synopsis: Homelander shows up at your window covered in the blood of his latest massacre. Somehow, you don't scream. You just tell him to get in the tub. Youâre the only person who treats him like a disaster instead of a god, and tonight, heâs desperate to be handled, degraded, and put in his place.
content warnings: 18+, smut, bottom male reader, sub!Homelander (subtop), power imbalance, psychological instability, blood and gore (non-sexual), degradation/praise, hair pulling, rough sex, bathtub sex, wet and messy (water/spit), ripping clothes, crying during sex, creampie.
word count: 1.5k words
The city felt dead that night, a heavy, airless sort of quiet that usually meant something had already happened. You noticed it halfway up the stairs to your apartment when your own boots sounded way too sharp against the concrete, echoing in the narrow stairwell like the building itself was holding its breath. You paused outside your door, keys gripped tight, listening to the absolute lack of noise from behind the neighbors' doors. Somehow, there were no noisy televisions or muffled arguments tonight, just a localized vacuum of sound. You pushed through it anyway because routine is a powerful sedative, even when your gut is telling you to run.
Inside, the kitchen light flickered with a dull hum, and that was when you saw the shadow. Unfortunately for you, it wasn't a trick of the streetlamps; it was a solid, unmoving blotch of darkness cutting across the linoleum. When you looked toward the window, your heart didn't jump so much as it just went cold.
Homelander was hovering just beyond the glass.
Up close, he looked like a wreck. There was no cinematic polish, no camera-ready smile, just a man suspended in the air by something unnatural. He was covered in goreâthick, dark smears soaked into the seams of his suit and dried in jagged streaks along his jaw. He looked like heâd just finished painting a room with the people inside it. You slowly walked over and unlatched the lock, the metallic click sounding like a gunshot. As the glass slid back, the smell hit you first; the heavy, copper sting of fresh blood mixed with the ozone of the night air. He didn't move or offer an explanation. He just stayed suspended there, searching your face for the scream or the worship he usually pulled from people like debt. You hadn't seen him since that one-off night a year ago, a brief mistake in a hotel bar that youâd spent months trying to bury.
âAre you coming in,â you said, your voice flat and sounding a lot steadier than you felt, âor are you planning to stay out there and attract a crowd?â
That seemed to be what finally grounded him. He drifted forward and landed on your floorboards with a dull thud, his boots leaving dark, wet prints on the wood. He didn't say a word, just stood there looking at his own hands like heâd never seen them before. You didn't wait. You just turned and walked toward the bathroom. âIn here,â you called over your shoulder. âBefore you ruin the rug.â
The bathroom was cramped and the light was dim, stripping away the hero image until he was just a man in a ruined suit. You turned the taps on and watched the water drum against the porcelain tub, waiting until he was standing in the doorway.
"Get out of it," you told him, nodding at the suit.
He didn't argue. He stripped with a clumsy haste, the heavy gold-and-blue fabric hitting the tile with a wet thud. When he stepped into the tub, his eyes fixed on you with a terrifying focus. He sank into the water, and it turned a murky, rusted pink almost immediately.
"Sit," you commanded, grabbing a washcloth.
You started at his shoulder. Pressed the cloth down, dragged it slowly across his skin, watching the blood smear and then lift. He just sat thereâ watching you work.
âYouâre quiet,â he said after a minute.
Youâre not exactly here for the conversation, John,â you replied, wringing the cloth out and moving to the other side of his neck. "Show up at my window like a stray after turning a facility into a butcher shop? You look pathetic like this."
He let out a low growl, a sound that would have paralyzed anyone else, but to you it just sounded like a whimper. He reached up, wet fingers curling around your wrist with an iron grip that felt like it was going to leave a mark. He didn't pull you away; he just held you there, anchored. "Say it again," he choked out, his voice cracking with an almost psychotic need. "Tell me I'm nothing."
"You're a disaster," you whispered, reaching up to grab a handful of his blonde hair with your free hand. You pulled his head back so he had to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and dark. "You're a goddamn wreck hiding in a bathroom because you can't stand yourself."
He let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, and before you could move, he reached out and hauled you over the edge of the tub. You hit the water fully clothed, the shock of the heat and the weight of him pressing you back against the porcelain making your head swim. He didn't care about the logistics. He grabbed the waistband of your jeans, the fabric groaning before he simply ripped them down, his strength barely restrained as he stripped the wet denim away from your legs.
