nose started wrinkling a little, like she smelled something she couldn’t quite name.
Ben’s gaze swept over you once, quick. His jaw ticked almost imperceptibly when he saw you wince the tiniest bit stepping over a loose board.
“Couldn’t sleep”, you said, going straight for the bag like that was the most important thing in the room. “You two forget your keys again?”.
Frenchie pressed a hand to his chest. “We chose to knock. It is called manners, petite”.
“You also texted ‘open the door we are keyless again’”, you said, grabbing a bagel.
“That is… a separate issue”, he said. “Been here long?”, he asked casually, tearing his bagel in half. “Or did you simply teleport from your mysterious little flat in the sky?”.
You bit into yours to buy time. “Got in… earlier”, you said around a mouthful. “Beats traffic”.
Frenchie’s eyes narrowed, playful but sharper than usual. “Ah bon? And our dear Captain?”. He jerked his chin at Ben. “You are here before nine? Voluntarily? This is… how you say… deeply suspicious”.
Ben didn’t even look up from his coffee. “Somebody’s gotta make sure she doesn’t get herself killed on her way to the fridge”.
“You both beat us here”, Frenchie said, zeroing in now. “You, I expect late. You, I expect dramatic entrance”. He flicked his gaze between you, then gasped theatrically. “Mon dieu. Have you been… responsible?”.
He said the last word like it tasted bad.
You rolled your eyes, feeling your face warm anyway. “Maybe I just wanted first pick of the bagels”.
“Liar”, he said cheerfully, but let it drop.
Kimiko hopped off the counter and crossed to you. Up close, she scanned your face, your shoulders, your neck. Her eyes lingered on a faint purplish smudge just under your jaw, the one you’d missed.
Her gaze snapped to Ben. Then back to you.
You widened your eyes at her. Don’t.
Her lips curled, just a little, like she’d been given the best gossip of her week and was graciously choosing not to weaponize it. She gave your arm a quick squeeze, then went to steal Ben’s mug, taking a sip like she owned it.
He let her, which told you just how off-balance he still was.
The front door clicked again. This time no knock. Just the scrape of keys and Butcher’s muttering.
Annie stepped in first, shaking rain out of her hair, followed by Hughie juggling a folder and a reusable coffee cup. MM followed.
“Oi”, Butcher said, sniffing. “Smells like sadness and stress. Must be Tuesday”.
His gaze bounced around the room.
“You two are up with the birds”, he said, nodding at you and Ben. “Lose a bet?”.
“Couldn’t sleep”, you said for the third time that morning.
“Training”, Ben said at the same time.
There was a brief, awkward pause. MM’s eyebrow twitched upward. “Huh”.
Annie’s eyes flicked between you and Ben, lingering a second too long, then dropped to your neck. Her mouth pressed into a line. “You’ve got a—”, she started, then stopped herself. “Never mind”.
You surreptitiously tugged your collar up.
Hughie, bless him, zeroed in on the bag instead. “Are those… bagels?”, he asked. “Because I will sell everything for one”.
“Sold”, Frenchie said immediately.
“Alright, enough breakfast foreplay”, Butcher said, clapping his hands once. “We’ve got Vought’s filth to sort through”. He dropped a stack of files onto the table with a thud. “Gather ‘round, children”.
You slid into a chair, ignoring the way sitting made your thighs protest. Ben took his usual spot behind you, one hand braced on the back of your chair. If anyone noticed how close he was standing, they didn’t say anything.
MM spread the files out, starting in on the rundown.
Every so often, you felt the lightest brush of Ben’s fingers at the top of the chair… maybe accidental, maybe not. Once, when you shifted and your face tightened, his hand settled there a little more firmly, steadying what no one else could see.
No one here knew you’d been sleeping on this couch more nights than not.
No one here knew exactly what had happened on it last night.
To them, it was business as usual: one more job, one more meeting, one more day sticking it to the most powerful corporation on earth.
To you, every second felt double-exposed.
“Y/N”, MM’s voice pulled you back. “You got that?”.
You blinked, then found your place on the map, brain snapping into gear. “Yeah”, you said. “Vent access. Same as last time, only dirtier”.
“Perfect”, he said.
Butcher launched into the next part of the briefing. The table hummed with argument and strategy, the way it always did.
Behind you, Ben shifted his weight.
“Eyes up, kid”, he murmured under his breath, low enough that only you could hear. “Lot of moving parts today”.
You didn’t look back at him, but the corner of your mouth ticked up. “I’m not a kid”, you whispered back.
His hand gave the chair a tiny tap, like a secret punctuation only you would notice.
“Yeah”, he said quietly. “I know”.
-
Pre-mission ritual: eat whatever’s left in the kitchen and pretend none of you might die in an hour.
You drifted toward the living room, just to stand, stretch your legs and shake off the briefing.
Hughie wandered with you, scrolling through his phone. “I’m just saying”, he was rambling, “if Vought did ever try to make a dating app, it would be—”. He dropped onto the couch. Onto that couch. The only one.
You froze mid-step.
He bounced once, settling back with a sigh. “Okay, this is… damp”, he muttered. “Why is this damp?”.
You could still see last night in your head if you let yourself: your knees braced there, his hand there, the way— Nope. Abort.
Ben, from the doorway, went very, very still.
Kimiko paused mid-bite on a piece of bagel, eyes flicking from Hughie to the cushions, then to you, then to Ben. Her nose scrunched faintly. Her gaze sharpened like she’d just caught a whiff of something again.
“…probably condensation”, you blurted. “Radiator’s weird”.
“The radiator’s across the room”, Hughie said, frowning. He patted the cushion, then sniffed his hand. “And it smells like someone spilled… I don’t know. Something Funny?“.
You had to look away before you lost it, biting your cheek so hard you tasted blood. There was no universe where you were going to admit what really made that cushion damp. Especially not with Ben just inside the door, statue-still, watching the whole thing with that iron control that made you suspect he was just as close to losing it as you.
Hughie’s face twisted. “This is definitely not water”, he said, then wiped his palm on his jeans. “God, what did I just sit in?”.
Kimiko, who’d been watching with hawk-like intensity, shrugged one shoulder and signed something quick at you when Hughie wasn’t looking. You caught the gist: Your secret is safe. But ew.
You shot her a look equal parts gratitude and mortification.
Frenchie drifted in, pausing behind the couch. He leaned in, sniffed once, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Ah, oui, that is… the scent of love”, he said, straight-faced, but with the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You made a strangled sound, barely keeping your water down. Ben looked like he wanted to throttle someone, maybe Hughie, maybe Frenchie, maybe himself.
Hughie got up fast, rubbing his hands together, clearly unsettled. “I’m gonna… yeah. I’ll just, uh, get a chair”.
But he barely got up, when MM’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Let’s go, people! Gear up or get left behind”.
Butcher clapped his hands, ready to get moving. “If anybody left bodily fluids on the furniture, you’re on cleanup duty”.
You felt your cheeks go red all over again. Ben looked straight ahead, a little smirk threatening to ruin his whole soldier-boy image.
Then you grabbed your vest and headed for the door, the chaos of the team swirling around you, everyone falling into old rhythms. You made a mental note: next time, not on the couch. Just… anywhere with a washable surface. Just… not the couch.
-
Gear-up always felt the same. Except it didn’t feel the same. Not with Ben this close.
You were tightening the straps on your vest when his shadow fell over you. Ben’s hand landed on the front buckle, his big fingers brushing yours aside like you were a kid trying to help in the garage.
“Too loose”, he muttered, cinching it tighter. The motion pulled you a fraction toward him, your nose almost bumping his chest. “You wanna keep your ribs or not?”.
You swallowed. “Kinda attached, yeah”.
He huffed and gave the strap one last firm tug, his knuckles grazing the side of your breast. If he noticed, he didn’t let it show. His gaze stayed on the gear, not your face.
“Stay behind me when we breach”, he said, already shifting to check the side straps. “No hero shit”.
You rolled your eyes. “That’s Kimiko’s department”.
“And yours, lately”, he said, low. “Cut it out”.
You didn’t get a chance to answer, cause MM called positions while Frenchie started humming something that was definitely not calming.
The target was another Vought satellite site. A nondescript office building with too much surveillance for the amount of “legitimate business” going on. The plan was simple: Annie and Kimiko on heavy hitters, Frenchie and MM on cleanup and Hughie and Butcher running support and extraction.
You? Eyes, ears, and get-in-get-out through tight spaces. Normal.
Except you didn’t get three steps from the van door before Ben was there, falling into stride at your side like it had been assigned.
You frowned. “You’re supposed to be point”.
“I am point”, he said. “You’re with me”.
“That wasn’t—”.
“New plan”, he cut in. “Congratulations, you’ve been upgraded to ‘never leaving my fucking sight’”.
You shot him a look. “You realize I’m more useful when I’m not welded to your shoulder, right?”.
“You’re plenty useful right there”, he said. “I can see you”.
“You don’t have to—”.
