Platonic Dark! Grandfather Soldier Boy x Granddaughter Reader
You tried, really tried to be nice when you first met him.
Like a good granddaughter, you smiled, shook his hand, asked him how the whole 'frozen for forty years' thing was treating him. But after a few awkward dinners and one too many cracks about your generation being a 'bunch of soft little pussies,' you'd retreated to your room. Games. Movies. Shows. Anything to avoid the man your father, of all people, seemed desperate to impress.
You were this close. One more push and you'd clutch the win, headset on, fingers flying across the keyboard, the PC you built with your own two hands humming under the desk like a loyal dog.
Then the door slammed open without so much as a knock.
"You still rotting away in here?"
Soldier Boy stood in the doorway, joint between his fingers, that stupid leather jacket hanging off his shoulders like he'd just stepped out of a goddamn Vietnam flashback.
"I'm in the middle of something," you snapped, eyes locked on the screen. "Can you please get out?"
"In the middle of what? Clickin' buttons? That ain't a hobby, sweetheart, that's a goddamn lobotomy with extra steps."
"Just go away."
"Log off."
"No."
He took two steps in, and you didn't even see him move. One second he was by the door, the next there was a sound, followed by a sharp, sickening crack, and your tower was on its side, the side panel caved in like a soda can, sparks fizzling out the back.
You shot up out of your chair so fast it tipped over.
"Why would you do that?!"
"Watch your mouth."
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THAT COST?! HOW LONG IT TOOK ME TO BUILD?! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
You were screaming as if he had just killed someone right infront of you.
A reaction that displeased Soldier Boy.
In seconds his hand was around your throat, lifting you onto your toes, pinning your back against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed posters.
"You wanna try that again, sweetheart?" His face was inches from yours, beard scratching your chin, breath thick with cigar and bourbon.
"Huh? 'Cause I'll tell ya somethin' right now, I'm the man of this house. You got that? Not your daddy. Me. So you're gonna wipe that snotty little look off your face, or I'll give you somethin' to actually cry about. Y'unnerstand me?"
You couldn't speak and breathe. Which caused you to only nod, while tears spilling down your cheeks, eyes wide.
"When a man asks you a question, you say yes sir or no sir. That's how it worked back when this country had a goddamn spine. Kids respected their elders. But you? Christ, your daddy didn't raise a daughter, he raised a project. Figures. He couldn't hold a beer either."
He let go of you as you crumpled on your feet. Soldier Boy smirked at the way your hands flew to your throat.
But when you hear the elevator chime.
You bolted.
You didn't even wait for the doors to fully open before you were sprinting across the penthouse floor, barefoot, face wet, voice cracking "Dad! Dad!"
Homelander stepped out, cape sweeping behind him, that 'I'm-home-honey' grin already plastered on his face. waiting for your arms to wraps around him.
Yet the grin dropped the second he saw you.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey. What's wrong, sweetheart? What happened?"
"He broke my PC! He came in without knocking and he just broke it...and then he grabbed me, Dad, he grabbed me by the throat and slammed me into the wall, and he threatened me—"
You were sobbing into the comfort of his suit. His arms came around you, but his eyes were already lifted, locked over your shoulder.
Soldier Boy stood in the hallway. Joint still smoldering. Not a flicker of remorse. Just that smug, little smirk like he was watching a rerun he had already seen the ending to.
There was a long moment of silence.
Homelander's jaw flexed as he corner of his mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite anything else.
"Hey. Hey, look at me, sweetheart." He cupped your face, thumbs wiping under your eyes. "Hey. It's okay. It's okay. We'll get you a new one. A better one. Top of the line, whatever you want, alright? Liquid cooling, what's it? the RGB, the whole nine yards. Okay? Your grandpa, he didn't mean—"
"Oh, I meant it."
Homelander's eye twitched.
Soldier Boy strolled forward, taking a slow drag, blowing the smoke up at the ceiling. "Kid spends every wakin' hour locked in that room jerkin' off to a screen. Ain't healthy. Ain't normal. In my day a girl her age was learnin' to cook, learnin' to sew, learnin' how to be a goddamn woman. Not whatever the hell that is."
"Dad." Homelander's voice was tight, knowing very well that the man is being a hypocrite right now because Homelander knew that his father was a spoiled brat but decided not to being it up. "I've got it handled."
"Doesn't look handled to me, son."
The two men stared at each other with a horrible coldness that the air felt like it dropped fifty degrees.
Then Homelander turned back to you, and the smile was back, full wattage, and blinding.
"New PC. Tomorrow morning. I promise. Okay? Daddy's got you." He kissed the top of your head. "I'm gonna go take a shower. Long day, you know. Saving the world. Hero stuff." He assured you. "We'll talk more at dinner, sweetheart."
And just like that, he was gone. Cape disappearing down the hall. Door clicking shut.
Leaving you alone with him.
Soldier Boy took another drag. Looked you up and down. Exhaled out the smoke.
"Like I said, sweetheart. I'm the man of this house now. And what I say goes."
He flicked ash onto the marble floor, the floor your father had flown in from Italy, the floor housekeeping polished twice a week, treating it like it was a goddamn ashtray.
"So tomorrow mornin', when that fancy new toy of yours shows up? It's gonna sit in a box. Unopened. 'Cause you're gonna be busy. You're gonna get up at oh-six-hundred. You're gonna make breakfast, real breakfast, eggs, bacon, none of that almond milk avocado horseshit. Then you're gonna clean this place top to bottom. And you're gonna learn how to act like a goddamn lady instead of some basement-dwellin' little gremlin."
"My dad said-"
"Your dad," he cut you off, "is a forty-three year old child in a Halloween costume. He ain't raisin' you. I am. Now. You got somethin' to say to me?"
"...No, sir."
"There she is." He grinned, the bastard actually grinned, like he'd just taught a dog to sit.
"See? Wasn't so hard, was it? Bit of discipline is all you needed. Your old man's been raisin' you like a goddamn show pony, all ribbons, no spine. We're gonna fix that."
Soldier Boy is planning to change everything. He intends to take over the Seven and step into the role of your father, considering that Homelander, in his eyes, is nothing but a weak disappointment.
And Soldier Boy knows that he is going to enjoy every bit of it.
Maybe if you didn't look like his dead little sister xeroxed back to life, he wouldn't be so goddamn fixated on everything you do.