He was frantic, his hands fumbling with your shirt while his mouth searched for yours with a sort of desperate clumsiness. He tasted like salt and iron, his tongue pushing into your mouth with an uncoordinated need that felt like he was trying to find something inside you he could keep.
"Make me stop," he gasped against your skin, his hands shaking as he pressed you into the tile. "Tell me I'm yours. Tell me I'm a good boy."
"Get on your knees," you breathed, the words probably coming out sharper than you originally intended.
The Great American Hero didn't hesitate. He shifted in the cramped space, the water splashing over the sides as he lowered himself, his hands gripping your thighs so hard it was going to leave bruises. He looked up at you from the other end of the tub, his face clean of blood but his expression utterly wrecked, a mix of need and worship that made the room feel like it was quickly running out of oxygen.
His head dropped between your legs, his tongue working with a desperate, slobbering intensity that had him moaning onto your cock. He was looking for friction, his hips rutting against the porcelain of the tub as he devoured you, his fingers digging into the backs of your knees. You grabbed a handful of his wet blonde hair, yanking his head back so he had to look at you while he worked. His blue eyes were practically black with arousal, fixed on your face with a terrifying adoration.
"Please," he slurred against your thigh, the water turning frothy as he moved. "Please, can I? Can I fuck you? I've been so good. I'm a good boy, right?"
"You're a mess," you whispered, guiding him up. "But yeah. Get in here."
He wasted no time, sliding his cock into you with a slow, agonizing glide that had him gasping for air. He stayed still for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours, his body trembling as he waited for you to adjust to the stretch. Then the rhythm broke. The slow roll of his hips turned into a rough, pounding desperation, his skin slapping against yours in a wet, rhythmic cadence that filled the small room. He was practically begging, his body responding to every sharp command you leveled at him.
He babbled into your ear, promises of belonging and desperate "I love you"s that sounded more like threats than endearments. "You're so full, baby. I'm filling you up just like I promised. Tell me you're mine. Tell me I'm yours."
The water was splashing everywhere, the tub groaning under the weight of his movements. He sped up, his hips slamming into yours with a rough, uncoordinated force that threatened to break the tile. The sound of wet skin hitting skin echoed off the bathroom walls, a frantic, messy soundtrack to the way he was losing his mind inside of you. He reached down, his fingers clumsily looking for yours so he could pin your hands back, needing the physical reminder that you were trapped under his weight, even as he was the one serving you. He was rutting into you now, his heavy cock bottoming out with every desperate thrust, his eyes never leaving yours.
When he finally dumped his load into you, his balls constricting as rope after rope hit your insides, he let out a long, quiet chant of "Thank you" and "I love you" until the tension finally left his body. He collapsed against your chest, his softening cock still twitching inside you, the water in the tub still swirling around your waists as his heart hammered like a trapped bird against his ribs.
By the time the water had gone cold, the room felt heavier than it had when he was covered in blood. You leaned back against the tile, your breathing finally starting to level out while he sat there, tracing uncoordinated patterns on your leg with a wet finger.
âDid I do a good job?â he asked, his voice small and innocent, as if he hadn't just rearranged your guts in a bathtub.
âYou were super, John," you muttered, the exhaustion finally pulling you under. "Good boy.â
!The Boys overhear you having sex with (Character).
Butcher
You two barely made it through the door. His lips were on yours instantly, nipping at your lower lip with that sharp hunger that always left you dizzy. Before you could even catch your breath, Butcher had you pinned against the bed, hands rough and greedyâtugging at clothes, gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs like he couldnât get you bare fast enough.
The old bed creaked loudly beneath you as he slowly lowered himself into you, thick and unrelenting. You gasped sharply, mouth falling open in a perfect, silent O, eyes fluttering shut at the stretch. He eased in inch by inch, deliberate and deep, a low, guttural groan rumbling from his chest the whole way. No words. Just the wet, slick sound of him sinking into you, your shaky exhale, and the way your nails dug into his back as you braced yourself.
In the next room, the boys were tryingâvery, very hardâto pretend they werenât hearing every single second of it.
Hughieâs face burned scarlet, eyes glued to the floor like it might split open and swallow him whole. MM rubbed his temples hard, jaw clenched tight, muttering under his breath about âgoddamn animals.â Frenchie leaned back with a smirk, cigarette dangling from his lips, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. Kimiko tilted her head, watching the wall with calm, fascinated curiosity, like she was listening to a particularly interesting song.