“I do, actually”, he said. “Turns out I sleep better when you’re not bleeding out in a stairwell”.
That shut you up.
You reached the side entrance. MM nodded at Ben. “You take point, we stack behind. Y/N, you—”.
“With me”, Ben said automatically.
MM’s eyes flicked between you for a second. He filed that away, you could tell, but didn’t comment. “Fine. Just don’t steamroll the rest of us… Captain”.
“No promises”, Ben muttered, but there was no real bite in it.
Inside, it was the usual.
You moved like you always did. The difference was him. Every time you ducked ahead to check a corner, his hand shot out, catching the back of your vest, the strap of your backpack or the crook of your elbow. Not yanking you back, just… reeling you in, keeping you within arm’s reach.
“Slow the fuck down”, he muttered the third time. “Walls aren’t going anywhere”.
“You brought me for recon”, you whispered. “You want recon, you gotta let me get eyes”.
“Then stay where I can see you”, he said.
“You can see me fine”, you hissed. “Supe eyes, remember?”.
He grunted but didn’t argue.
The deeper you got, the worse it became. Not the threat, no… his orbit.
When you boosted yourself into a ceiling panel to crawl across a blocked hallway, he paced directly underneath, shadow tracking your movement like he could catch you if you fell.
In the server room, while Frenchie and Annie argued about whose method of extraction was faster, you catched him watching you.
You raised an eyebrow. “You know I can walk and not spontaneously combust, right?”.
“Debatable”, he said. “You bruise like fruit”.
“Yeah, well, you’re…”, you gestured at all of him, “overkill”.
His mouth quirked. “Get used to it”.
You wanted to say you’re being weird because of last night. You wanted to ask him if he was going to do this forever, if he expected you never to take a risk again just because he’d decided you were… his, aparently. You didn’t.
Mostly because an alarm started blaring.
“Time’s up!”, Butcher yelled. “Five minutes till this place fills with piss and vinegar. Move your arses”.
The sprint to the extraction point was a blur. You almost slipped on a step slick with something you didn’t want to identify. You didn’t hit the ground, because Ben’s hand clamped around the back of your vest, hauling you upright so fast your feet left the concrete for half a second. “Got you".
“I had me”, you shot back, breathless.
“Not the way I like”, he said.
You also didn’t have a comeback for that.
By the time you piled back into the van, your lungs burning and ears ringing, you were wired and wrung out in equal measure. Frenchie flopped dramatically, Hughie tried not to hurl, Annie leaned her head back against the metal with her eyes closed. You slid into your usual spot. Ben sat beside you this time. Not across. Not near the door. Right there, his knee touching yours when the van lurched.
You stared at him for a second. “You know if you baby me on every mission now, they’re gonna notice”, you murmured only for him too hear.
“Let ‘em”, he grunted, not looking at you, staring straight ahead. “They can be annoyed you’re alive. I don’t care”.
“It can’t always be like this”, you said. “You can’t always throw yourself in front of every bullet”.
He finally turned his head, his eyes finding yours. “Watch me”.
Your heart did that annoying, traitorous stutter. You bumped his shoulder lightly with yours. “You’re impossible”.
He smirked, just a little. “You picked me”.
You hated how much that made you want to smile.
So you did. Just a bit. Only for him.
-
The day dragged endless after the mission. Debrief, patch-up, and pizza boxes scattered across the kitchen while Butcher threatening to kill Frenchie if he sang another word. By evening, everyone peeled off.
You were wiping down the counter, mind already drifting toward a hot shower and maybe a half-hearted attempt at sleep, when you realized Ben wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.
You found him by the door, suit still filthy, splattered with someone else’s blood. He was holding up your jacket, dangling it by the collar like he expected you to snatch it out of his hand.
“C’mon”, he said, voice rough. “Let’s go”.
You blinked, your hands pausing over the dish towel. “Go where?”.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna fuck you on that couch again”. He jerked his chin at the living room, mouth twisting in disgust. “It’s officially haunted. You come with me”.
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “What, you got a hotel room now?”.
He snorted but looking personally offended. “What, you think I’ve been jerking off in broom closets this whole time?”. He shook your jacket a little. “I got an apartment”.
You stared. “Since when?”.
“Since I decided I was sick of waking up with Frenchie’s fucking socks on my face”, he muttered. “You coming or you wanna keep arguing semantics in a kitchen that smells like old ass?”.
You hesitated. “You… never said anything”.
“Didn’t know I had to send out a change-of-address card”, he said. “C’mon, kid—”, he caught himself, jaw tightening, “—Y/N. Before change my mind”.
You stepped closer, grabbing the jacket from his hand. “Fine. But if this is a Craigslist murder situation, I’m haunting you”.
He rolled his eyes, but you saw the quick, satisfied flicker in his expression when you shrugged the jacket on. “If I was gonna kill you”, he said, opening the door, “I’d have done it with my dick buried deep inside you, sweetheart”.
“Wow”, you muttered, following him into the hallway. “Reassuring”.
You fell into step beside him automatically, your shoulder brushing his arm as you headed down the stairs. “So”, you said, “where is this very real, definitely-not-fake apartment?”.
“Couple blocks over”, he said. “Walkable. I’m very urban now. Fit right in”. He gestured vaguely at himself; bloody suit, battered shield and dried gore. “Nobody looks twice”.
You huffed a laugh. “That’s the worrying part”.
The walk didn’t take long. He kept you on the inside of the sidewalk, between him and the buildings, like it was instinct. Again you didn’t comment on it.
The apartment building he led you to was old brick. The kind of place with more locks than is strictly legal and a lobby that smelled faintly of cigarettes and pine cleaner. He punched in a code, then used an actual key on the inner door.
“Wow”, you said as you stepped into the stairwell. “Keys and a code? Somebody’s paranoid”.
He glanced back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yep”. Him. He was paranoid.
The door to his place had three separate locks. He went through them fast, muscle memory, then shouldered it open so you could go in first.
You stepped into… a box. But a lived-in box.
Small living room with an old couch (mercifully less cursed than the safe house one), battered coffee table, TV on a crate. A kitchenette with exactly one pan on the stove and a dish rack full of mismatched mugs and a pair of heavy boots by the door.
You toed off your shoes automatically. “Huh”.
“That bad?”, he asked, shutting the door behind you. You heard the locks slide home in quick succession.
“No”, you said. “It’s… you”.
“Meaning it’s ugly and functional and probably smells like blood”.
You sniffed. “And weed”.
He snorted, moving past you toward the bathroom. “Shower’s this way. You’re bleeding on my floor”.
You looked down. A thin line of dried red trailed from a scrape on your arm you’d forgotten about. “That’s your blood”, you said.
“Doesn’t matter”, he called back. “It’s still rude”.
You followed him but pausing in the bathroom doorway. He stared at himself in the mirror for half a second, then started stripping the armor off, dropping pieces into the tub for later.
“Go”, he jerked his chin toward the shower. “Get the worst of it off. I’ll order food before you pass out”.
“You should shower first”, you said. “You look like a crime scene”.
“I’ll be right behind ya”, he said, already digging his phone out of a pocket, thumb flying over the screen. Clearly knowing his way with his phone by now. He shot you a quick wink, like this was just another night and not… whatever it was.
You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did that annoying little flip anyway. So you turned on the water, got undressed and stepped under the spray. You braced your hands on the tile, letting it run over your neck, your back and your bruised shoulders.
Muffled through the door, you caught fragments of his voice until the bathroom door squeaked open behind you and a little chill slipped in with the draft. You’d just started rinsing the shampoo from your hair when you felt Ben’s presence. Unmistakable, big and solid, blocking half the light as he pulled the curtain aside and stepped in behind you.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached past you for the soap, his shoulder brushing yours. His body crowded the tiny space, filling it like he belonged there.
“Move over”, he grumbled, nudging you with his body. “I need water”.
You huffed a laugh and made room, pretending you weren’t suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of skin he might see.
You risked a glance at him, at his hair pushed back, jaw shadowed, green eyes half-lidded and unreadable. “Thought you said you’d be behind me”, you said, tone teasing.
He snorted. “Didn’t say how close. S’my shower. Besides—”, he caught your chin lightly, tilting your face up, “—can’t let you use all the hot water”.
His touch lingered a second longer than necessary, his thumb traced your jaw, before he kissed you. Firm and sure, with nothing hesitant about it. The kind of kiss that said mine.
Your back hit the cool tile, steam curling around your shoulders, and you felt his arm slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He cradled your smaller body against his like it was the most natural thing in the world, while the water was beating down over both of you, slicking your skin. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head up so he could kiss you even deeper, tongue coaxing yours until your knees went soft. You pressed closer, arms coming up around his neck, fingers tangling in the damp hair at his nape. He made a low, satisfied sound in his chest and nipped your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp and him grin.
He broke the kiss only when you both needed air, resting his forehead against yours, noses brushing. His hand stayed firm at your back, holding you in the small space between his body and the wall. “Yeah”, he murmured, voice roughened by more than just the water, “this is definitely better than that fucking couch”.