Another loud, broken moan ripped from your throatâhigh and desperateâas Butcher hit that perfect spot deep inside you, making your toes curl tight. The bedframe slammed harder against the wall now, rhythmic and violent. His grunts turned rougher, deeper, almost animalistic snarls every time you clenched around him, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder.
âChrist,â MM finally hissed, voice low and strained. âTheyâre not even trying to be quiet.â
Frenchie exhaled a slow curl of smoke, soft laugh slipping out. âI do not think they remember we exist right now.â
Hughie made a strangled little noise and yanked his hoodie up over his head like that could possibly block out the soundsâyour whimpers climbing higher, Butcherâs heavy, ragged breathing, the relentless creak and thud of the bed.
Back in the room, your legs were trembling violently around his waist, voice cracking into soft, needy whimpers as he fucked you through it, hips snapping with raw, primal force. His breathing was harsh and uneven against your neck, each thrust punctuated by a deep, guttural groan that vibrated through your chest.
One last, wrecked âfuckâ tore from himâlow and desperateâright as you shattered. Your high, trembling moan spilled out, raw and broken, mixing perfectly with his deep, satisfied growl as pleasure crashed through both of you. The bed finally stilled, the only sounds left being your shared, panting breaths.
Silenceâblessed, mortifying silenceâsettled for half a second.
Then Frenchieâs voice drifted through the thin wall, dry as bone:
ââŠWell. At least someoneâs having a good night.â
You buried your burning face in Butcherâs sweat-slick shoulder, half-laughing, half-mortified at how loud youâd been. He just chuckled darkly against your hair, the sound rough and smug, arms tightening around you possessively.
âLet âem listen, love,â he murmured, voice gravelly and low. âLet the whole fuckinâ world hear what you sound like when I ruin you.â
Soldier Boy
The team had only been back at the safehouse for twenty minutes when the noises started.
At first they figured Soldier Boy was just being his usual destructive selfâpacing, throwing shit, whatever. But then the bedframe started slamming against the wall in a steady, filthy rhythm. Loud. Unmistakable.
âWhat the hell is he doing now?â MM muttered, already heading toward the hallway.
Then it hit them: a sharp, breathy gaspâfeminine, surprised, melting quickly into a soft, needy moan as the creaking intensified.
The room went dead quiet.
Hughie blinked hard. âWait⊠thereâs a girl in there with him?â
Another moan slipped through the thin walls, higher this time, raw and trembling. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, faster, paired with deep, guttural grunts from Soldier Boyâlow and arrogant, the kind that said he was enjoying every second of wrecking whoever was under him.
Kimiko tilted her head, listening with quiet curiosity as your voice cracked into a desperate whimper, the bed thudding harder.
MM stopped outside the door, hand raised like he was about to knock and tell the asshole to keep it downâuntil another broken moan rang out, clearer this time.
That voice.
MM froze.
Hughieâs face went pale. âThat⊠that sounded likeââ
Your moan cut him off, loud and shattered, as Soldier Boy hit that spot that made your toes curl and your back arch. The rhythm turned brutalâbedframe cracking against the wall, your high, needy cries mixing with his rough, animalistic groans. No words. Just pure filth: the slick, wet sounds of him pounding into you, your legs shaking, voice climbing higher and more desperate with every thrust.
Frenchieâs cigarette nearly dropped from his lips. âNon⊠no way. Thatâs notââ
But it was. The next moan was unmistakableâyour voice, raw and trembling, cracking beautifully as you tried and failed to stay quiet.
Hughie looked like he was about to be sick. âOh my god. Thatâs⊠thatâs her.
MMâs hand dropped to his side, eyes wide with pure shock. âYouâve gotta be fucking kidding me.â
The pace inside grew frantic. Your whimpers turned into frantic little sobs of pleasure, body jolting with every deep, punishing snap of Soldier Boyâs hips. His grunts got louder, rougherâalmost snarlsâcocky and satisfied as he fucked you , the headboard slamming like it might break.
Your voice broke on a long, high, trembling cry as you came hard, legs shaking violently around him. Soldier Boy followed with a deep groan, hips stuttering once, twice, before the bed finally went still.
Heavy, ragged breathing filled the sudden silence.
The boys stood frozen in the hallway, stunned into complete silence.
Frenchie was the first to speak, voice hushed and disbelieving. âPutain⊠itâs really her. With him.â
Hughie pulled his hoodie up over his head like it could erase the last five minutes. âIâm never going to be able to look at her again. Or him. Or⊠anyone.â
MM just stared at the door, rubbing his temples hard, muttering, âOf all the people⊠Soldier Boy? What the fuck is she thinking?â
Kimikoâs lips twitched with quiet amusement, shrugging one shoulder as if to say surprise.