-
You barely left Ben’s apartment the next few days. It was like the world shrank down to the four battered walls, the thud of rain against the window and the constant weight of him beside you… above you, behind you or everywhere you turned.
When Butcher called, Ben answered on speaker, with his voice low and unbothered. “I’m occupied”. No explanation. No room for negotiation.
You echoed the same to Annie’s texts, not bothering to add a lie. “Taking time off”, you typed and left it at that.
No one pushed. Maybe they knew better. Maybe they didn’t want to know.
In the quiet, Ben was… relentless. Sometimes teasing, sometimes rough, sometimes slow enough to make you ache, but always there, always in control until you were boneless and shaking under his hands.
He kept you close, only letting you leave the bed for food or water or the rare, shared shower; though half the time, that just meant you ended up right back where you started, dripping and tangled together in the sheets.
You learned every inch of his body, his scars and his freckles. The map of his shoulders and the way his mouth found places you didn’t even know could feel that good. He made you come until you forgot your own name, until you had no idea if it was day or night, until you’d lost count of how many times you’d begged for more.
He wasn’t gentle all the time, but he was always careful. Even when he had you on your knees, hands braced against the mattress, hips snapping into you hard enough to make the headboard crack the wall, he never let you forget that you could stop him with a word.
You never wanted to.
Sometimes he’d flip you onto your back and fold you in half, fucking you so deep and slow that tears spilled down your cheeks and you clung to his biceps for dear life. Other times he’d pull you into his lap, let you ride him at your own pace with his hands locked on your hips and his mouth trailing lazy bites down your throat while muttering filth in your ear until you came apart all over again.
He liked to see how far he could push you, how many times he could make you shake and cry out, and when you went limp and overstimulated, he’d hold you close, lips soft against your temple with his hand rubbing slow circles down your spine.
Between it all, you slept curled up together, his arms wrapped tight around you, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
In those quiet moments, with his thumb tracing circles over your skin and his breath warm in your hair, you understood what it meant to feel safe for the first time in your life.
He didn’t say much about it, but every look and every possessive grip on your hip when you shifted too far away told you everything you needed to know.
-
You were draped over him like you’d melted there. Your skin was still warm, limbs loose and your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat thudded slow and heavy under your ear, the rise and fall of his ribs gently rocking you without either of you moving much.
The room was dark. The only light came from the streetlamp sneaking past the blinds. The sheets were twisted around your legs and the air humid with leftover heat and the faint tang of sweat and detergent.
Ben had one arm hooked under your shoulders and the other resting on his stomach with a blunt pinched between two fingers. He took a slow drag, the tip flaring orange, then exhaled toward the ceiling. The smoke curled lazy before disappearing into the shadows. You watched it, eyes half-lidded.
“What’re you thinking about?”, he asked eventually, voice low and rough, vibrating through your cheek.
You hesitated. “You really wanna know?”.
He snorted softly. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask. I’d turn the TV on and ignore you”.
You huffed a tiny laugh, fingers tracing idle patterns over his ribs. “Okay, then”. You let your mind drift, the words unspooling easier than you expected. “I was thinking about… leaving”, you said quietly. “Not now. Just… someday”.
His chest tightened under your hand, just a fraction. “Leaving what? The team?”.
“New York”, you said. “The country. All of it”. He went still.
You kept talking, eyes on the ceiling. “Like… actually seeing stuff, you know? Not just flying past it or blowing it up. Other countries. Different cities. Hotels that don’t have bloodstains under the bed. Places where Vought isn’t stamped on every screen”.
Ben took another drag, slower this time. The ember lit his jaw for a second.
“Where would you go?”, he asked.
You shrugged against him. “I don’t know. Paris, maybe. Just to piss Frenchie off by going without him. Some tiny village in Italy where nobody has a phone. Japan. I wanna see Tokyo at night. And somewhere stupid and touristy, like those beaches where the water’s stupidly blue and people get drunk on overpriced cocktails”.
He hummed. “You in a little bikini, drinking something with an umbrella in it”.
Heat crawled up your neck. “That’s not the only part”.
“Didn’t say it was”, he said. “Just saying I can picture it”.
You hid your face a little more against him. “Mostly I just… wanna know what it’s like to exist somewhere without constantly checking exits. Without thinking about where I’m gonna sleep that night. Without wondering if a supe’s gonna come through the wall while I brush my teeth”.
His hand, resting on your shoulder, tightened just a little. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “Can see the appeal”.
“What about you?”, you asked, tilting your head enough to look up at him. “If you could do anything. Be anywhere”.
He didn’t answer right away. You watched his eyes go distant, unfocused, like he was looking at something only he could see on the cracked ceiling.
“Not a lot of places in the world that want a walking weapon with a bad attitude”, he said after a moment.
“That’s not what I asked”, you said softly.
He took one last drag from the blunt, then reached over to crush it out in the ashtray on the nightstand. His chest rose and fell under your hand, heavier now. He stared at the ceiling another beat, then blew out a breath.
“Used to think about a house”, he said finally. “Back when I was still playing hero for cameras. Some little place with a yard. Maybe a dog. Neighbors who didn’t know what I could do. Just thought I was some guy who got up too early and drank too much coffee”.
You tried to imagine it…. Ben in a normal house, picking up mail, yelling at a lawnmower. Weirdly, it… fit.
“And kids”, he added, almost offhand.
Your heart clenched. “You… wanted kids?”, you asked.
He kept his eyes on the ceiling. “Didn’t think about it much at first. Too busy being carted around like a prop. But later… yeah. Kinda did”. His mouth twisted. “Didn’t find out till way down the line it wasn’t on the menu”.
You were quiet. "There something in the V?”, you asked carefully.
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Turns out when they rebuild you from the inside out, they don’t give a damn if you can make rugrats after. Useless side-feature. They wanted soldiers, not… dads”.
“You ever… try?”, you asked, then winced. “Sorry, that’s—”.
“It’s fine”, he said. “No. Not really. Too many contracts, too much travel. Plenty of women, sure, but…”, he shrugged under you. “Never the right… setup, I guess. And by the time I thought maybe I’d want to actually know some kid with my eyes, it was a moot point”.
You studied his profile for a moment.
“You still think about it?”, you asked quietly.
He was silent for a long moment.
“Sometimes”, he said. “I see some idiot yelling at his kid in a grocery store because they knocked over cereal, and I think, ‘You have no idea how easy you’ve got it’”. His voice went rougher. “If I’d ever had something like that, I… probably would’ve ruined it. But I still think about it”.
You shifted up a little, propping your chin on his chest so you could see his face. “You wouldn’t have ruined it”.
He gave you a look like you’d said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Sweetheart, I can blow up buildings by sneezing wrong. I am not exactly father of the year material”.
“You’re better than you think”, you said. “You already take care of a bunch of idiots who never listen and constantly try to hurt themselves”.
“That’s different”, he said.
“Is it?”, you asked. “You yell, you protect, you show up. That’s more than most”.
He didn’t answer that. Just stared at the ceiling again, jaw working.
You hesitated, then laid your cheek back over his heart, wrapping your arm a little tighter around his waist. “For what it’s worth”, you murmured, “you don’t have to actually share DNA with someone to be… that. To be family”.
“Yeah”, he said, after a beat. “So they tell me”.
You swallowed. “And if I ever… I don’t know. End up with that… stupid little house somewhere, and a kid who knocks over cereal—”. You felt your throat get tight. “I’d still want you there”.
His hand slid up from your shoulder to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you a little closer.
“Yeah?”, he said quietly. “You’d let the walking war crime near your hypothetical future spawn?”.
You smiled against his skin. “Please. You’d be the one teaching them how to swear properly”.
He snorted, a genuine sound, his chest rumbling under your ear. “Damn right”.
You lay there in the quiet after that, with the smoke fading from the air and the night sounds of the city filtering in through the window.
“You know none of this is guaranteed, right?”, he said eventually, voice soft. “You, me, the next mission. Any of it”.
“I know,” you said. “That’s why we get to want stuff anyway”.
He was quiet. Then: “You really wanna see Tokyo?”.
“Yeah”, you said. “And Italy. And that stupid blue water”.
“Maybe”, he said slowly, “when we’re done blowing holes in the worst of ’em… we take a trip”.
Your heart gave a stupid leap. “We?”.
He shifted, just enough that his lips brushed your hair. “You think I’m letting you wander around foreign countries alone?”, he muttered. “You’d trip into a dictator’s bunker”.
You laughed, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, even though you hadn’t realized they’d gotten damp. “You planning on terrifying customs everywhere we go?”.
He smirked. “Gotta have hobbies”.
You closed your eyes, listening to the steady beat under your cheek, the rough comfort in his voice and the ridiculous, terrifying hope curling up inside your chest. You didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. Next month. Next year. But right now, in that too-small bed in that too-small apartment and with his hand in your hair, you let yourself want it anyway.
summary you unknowingly cling to dean in your sleep!
content gn!reader, unestablished relationship, only one bed! dean is very in love and would like to share a bed with you every night forever. heaps of soft cuddling and sleepiness! use of sweetheart and angel.
masterlist ; requested
Dean is hot under the covers, because he had the decency to sleep in sweats instead of just boxers, and your fingertips are soft where they graze his bicep. The touch sends his arm thrumming. He's only sharing this knotted mattress since you'd been so insistent about him not taking the couch.
"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. C'mon. We can share."
And he loves you. Moderately or too much, he isn't sure, but enough to unfurl a sweet, figgy maroon over his cheeks when you look at him and smile pearled. He simply wasn't going to let you shift all night on those old, stained cushions while he took the bed.
You've been snoring. His lashes are mussed and the motel is dark, but with a faint sliver of gaudy streetlight from the window he can make out the curve of your cheek and parted lips. Another gentle purr falls from them. He finds himself wanting to press deep into the sound.
It's endearing and lovely and you'd be embarrassed.
He's staring. Is he a creep? So much drowsy, besotted fuzz has roiled his mind, he can't consider it for very long, but decides that he isn't. How could this one and only pure, tender thing he feels make him creepy? Doesn't seem right at all.
Your knee bumps his upper thigh and lazily cascades down to his knee until they both meet. Dean can't breathe; doesn't let himself, has to remain very still, though resisting to indulge is asking a lot from somebody this fond of you.
He whispers your name, and everything is quiet besides your unconscious rustling of sheets.
You're gravitating to his body. Delicate fingers mold the slope of his shoulder and trail lazily up until they reach the honeyed hair at the back of his neck, his skin pricks tiny bumps. Green eyes wide and wider when your face comes to his, nose so close.
He'd like to peck a kiss there. You're sleep-soft and pretty.
"Angel," he murmurs, knowing you aren't listening, and settles his hand onto the plush of your waist with such bravery. Your breath fans the subtle dip of his cupid's bow.
If given the chance to slow this forever, Dean would. Doesn't protest when your arms cling and cross over his back, squeezing tight. You pull him towards the crook of your neck and he follows obediently, allowing himself to meld and sniff and sink.
In the morning, he stirs more refreshed than he's ever been, needles in his heart as he sits and slides from the blankets, and doesn't mention anything when you blink awake.
wrote this at two in the morning i offer a big apology if that is obvious <3
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The last few days felt like someone had tightened every wire in the safe house and just walked away.
Nothing changed on the surface. You and Ben still bickered over who got the “good” side of the couch. He still checked the locks three times before sitting. You still flung your blanket over both of you and pretended it was about warmth, not proximity. He pretended to grumble, but he always let you.
But under all of it, something was alive. A kind of static that prickled every time you got too close, every time he looked at you just a second too long.
It was in the way your knees touched when you crowded together at the table to look at maps, the way he’d lean over your shoulder and drop his hand to your back to steady you. Never quite at your waist, never moving, but lingering just long enough that you felt it the rest of the night.
It was in the late evenings, too, the ones that stretched longer as your birthday crept closer. You’d curl up beside him, your head tipped to his shoulder while the flicker of a silent TV was throwing shadows over the room. He never pulled away. But he never gave you more, either.
Every night, you felt his restraint. His hand, heavy on the back of the couch, just inches from your shoulder, sometimes brushing your hair when you shifted. His eyes on the wall when you crossed the room in a top too short, his face unreadable but ears red in the lamp light.
Once, he made you laugh so hard you spilled water on your shirt and had to pull it away from your chest. You caught him looking before he caught himself, jaw flexing, eyes snapping up to the ceiling. For one wild second, neither of you moved. Then you dragged the blanket higher, and he exhaled, ragged, and muttered something about “fucking women and their see-through laundry”.
You played chicken with the boundary, and so did he.
He’d linger around while you brushed your teeth, passing behind you, so close you could feel the heat off his skin. When you looked up, you’d catch him in the mirror watching, just for a heartbeat, then looking away, his reflection tight with want and regret in equal measure.
The tension coiled tighter every day. Every touch, every laugh, every joke that slid a little too close to the edge.
You tested the line, but never crossed it. Not quite.
You’d walk around in your sleep shirt with bare legs and feel his gaze skate down, always stopping at your face. His eyes would linger and his hands flexing at his sides. The air between you would go thick and heavy and neither of you would move. And you learned to live in that moment with your heart pounding, skin prickling and the ache of wanting to close that last bit of distance.
One night, on the couch, you shifted in your sleep. Rolled right over and ended up with your head on his chest, your arm over his stomach, half on top of him. You woke to the sound of his heart, pounding hard and steady. He was awake, stiff under you, breathing careful. He didn’t move until he realized you were awake, and then he gently eased you off with his jaw clenched.
You both pretended it never happened.
Another night, he brushed a strand of hair from your face while you sat on the floor between his knees, patching up his sweats. His touch was light, almost reverent. You held his gaze, daring him to say something. He didn’t. Just swallowed hard, knuckles going white, and changed the subject.
You were both careful, always careful, always circling the line but never crossing it.
And somehow, every night, he ended up right beside you. Sometimes just sharing warmth, sometimes brushing fingers with yours on accident, sometimes sitting so close the air between you pulsed with things neither of you would name.
Every day, the air got heavier. Every night, the space between your bodies got smaller.
And every morning, you both woke up just on the safe side of the line.
But it was close. So close you could taste it.
-
The night before your birthday, the city felt like it was holding its breath. Rain slicked the streets in a thin, dirty sheen. The warehouse Vought had “definitely” cleared months ago loomed ahead. You adjusted the earpiece, the cool drizzle sneaking down the back of your neck. Your hip twinged under the straps of your vest, old pain, mostly healed. You were wired, jumpy like always, but not scared. Not with him out front.
“Alright, cunts”, Butcher muttered into coms. “In, out, no souvenirs. We grab the drives, blow the toys, go home”.
“Define ‘toys’”, Frenchie whispered, fingers twitching at the explosive charges in his bag.
“The sort that go boom without consent”, Butcher said. “Y/N, you ready?”.
You were perched on a rusted fire escape across the alley, tucked into shadow like you were born there. From here you could see the loading dock, the side door, and a slice of the street. “Eyes up, finger on the panic button”, you murmured back. “We’re good”.
“Soldier Boy”, MM said, “you’re point. Try not to redecorate the block”.
“Can’t make promises”, came his low reply.
He stepped into your line of sight then, out of the deeper dark of the alley. No henley tonight. Full suit, full Soldier Boy.
Whatever Ben was in the living room, whatever he was on the couch, dropped away when he moved like this.
His whole body changed. His stance widened. His shoulders squared. It was like someone had thrown a switch and all the softness, all the restraint, got stripped down to a single, ugly, effective core: the thing Vought built and the war never finished using.
“On my mark", MM said.
You watched the two security goons at the loading bay pace their lazy little pattern, rifles slung, bored, hoods up against the drizzle. One lit a cigarette, cupping his hand.
“Now”, you murmured.
“Now”, MM echoed.
You didn’t see Ben move so much as start, and then he was there at the edge of the dock. One smooth, heavy burst of motion you barely tracked.
The first guard had half a second to look surprised before the shield caught him center mass. You’d seen him throw it before. You’d never get used to it.
Whatever Vought had cooked up, caught the light as it left his hand in a blur. It hit the guy so hard his body left the ground, a sickening crunch accompanying the smear of blood as he went down.
The second guard shouted, fumbling for his gun. Ben stepped in, grabbed the guy by the vest, and slammed him into the metal shutter hard enough to dent it. His other fist crashed into the guy’s jaw.
You flinched. He didn’t.
The body sagged. Ben let it slide down the door, hitting the dock with a lifeless thud.
“Dock’s clear”, you said into the com. “No cameras turned this way”.
“Copy”, MM replied. “Move”.
The side door burst open under Kimiko’s boot a heartbeat later. She flowed inside, Annie slipped in after her. Frenchie and MM followed.
You tracked the perimeter.
Outside, Ben stood over the two bodies for a second, breathing slow and easy, like he’d just taken out trash. He reached down, grabbed one of the guards by the collar, and dragged him to the edge of the dock so his boots didn’t show from the street.
Your gut twisted in that familiar, bitter mix of horror and admiration.
“Ground floor’s got three more”, MM’s voice came through, low. “Two at the lab door, one roaming”.
“Send the tourist”, Butcher said. “He likes an audience”.
“On my way”, Ben muttered. He headed inside. The second he disappeared, the world felt dimmer. Less anchored.
You scanned the alley again, fighting the urge to keep your eyes glued to the doorway just to know where he was.
“Y/N”, Annie’s voice crackled softly in your ear, breath slightly winded. “Any outside movement?”.
You exhaled slowly. “All quiet. Whole block’s asleep or pretending to be”.
“Wish I could”, Hughie muttered from his station by the van.
There was shouting over the coms then, the muffled thud of conflict, Kimiko’s low growl, Butcher’s sharp curses, MM’s precise commands.