Inside the room, you were still catching your breath, face buried against Soldier Boyâs sweat-slick chest, a soft embarrassed laugh bubbling up. He smirked down at you, one big hand lazily stroking your spine, voice low and smug.
âSounds like the peanut gallery finally figured it out, sweetheart.â
Hughie
You and Hughie had waited until the safehouse felt dead quiet.
The team was supposed to be out for hours, so the second the door clicked shut behind the last person, Hughie had pulled you into his room with that shy, eager grin. Clothes came off fastâhis hands a little clumsy with nerves, your laughter soft against his mouth as you tumbled onto the bed together.
He eased into you slowly, careful like always, and the old mattress creaked under you both. You let out a quiet gasp, mouth falling open, fingers digging gently into his shoulders. Hughie answered with a low, shaky groan, burying his face in your neck as he started to move.
No talking. Just soft, breathy soundsâyour little moans growing sweeter and higher every time he rolled his hips, his own quiet, desperate grunts mixing with the rhythmic creak of the bed. It felt safe. Private. You didnât hold back, letting yourself get louder as pleasure built, your voice turning into needy whimpers that made Hughieâs breathing hitch.
The bedframe started knocking gently against the wall. Then harder.
You were both so lost in itâyour legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts getting a little faster, a little deeperâthat neither of you heard the front door open.
In the living room, the team had just walked in.
Frenchie stopped mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. MMâs expression shifted from tired to confused. Kimiko tilted her head. Butcher leaned against the wall with a slow, shit-eating grin.
Then your moan floated down the hallwayâsoft at first, then louder, higher, cracking beautifully as Hughie hit that spot that made your toes curl. The bed was really creaking now, steady and unmistakable, paired with Hughieâs low, embarrassed little grunts that somehow still sounded desperate.
Hughie froze for half a second when he heard voices, but you clenched around him and he couldnât stopâhis hips stuttered, a choked groan slipping out as he kept going, both of you too far gone to quiet down.
âOh fuckâŠâ Hughie whispered against your skin, mortified, but his body betrayed him with another deep thrust that pulled a high, trembling whimper from your throat.
In the living room, the silence was deafening.
Frenchieâs smirk grew. âWell, well. Little Hughie is not so little after all.â
MM rubbed his face with both hands. âJesus Christ. They thought we were gone.â
Butcher chuckled darkly, voice carrying just enough. âSounds like the kidâs finally getting some. About time.â
Your moan peakedâloud, broken, and completely unawareâright as Hughieâs rhythm turned frantic and uneven. His quiet, ragged groans mixed with your shaky cries until you both fell apart together: your high, trembling voice and his deeper, embarrassed moan echoing through the thin walls as the bed finally stilled.
The sudden silence was brutal.
You buried your burning face in Hughieâs chest, whispering a horrified âOh my godâŠâ while he looked ready to die on the spot, cheeks flaming red.
From the living room came Frenchieâs amused voice, loud and clear:
âDonât stop on our account, mes amis! We can wait!â
Hughie groaned againâthis time purely from embarrassmentâand pulled the pillow over both your heads like it could hide you from the entire team.
You could still hear Butcherâs low laugh and MM muttering something about âkids these daysâ as your heart hammered with pure mortification.
Hughie peeked out from under the pillow, voice small and mortified. ââŠWe are never living this down.â
Frenchie
The safehouse was supposed to be empty tonight â just you and Frenchie. The rest of the team had left for a lead that would supposedly keep them gone until morning. So when Frenchie pulled you into the dimly lit living room instead of his bedroom, you didnât argue.
He had you bent over the back of the old couch before you could even catch your breath, skirt shoved up around your waist, his jeans barely pushed down his thighs. No slow buildup this time. He slid into you in one smooth thrust, deep and confident, pulling a surprised, breathy moan from your throat.
The couch creaked loudly under the force of that first thrust. You gripped the cushions tight, mouth falling open in a silent cry as he started moving â steady, rolling hips that quickly turned hungry. Soft, needy sounds spilled out of you with every push: little gasps turning into higher, trembling moans that you couldnât hold back. Frenchie answered with low, raspy groans, the occasional whispered French curse slipping out like a prayer.
No real talking. Just the wet, filthy slap of skin, the rhythmic creak of the couch, and the way your voice kept climbing â broken and desperate every time he angled his hips just right and hit that spot that made your knees weak.