And underneath it all, you heard him. His shield connecting with something not built to handle it. A body slamming into a wall. The cracking of bone. A man yelling cut off in the middle, air knocked out of him.
You’d learned to read fights by sound. What you heard now was ugly.
“Shit”, Frenchie breathed. “He is enjoying this too much, oui?”.
“Long as the right people are on the receiving end”, MM grunted, “he can sing show tunes for all I care”.
“Show tunes?”, Ben scoffed a little breathless. “I was fucking USO, not fucking Broadway”.
“And yet you’re so dramatic”, you muttered under your breath.
“Y/N, status?”, Butcher barked.
You scanned automatically.
“Still good”, you said. “Clock’s ticking but no party guests yet”.
“Keep it that way”, MM said.
You heard the lab door finally give, Kimiko’s satisfied grunt followed by a guard’s choked cry.
“Got your drives”, Frenchie called. “Mon dieu, look at all this—”.
“Grab what we came for”, MM said. “Blow the rest”.
You adjusted your angle, peering down into the alley. The rain had picked up, turning into a fine curtain. Movement snagged the corner of your eye. Not from the street. From the roof. You almost missed a shadow detaching from the edge of the building across the alley, the faint gleam of metal under a dark tarp.
“Hold”, you snapped. “We got a friend up high—opposite roof, alley side, looks like a rifle nest”.
“Copy”, MM said immediately. “Soldier Boy?”.
“On it”, came the reply.
You shifted, climbing higher on the fire escape to get a cleaner line of sight. The sniper wasn’t moving yet, focused on the loading bay. Waiting for someone to walk out into his crosshairs.
“Can you hit him from there?”, Hughie asked.
You sighted down the alley. Too far for a clean pistol shot. Too many angles. “Not without a miracle”.
“Lucky for you”, Butcher drawled, “we brought one”.
Ben stepped out of the warehouse just then, shield on his arm, rain beading on the metal. He moved with purpose, no ducking and sure no hesitation, straight into the open, exactly where the sniper wanted him.
“Ben—”, you hissed.
“Trust me”, he said.
You could almost feel the sniper’s delight from across the gap. The barrel shifted, tracking that big, obvious target. You saw the faint puff of his breath in the cold air as he settled in. You heard the crack of the shot a split second before it happened. Time stuttered. Ben turned with that preternatural awareness, shield snapping up in a blur. The bullet hit dead center with a sharp ping, ricocheting off into the night. In the same motion, he planted his foot, body twisting. His arm whipped forward.
You knew what was coming.
The shield left his hand and climbed. He didn’t aim for the guy. Not directly. He aimed for the lip of the sniper’s perch. The edge of the shield caught it perfectly, metal on concrete, a brutal, ringing impact that knocked the rifle sideways and, more importantly, took the sniper’s support with it. The man on the roof flailed. The tarp slid. Then he vanished over the edge.
You winced as he hit the far side of the dumpster with a sickening crunch before rolling onto the pavement. He didn’t move again.
“Sniper down”, you said, voice steady even as your stomach lurched. “He’s not getting back up”.
“Alright, kids, time to go”, Butcher said. “Front team, out. Y/N, you see anyone coming, you scream in our ears”.
“Already on it”, you said.
They filed out fast.
“Everyone clear?”, Frenchie called.
You swept the street one more time. “All clear. Van’s path is open”.
“Then let’s make some fireworks”, Butcher said.
They piled into the van, doors slamming. Frenchie hit the detonator with a little too much joy. The explosion punched the air out of your lungs even from your vantage point. The warehouse windows blew outward in a shower of glass and fire. Heat washed over the alley, the shockwave rattling the metal of the fire escape under your feet. You watched the building belch flame, orange against the wet night, and felt that familiar, twisted satisfaction. One less Vought hidey-hole. One more nest turned into ash.
As the van opened, Ben didn’t get in. He stayed where he was in the street, watching the fire eat the insides of the building through shattered windows.
You saw him in profile from across the alley, his jaw set, eyes reflecting the blaze. He looked like he belonged there. War made flesh. A weapon basking in the ruin it helped create.
“Solider Boy”, MM’s voice crackled. “You riding with us or you gonna take the scenic route?”.
He lifted the com to his mouth, still watching the flames. “Go. I’ll meet you at the house”.
“Copy”, MM said. “Try not to level any more city blocks on your stroll”. Ben just huffed.
You watched him one more second, silhouetted against chaos, then started down the fire escape to meet him. The metal rattled under your steps, rain spitting your face.
When you hit the ground, he was already there at the mouth of the alley, waiting for you.
“You alright?”, he asked, scanning you quick. Up, down, hip, hands, eyes.
“Yeah”, you said. “You?”.
He rolled his shoulder, the armor shifting with the motion. “Day at the office”.
You fell into step beside him, the two of you walking away from the burning building as sirens finally began to wail in the distance.
“You didn’t have to stay”, you said.
“Not leaving you alone near a fresh crime scene”, he said. “Cops show, you look like you’re twelve. They’d eat you alive”.
“I’m almost eighteen”, you reminded him.
He shot you a look, half incredulous, half something else. “Not yet, you’re not”.
The words landed heavy. Less than an hour now.
You walked in silence for a block, your shoulder brushing his arm whenever you drifted.
“You liked that”, you said finally, nodding back the way you’d come.
“What”, he said. “The part where I didn’t get fucking killed? Yeah. Big fan”.
“The sniper”, you said. “The way you threw the shield. The look on your face after”.
He was quiet a long moment. The rain softened to a mist, clinging to his hair, beading on the stubble at his jaw. “That what you see?”, he asked low. “Me enjoying it?”.
You thought about it. The brutal efficiency. The lack of hesitation. The almost casual way he’d collapsed a man’s chest with a throw and not looked back. “Yes”, you said honestly. “But not just that”.
His brows lifted a fraction. “Yeah?”.
“You looked like you knew exactly what you were”, you said. “And you weren’t pretending otherwise”.
He made a noise in his chest, something between a scoff and a tired laugh. “Lot of people got paid a lot of money to pretend I was something else”.
“Maybe that’s why I believe you more now”, you said. “When you’re like that”.
He glanced down at you, sideways, with rain-dark lashes low over his eyes. “And you’re still not scared”.
You swallowed. “I didn’t say that”.
He stopped walking. You did too, heart thumping.
“Are you?”, he asked.
You met his eyes. The streetlamp above you hummed faintly. “I’m scared of what you do to other people”, you said. “I’m scared of what they’ll turn you loose on next. I’m scared you’ll blow and take half the city with you”. He watched you. “But you?”, you added quieter. “No. I’m not scared of you”.
Something in his face broke at that. Just a crack. A line down the middle of the soldier, showing the man underneath.
“Idiot”, he said softly.
“Yeah, well”, you murmured, “takes one to know one”.
He huffed. “Come on. Before the cops decide to ask why Captain America is walking away from a bonfire”.
“Seriously”, you said, falling into step again, “we have got to get you a new reference point. You’re a cultural blind spot”.
“I don’t speak TokTok”, he said. “Sue me”.
You laughed, and his mouth twitched, just a little.
-
By the time you climbed the stairs to the safe house, the sirens were distant, and your adrenaline had gone from a roar to a buzz under your skin. You still felt keyed up, shaky in that post-mission way where you were too wired to sit and too tired to run. You fumbled with the keys, leading Ben took them gently from your hand, unlocking the door with an ease born of repetition.
Inside, everything was as you’d left it. Blankets a mess on the couch, your mug upside down in the drying rack, MM’s notes scattered on the table.
Home. The closest thing you had to it.
You kicked off your shoes, socks squelching faintly. “Bathroom first”, you said.
“Yeah”, he said. “Make sure you didn’t spring a fucking leak”.
You rolled your eyes, but your hip did ache. You disappeared into the bathroom, this time locking the door until you heard him move away down the hall.
A few minutes later, changed into your sleep shirt, you stepped back into the living room.
Ben had shed the suit. It lay draped over a chair in heavy green pieces, straps and plates looking weirdly vulnerable off his body. He was back in the henley and sweatpants.
You checked the clock on the microwave.
23:41.
Your heart did a weird, clumsy skip.
You moved automatically toward the couch. He did too. You met in the narrow gap between coffee table and cushions, closer than usual. For a second, nobody stepped aside. You could feel his breath on your face, warm, laced with the ghost of smoke and rain.
His fingers brushed your hip as he shifted. Barely a touch.
“Go ahead”, he said, voice low. “I’ll grab water”.
You nodded, throat too tight for something smart. You sat. He brought you a glass first, then one for himself, and dropped into his usual spot beside you. The couch dipped. You tilted toward him, shoulders touching. On the TV, some late-night rerun flickered and neither of you looked at it.
“Still good?”, he asked after a minute. “Head, hip, all that?”.
“Yeah”, you said. “Just… loud”.
“In here?”, he asked, tapping two fingers lightly against your temple.
You nodded.
He made a thoughtful sound, then said, “Do me a favor”.
“That depends”, you said. “Last time you said that I ended up crawling through a vent full of spider corpses”.
“This one’s easier”, he said.
“Close your eyes”.
You hesitated. “You’re not gonna, like, draw a dick on my forehead, are you?”.
He snorted. “Where the hell would I get a marker?”.
“Frenchie”, you said immediately.
“Just close your eyes, smartass”.
You did, letting your head rest against the back of the couch. The inside of your eyelids was red from the TV glow. “Now what?”, you murmured.
“Listen”, he said.
“To what?”.
“Me”, he said. “For once”.
You rolled your eyes under closed lids, but your mouth flickered up at one corner. “Fine. I’m listening”.
His voice came, low and steady, in that cadence you’d started to recognize when he wanted you calm without admitting he was trying. “Count your breaths”, he said. “In on one, out on two. Don’t rush it. Just keep score in your head”.
“Okay, grandpa meditation”, you muttered. He ignored that and you focused anyway. Inhale, exhale. His shoulder was a solid line of heat against yours. His thigh was a steady presence along the outside of your leg.
“Every time your brain starts re-running tonight”, he said, “or last week, or whatever horror show it wants to throw at you, you drag it back to the numbers. Got it?”.
“I’m not a dog”, you murmured.
“Then stop letting your head walk you”, he said.
You snorted a laugh, breath catching, breaking the count. You started again. One. Two. One. Two. Your body slowly let go. Shoulders unlocking. Hands easing. The world shrinking to this: couch, blanket, his heat, the sound of his breathing just out of sync with yours.
You cracked an eye open at one point, curiosity getting the better of you.
The microwave clock glowed back at you across the room.
23:58.
Two minutes. You swallowed. You turned your head, just a little. He was watching the TV, or pretending to, jaw shadowed, eyes picks up flickers of light.
“Ben?”, you said.
He hummed without looking over.
“What happens”, you asked quietly, “when it’s not seventeen anymore?”.
He didn’t answer right away. The clock monopolized the corner of your vision.
23:59.
He finally turned his head. In the weak light of the TV, his eyes looked darker, greener, something caught there you hadn’t seen before, or maybe you’d just refused to name.
“Don’t know yet”, he said, voice low. “Ask me in a minute”.
Your heart hammered. You watched the red digits flick, slow and inevitable.
23:59.
Still not eighteen. Still not legal. Not yet.
The red digits blinked.
23:59.
23:59.
00:00.
The shift was so small it almost didn’t feel real. Just two little numbers rolling over on a cheap microwave clock. No fanfare. No fireworks. But you felt it. Like a wire inside you snapped taut and then… eased. You exhaled without meaning to, a tiny breath you didn’t know you’d been holding for weeks.
“Ben”, you said.
“Yeah”, he murmured.
“Minute´s up".
His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything right away. Just sat there, shoulders tense and eyes on the clock like it might change its mind and flip back.
You shifted, turning on the couch to face him fully, one knee folding up between you. The blanket slid with you, pooling around your hips, the soft fabric brushing his thigh. “Say it”, you murmured.
His gaze snapped back to you. “Say what?”.
“How old am I?”, you asked.
He stared another second, like he was waiting for some last-minute reprieve. When it didn’t come, he swallowed. “Eighteen”, he said.
You felt it all the way down your spine. You smiled, small and a little nervous. “Again”.
He huffed, but it came out rough. “You’re eighteen”.
“Once more, for the people in the back”.
He rolled his eyes, but the tension in his face didn’t ease. “You’re eighteen”.
The number hung between you, heavier than you’d expected. It wasn’t magic. It didn’t erase the mess or the blood or everything you’d done before you were “old enough”.
But it was a line. And you’d just stepped over it.
You could hear his breathing. You could hear your own, shallow and quick.
“Okay”, you said softly. “So… what happens now? You promised I could ask”.
He watched you, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. One hand flexed on his knee, the tendons in his forearm standing out under the henley.
“Careful”, he said. “You might not like the answer”.
Your heart tripped. “Then give me a different one”.
He huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, more deliberate this time. They stayed there a beat, then climbed back up, searching your face like he was looking for a way out and finding none. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”, he asked quietly.
You leaned in just a little, close enough to smell him. Close enough that if either of you moved another inch, your noses might bump.
“No”, you admitted. “Not really”. You saw the flicker in his eyes at that. Hurt and maybe fear, want, all tangled up. “But I know who I’m asking”, you added. “And that’s the part I’m sure about”.
His throat bobbed. Your fingers had curled in the blanket without you noticing. You forced them to unclench, let one hand creep out, resting on his forearm where his sleeve was pushed up. His skin was hot under your palm, the muscle there hard as steel. You felt him go very, very still.
“Ben”, you said softly. “Look at me”.
He already was, but something in his gaze shifted when you said it. Like he stopped fighting that part, at least.
You held his eyes. “Do you want me?”.
There it was. No joke. No dodge. For a heartbeat, you thought he might lie. Then his mouth twisted, and the truth slipped out, wrecked and raw. “You have no idea how much”.
Your pulse kicked.
“Then why are you still over there?”, you whispered.
His jaw clenched. “Because wanting you and being good for you are not the same thing”.
“Newsflash”, you said, your voice shaking but steady enough, “I never asked you to be good”.
That pulled a hoarse sound out of him, halfway between a laugh and a curse. His hand lifted, like he was reaching for you, then stopped halfway, fingers hovering near your jaw. His fingers flexing once before he dragged them back through his hair instead, rough and frustrated. “I’m not…”. He broke off, jaw working. “I’m not that man, alright?”.
You frowned. “What man?”.
“Your age, ‘boyfriend’ means… flowers, stupid ass dates, holding hands in public like pussys, all that soft shit”. His mouth twisted, half disgust, half self-defense. “I don’t do that. I don’t do slow and gentle and taking care. I don’t do ‘how was your day, honey?’ and white-picket-fence bullshit”.
You snorted. “Yeah. Obviously”.
“Don’t”, he said sharply. “I’m serious, Y/N”.
“So am I”, you shot back. “You think I’m expecting, what, prom and a matching pyjamas?”.
He shook his head, looking away for a second like the words were hard to get out. “I’m mean. I’m loud. I’m… violent. I disappear. I break things. I don’t know how to sit at a kitchen table and talk about feelings. I don’t know how to be—”, he grimaced, “—soft. Not for long”.
You stared at him. Then you laughed. It cracked out of you before you could stop it. Not mocking, just disbelieving.
He blinked, offended. “The fuck´s funny?”.
“You”, you said, still breathless. “You sitting there telling me you don’t do taking care and soft when you’ve spent the last weeks—”. You started counting on your fingers. “Changing my bandage. Knocking instead of barging in, well mostly. Checking locks. Sitting up on that couch till I fall asleep. Waking me up from nightmares before I scream the whole building down. That ring any bells?”.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“You’re not boyfriend material?”, you went on. “Ben, you’ve been full-time security, part-time therapist, and my very grumpy electric blanket”.
His ears went a little pink. “That’s different”.
“How?”, you demanded.
“That’s…”. He gestured vaguely between you. “That was before”.
“Before what?”.
“Before it was allowed to feel like this”, he snapped, and then froze, like he’d said too much.
The room went very quiet.
Your heart hammered. “So it does feel like something”, you said softly.
He dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing hard like he could erase the last ten seconds. “You’re a kid—”.
“I’m not”, you said.
“—who just turned eighteen—”.
“Exactly”, you cut in. “Just turned. Not ‘magically mature and ready for taxes’. I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want”.
He stared at you, breathing a little harder than before.
“I can’t give you normal”, he said, voice roughening. “I can’t give you a house and… birthdays with candles and little girls in ribbons. I burn everything I touch. That’s not a metaphor. It’s literally my power set”.
Your chest squeezed at that last part, at the edge of something you knew he almost never talked about. You swallowed. “Who says I want a house?”.
“Everybody”, he said. “Sooner or later. They want a safe life. Something better than… this”.
You thought of your “home” before the safe house. The way you’d flinch at every door slam. The way nobody ever checked your locks or your bleeding or your nightmares.
“This”, you said quietly, “is already better than anything I had before you sat on that couch. You get that, right?”.
His eyes flicked to yours, sharp, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.
You pushed on. “I don’t need the fence. I don’t need flowers. I don’t need you to turn into some guy you saw in a movie. I just…”, you swallowed, fingers tightening on his forearm, “I want you. The one who shows up. The one who stayed. The one I actually sleep next to”.
He was very, very still.
“You’ve already been taking care of me”, you said. “So if this is you ‘not doing soft’—”. You gestured between you. “—then I think I can live with that”.
His mouth pressed into a thin line, fighting a losing battle against something.
“You’re gonna regret this”, he muttered.
“Maybe”, you said. “But at least it’ll be my regret”.
A huff of unwilling amusement escaped him at that. He looked at your hand on his arm, at the way your thumb had started brushing absent circles over his skin without you noticing. The muscle jumped under your touch.
“You know what scares me?”, he said suddenly.
“The internet?”, you offered.
“You”, he said simply.
Your breath caught. “Me?”.
“You and that look you give me when you think I did something good”, he said. “You and that couch. You and the way you say my name when you want me to stop glowing. You’re… trusting the one weapon in the room not to go off”.
“I did that before”, you reminded him. “And you didn’t”.
“Not because I’m safe”, he said. “Because you are. That’s the difference”.
You didn’t know what to do with that sentence except hold it tight inside your chest.
He sighed, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The fight in his posture didn’t disappear, but it shifted. Turned inward, like he’d accepted he was arguing with himself now more than with you. “Alright”, he said. “Here’s the deal”.
You straightened instinctively.
“I’m not promising white fucking fences”, he said. “I’m not promising I won’t screw up. Hell, I probably will. But I can promise you this: I won’t lie to you about who I am. I won’t pretend to be something I can’t keep up. And I won’t…”, he hesitated, knuckles going white on his knee, “I won’t take more than you’re giving”.
Your throat felt too tight. “What does that—”.
“It means”, he cut in gently, “we go at your pace. You call it. You want to keep this”—he gestured between your faces—“right here? We do that. You want to stop, we stop. You want to walk away in a week, you walk. No killing. No guilt trip. Just… say it”.
You stared at him. “You really think I’m walking away in a week?”, you asked.
“I think you don’t know yet”, he said. “And I’m not gonna chain you to a bad decision just because you liked the way I touch you when you can’t sleep”.
Heat crawled up your neck. “You make it sound so…”.
“Accurate?”, he offered.
You glared. “Infuriating”.
“That too”.
There was a beat of silence, the air thick and electric.
“Okay”, you said finally. “My pace”.
“Your pace”, he repeated.
You sat with that for half a second, heart in your throat, his forearm solid and hot under your hand. Then you narrowed your eyes. “So”, you said, “at my pace”.
“Yeah”, he said slowly. “That’s what I just—”.
“Then”, you cut in, “I’m telling you to kiss me already before I lose my goddamn mind”.
His brows shot up. “That a threat?”.
“Yes”, you said. “I will make your life so annoying, Ben. I will whine. I will sulk. I will bring this up every ten minutes until you wish Vought had left you on ice”.
He huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Christ, you are a fucking brat”.
“Yeah, well, some of us know what we want”, you shot back. “You said my pace. I’m pacing. Catch up”.
He stared at you, disbelief shading into something hotter.
“You always this demanding with men twice your age?”, he asked. “Or am I just special?”.
“Oh, please”, you scoffed. “You think I’ve had this conversation with a whole line of geriatrics?”.
“Careful”, he said, eyes narrowing. “You keep calling me old, I might forget this whole chivalry kick and throw you over my shoulder instead”.
You felt that somewhere low and dangerous.
“Promises, promises”, you muttered.
He let out a rough laugh and shook his head.
“You really want this?”, he said. “Me?”.
A beat passed.
“You sure you don’t wanna find some nice kid your age? Some clean-cut asshole with a college degree and a future?”.
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what I dream about at night. Boys who say ‘female’ unironically and ask me my body count on the first date”.
He gave you a long, unamused look that didn’t hide the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth. “This is a bad idea”, he muttered.
“Probably”, you agreed. “Still waiting”.
“You’re gonna be the death of me”, he muttered.
“You’re bulletproof”, you said. “You’ll live”.
“Not from this”, he said under his breath, almost like he hadn’t meant you to hear. You did. And you didn’t give him a chance to pretend he hadn’t said it.
You slid your hand up his arm, over the solid curve of his bicep, to his shoulder. You felt him tense under your palm, then deliberately relax, like he’d decided if this was happening, he wasn’t gonna meet it halfway.
“Last chance”, you said softly. “You say no, I drop it”,
He searched your face one last time, like he was looking for any sign you were playing at something you didn’t understand. Whatever he saw there made his mouth twist. Half fond, half doomed.
“Yeah”, he said hoarsely. “That’s the problem. You’re not dropping it”.
“Ben—”.
He moved. His hand came up to your jaw again, this time landing and staying, fingers spreading along the hinge of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
“Bossy little thing”, he murmured.
Before you could say anything else, he shut you up with his mouth.
You made a tiny, involuntary sound, more surprise than anything, as his lips settled over yours. They were warm and firm, just rough enough at the edges to remind you who you were dealing with.
He didn’t devour you. Not like you’d imagined. He kissed you slow. Testing and learning. The hand on your jaw gentled, his thumb tracing your cheekbone in a stroke so careful it almost hurt.
You melted so fast it was embarrassing.
Your free hand fisted in his shirt, right over his chest, clutching at the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You felt the steady thud-thud of his heart under your palm, a little faster than it had any right to be. His other hand found your hip, fingers splayed there.
You chased his mouth when he pulled back a fraction, eyes still closed, breath coming a little quick. “See?”, you whispered, lips brushing his. “Soft. You liar”.
He huffed a breath that could’ve been a laugh. “One kiss and you’re doing performance reviews?”.
“You’re getting an A”, you said. “Don’t ruin it”.
“Watch your mouth”, he warned.
“Make me”, you shot back automatic.
His fingers tightened just a hair on your jaw.
“You really want me to answer that?”, he asked, voice gone rough around the edges.
Your pulse jumped. “Yes”.
He swore softly, something that sounded a lot like surrender.
Then he leaned back in, and this time when he kissed you, he stopped pretending he didn’t want to. He kissed you like he meant it now, no more testing the waters. His mouth moved against yours with a controlled hunger, tongue sweeping in to taste you. You arched into him, heat pooling low in your belly as his hand on your jaw slid down to your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. He could probably feel it racing, hell, you could hear it in your ears.
“Ben”, you gasped when he broke away, trailing his lips along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just under your ear. His breath was hot and it sent shivers racing across your skin.
“Easy”, he murmured, voice low like he was talking himself down as much as you. His free hand, the one on your hip, tightened and before you could process it, he was shifting you, pulling you fully onto his lap. You straddled him now, knees bracketing his thighs, the solid heat of him pressing up against you through your clothes. It made your head spin, the sheer power coiled in his body, the way he could crush you without trying but was holding back so carefully.
You were still untouched in that way, your experiences limited to clumsy makeouts and your own fumbling explorations at night. And here he was: Ben, Soldier Boy, America’s first supe, a walking legend who’d probably bedded half the starlets in Hollywood back in the day.
He hadn’t been with a virgin. Never. He liked his women experienced, knowing, the kind who could match his pace without breaking. But you? You were fragile, breakable and he knew it. It made him hesitate, even as his hands roamed.
“You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”, he muttered against your collarbone, his fingers hooking under the hem of your shirt. He lifted the fabric slowly, peeling it up over your head. You raised your arms to help, heart hammering as the cool air hit you, leaving you in just your bra. His eyes darkened, raking over you like he was committing every curve to memory. “So goddamn soft”.
He tossed your shirt aside, hands returning to your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the lace.
Ben was taking his time, damn him. Proper foreplay, like he was determined to do this right.
His mouth found your neck again, sucking lightly, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. One hand slid up your back, unhooking your bra with a single flick. The straps slipped down your shoulders and he pulled back to look at you as he tugged it off, exposing you completely.
His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked under his touch. You moaned, arching into him, your hips rocking instinctively against his lap. He groaned, but he didn’t push further, not yet. Instead, he leaned in, mouth closing over one nipple, tongue swirling hot and wet while his hand worked the other. It was torture.
He switched sides, giving the same attention to your other breast, while his fingers teased the first, rolling it gently between thumb and forefinger.
You were a mess already, squirming in his lap, the friction of your hips against his only stoking the fire higher.
“Ben”, you pleaded again, voice breathy and desperate, your hand finding his wrist.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, his green gaze hazy with want and lips shiny. You didn’t wait for permission, you guided his hand down, past the waistband of your pants, under the elastic of your panties, until his fingers met the slick, heated evidence of just how ready you were.
He stilled, a sharp inhale escaping him as his fingertips slid through your folds, coated instantly in you. You were dripping, absolutely drenched, your body betraying every ounce of need you’d been holding back. “Fuck”, he rasped, his voice cracking on the word, eyes fluttering half-shut like the feel of you was too much.
His fingers explored tentatively at first, parting you gently, circling your entrance without pushing in, thumb brushing over your clit in a way that made your hips buck involuntarily.
He groaned, forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder for a second, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. “Damn it… I forgot how warm humans are. So fucking hot inside, like a furnace”.
He pressed a finger inside you slowly, just the tip at first, testing, curling it gently as your walls clenched around him. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, the intrusion foreign but so welcome.
“That’s it”, he murmured. He added a second finger when you relaxed, scissoring them carefully, stretching you while his thumb worked your clit in steady circles. The wet sounds filled the air between you and he watched your face the whole time, gauging every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your eyelids.
“You’re tight”, he muttered, almost to himself, pumping his fingers deeper now, building a rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. “Gonna feel so good around me”.
He leaned in to capture your mouth again, swallowing your moans as he crooked his fingers just right, hitting that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyes. You were close already, the coil in your belly tightening fast. He might have been out of practice with virgins, but he knew bodies, knew how to unravel them.
“Ben, I—oh shit”, you whimpered into his kiss, your hands fumbling to pants, desperate to feel more of him, to push this further before you shattered completely. He didn’t stop you, just growled low in approval, his free hand helping you as his fingers kept working you open, prepping you for what was coming.
Your hands shook as you worked his pants down. Ben didn’t rush you. Hell, he seemed to enjoy the way your fingers fumbled, his lips curving into a smirk against yours as he kept up the relentless rhythm of his fingers inside you. But patience had its limits, and when you finally shoved the fabric down his hips, he pulled back just enough to help, kicking his pants off along with his boxers in one impatient motion.
He was bare now, every inch of him exposed. Broad shoulders, sculpted chest dusted with hair, the V of his hips leading down to… shit. He was huge. Thick and long, veins standing out, the head already glistening. Your mouth went dry at the sight, a mix of awe and nerves twisting in your gut. How the hell was that going to fit?
Ben caught your stare, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Eyes up here, sweetheart,” he teased, but his voice was strained, rough with the same hunger you felt. His fingers slowed inside you, withdrawing gently, leaving you clenching around nothing, aching for more.
You weren’t far behind. With his help you shimmied out of your pants and panties, the fabric sliding down your legs until you were as naked as he was.
He shifted then, one hand bracing on the back of the couch as he guided you down, easing you onto your back with surprising gentleness. The cushions dipped under your weight, and he followed, hovering above you, his body a wall of muscle and heat. His arms caged you in, elbows planted on either side of your head, but he kept his full weight off you.
No thoughts of protection crossed his mind. Supes like him didn’t knock up humans—or anyone, for that matter. The serum had seen to that.
So he settled between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your core, sliding through your wetness as he rocked his hips once, teasing.
“I got you”, he murmured, dipping his head to kiss you deep, distracting you as he lined himself up. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting of mint and salt. The broad head of his cock nudged your entrance, so warm, and he paused there. “Breathe for me. Gonna go slow”.
He pushed in, just the tip and you gasped sharply, a high, involuntary sound. The stretch was immediate and burning. He was huge, thicker than his fingers had prepared you for, and the girth was forcing you open in a way that teetered between pleasure and pain. No way you could have taken him just like that; it was impossible, your body clenching instinctively, trying to push him out even as you craved more.
“Fuck”, he hissed through clenched teeth, forehead pressing to yours. His arms trembled slightly where they caged you in. “So tight… shit”. He stilled after that first shallow thrust, barely more than the head inside, giving you time to adjust. Your nails dug into his back and scraping red lines over his skin.
“Breathe”, he repeated, his voice strained, one hand sliding down to your hip, thumb rubbing soothing circles over the bone. You could feel him pulsing inside you.
He pulled back a fraction, just enough to ease the pressure, then pressed forward again, slower this time, working himself deeper.
You arched up instinctively, seeking relief or more, you weren’t sure, but it only drove him a little deeper, drawing a choked moan from your throat.
He groaned in response, his free hand tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to ground you as he kissed your neck.
“Gonna make it good”, he promised roughly, his hips circling now, grinding rather than thrusting.
Inch by inch, he claimed more ground, until finally, after what felt like an eternity of that torturous advance, he was seated as deep as you could take, not quite all of him, but enough that the pressure bordered on too full, your body trembling around him.
He stilled completely then, buried deep, his breath coming in harsh pants against your ear. “There… fuck, you’re doing so good".
You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist, heels pressing into his ass as the initial discomfort began to fade, morphing into a needy ache that begged for motion.
“Move”, you whispered finally, hips lifting experimentally, the slide of him inside you now slicker, easier. “Please, Ben… I need—”.
He pulled back slowly, before thrusting in again.
Each stroke built on the last, the stretch lessening as your body adapted, but never fully gone.
Within seconds of him starting to move, the pressure and heat overwhelming your already primed body.
The grind of his hips against your clit with every deep thrust, the way he filled you so completely, sent you spiraling. Your walls clenched around him, rippling in waves that made your toes curl and your back arch off the couch. “Ben—oh fuck”, you cried out, tears spilling hot down your cheeks as the orgasm crashed through you.
It was messy, your arousal gushing around him, slicking his thighs and the couch beneath you.
He didn’t stop. Sure as shit, Ben didn’t stop there. No, he just slowed, drawing it out with lazy rolls of his hips, like he had all the time in the world. His mouth found yours again, kissing you sloppy and deep.
“That’s one”, he murmured against your skin, voice rough and smug, his hand sliding between you to circle your oversensitive clit with callused fingers. The touch was light, teasing, but in your post-climax haze, it was… electric, rebuilding the fire before the embers had even cooled.
You whimpered, oversensitive and quivering, but he kept going, fucking you through the aftershocks with those same languid thrusts.
His free hand roamed your body lazily, palming your breast, pinching a nipple just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
You could feel him everywhere: the coarse hair at his base rubbing against your clit, the heat of his balls slapping softly against you, the faint tremor in his thighs from holding back his own release.
He shifted angles slightly, hitting that spot inside you with every drag, his fingers on your clit speeding up just a fraction. Messy circles that smeared your slickness. “Come on, sweetheart”, he growled in your ear. “Give me another”.
The words sent you higher, the coil snapping again with a shuddering cry. This time it was even messier.
But he wasn’t done. “One more”, he rasped, flipping you effortlessly so you were on top now, straddling him, his cock still buried deep.
His hands gripped your hips loosely, guiding you in lazy rocks rather than bounces, his eyes half-lidded as he watched you through the strands of his hair. Kisses turned sloppier, open-mouthed and breathless, his tongue tracing your lips, your jaw, down to suck a mark on your neck that throbbed with your pulse.
You rode him like that, messy and unhurried, your hands braced on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under sweat-slick skin. His fingers dipped between you again, lazy swirls on your clit that had you grinding down harder.
For what felt like forever, it built in waves, your body exhausted but helpless against it. The drag of him inside you, still so warm, so impossibly present, kept pushing you higher.
“Ben—please”, you sobbed.
He answered with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, and the sensation shattered through you, sending you over the edge for the third time.
Only then did he let go. His hips bucked lazy, before he spilled deep inside you, filling you until it leaked out around him in a messy trickle. He held you there, buried to the hilt, his arms wrapping around you tight as he panted into your hair.
A while later, exhaustion settled over you, leaving you limp against him. Ben shifted carefully, keeping you close as he pulled back.
The sudden emptiness made you wince, a dull ache lingering between your legs. You buried your face against his shoulder, letting the warmth of him ground you as the room fell quiet.
“Oh shit”, you breathed, voice hoarse, your head lolling back against the couch as you tried to catch your breath. Every muscle felt like jelly.
Ben propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that lazy smirk. His hair was tousled, sweat still glistening on his chest, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief as he took in your wrecked state. “What, already tapping out?”, he teased. He brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead, his thumb lingering to trace your cheekbone. “Thought you were tougher than that. Three times and you’re done?”.
You managed a weak glare, though it lacked any real heat, your body too boneless to even swat at him. “Shut up”, you muttered, wincing again as you shifted slightly, the soreness flaring like a bruise. “You’re… huge. And a dick”.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against you where your skin still touched. “Yeah? Well, you took it like a champ. Mostly”. His hand trailed down your side, fingers ghosting over your hip in a way that made you twitch. “Look at you—can’t even move. What happened to all that bossy attitude? ‘Move, Ben, please Ben’?”. He mimicked your earlier pleas in a high-pitched whine, grinning wider when you groaned in embarrassment.
“Asshole”, you muttered, though the smile tugging at your lips took most of the sting out of it.
The room was warm and quiet, carrying the lingering scent of him and the aftermath of the last few hours. The couch beneath you was a complete mess.
Ben’s expression softened just a little, the teasing fading into something gentler.
“Yeah, yeah”, he said, pushing himself upright. “Stay put, princess. Not like you’re going anywhere anytime soon”.
He got to his feet, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing, and headed for the bathroom without another word.
You heard the faucet run, the soft splash of water, and he returned a minute later with a wet towel in hand. “Here”, he said, voice gruff but gentle as he knelt beside the couch. He pressed it carefully between your legs, cleaning you up, wiping away the mess. The warmth seeped into your skin, easing the throb, and you sighed in relief, your eyes fluttering shut.
“See? Not a total dick”, he murmured, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he finished and tossed the towel aside. He slid back onto the couch, pulling you into his side. “Get some rest. You’re gonna feel that tomorrow”.
Love the teasing, love the tension, the restrain, the way she knows what she wants because he made her trust him no matter what... The way they both are so open and honest with each other...
With her he is Ben, with everyone else he is Soldier Boy.