You were so lost in it that neither of you heard the van pull up outside.
The front door opened quietly. The team stepped in, expecting silence⊠and walked straight into the soundtrack of Frenchie fucking you over the couch.
Your moan rang out â high, raw, and unmistakable â right as he drove in harder. The couch was really moving now, scraping against the floor with every thrust. Frenchieâs breathing had turned rough and primal, deep grunts mixing with your whimpering cries, the wet sounds echoing obscenely in the open room.
Frenchie froze mid-thrust when he heard the footsteps, but his body betrayed him â hips giving one last involuntary roll that pulled a loud, shattered whimper from you.
Butcher stopped dead in the doorway, eyebrows shooting up. âWell, fuck. Didnât expect a live show in the living room.â
MM turned his head away fast, muttering, âJesus Christ, FrenchieâŠâ
Hughie looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. âOh god⊠thatâs⊠theyâre right there.â
Kimiko tilted her head, a small amused smile tugging at her lips as another desperate moan escaped you â your voice cracking beautifully as Frenchie couldnât stop himself from giving one more deep thrust.
Frenchieâs face burned, but he stayed buried inside you, one hand still gripping your hip. He let out a breathless, embarrassed laugh against your back.
âMon dieu⊠we thought you were gone until morning,â he called out, voice hoarse and thick with accent, trying to sound casual even while he was still pulsing inside you.
Your cheeks were on fire. You hid your face in the couch cushion, mortified, body still trembling around him.
Butcher chuckled low and dirty. âClearly. Carry on, then. Donât let us interrupt the romance.â
The team started awkwardly dispersing toward the kitchen, muttering and laughing under their breath, while you stayed bent over the couch, heart racing, Frenchie still buried deep and trying and failing to stay still.
The embarrassment was overwhelming⊠but the way he twitched inside you told you he wasnât entirely sorry.
Homelander
The boys were out chasing another lead, leaving the safehouse quiet for once.
You knew you were making a terrible mistake. You were supposed to be helping them take him down â feeding them intel, staying on the inside. But somewhere along the way the lines had blurred completely. One secret meeting turned into stolen nights, and now here you were: heart racing as âJohnâ slipped through the back door in civilian clothes, no cape, no suit, just that dangerously soft smile that made your stomach flip.
He didnât waste time. The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both, his hands were on you â surprisingly gentle at first, then hungry. He had you on the bed in seconds, clothes pushed aside just enough. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, your head fell back with a shaky gasp, mouth forming a perfect O.
No loud talking. Just breathy, intimate sounds.
Your soft moans filled the small room as he moved â deep, rolling thrusts that made the bed creak steadily beneath you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound almost vulnerable, every time you clenched around him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as the rhythm slowly built.
You were so lost in him â in the way he felt, in the way he whispered your name like a secret â that neither of you noticed the front door opening.
The team had come back early.
They stepped inside quietly, expecting an empty safehouse⊠until your voice drifted down the hallway.
A soft, needy moan. Then another, higher, trembling.
MM froze. Hughieâs eyes went wide. Frenchie tilted his head, cigarette halfway to his lips. Butcherâs expression darkened instantly.
Then it came â clear, unmistakable, wrapped in a broken whimper:
âJohnâŠâ
The entire room went ice-cold.
Butcherâs jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. âDid she justâ?â
Another moan from you, louder this time, cracking beautifully as Homelander hit that perfect spot deep inside. The bedframe started slamming harder against the wall, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin growing filthier. Your voice kept slipping out â soft cries turning desperate, repeating that name like a prayer:
âJohn⊠Johnââ
Homelander answered with a low, possessive growl, hips snapping faster, the sounds turning primal and urgent. Just raw need as he fucked you deeper, your moans climbing higher and more wrecked with every thrust.
Frenchie exhaled slowly, voice hushed. âPutain⊠sheâs with him. She called him John.â
Hughie looked sick. âSheâs supposed to be helping us⊠and sheâs â oh god.â
MM rubbed his face, voice tight with betrayal. âWe trusted her.â
Butcherâs eyes were murderous, but he didnât move â just stood there listening as your high, trembling moan peaked, voice breaking on âJohnâ one last time as you came hard around him. Homelander followed with a deep, satisfied groan, hips stuttering before the bed finally went still.
Silence crashed down.
Then Butcherâs voice cut through the wall, low and dangerous:
âWell, well. Looks like our little moleâs been playing both sides⊠and enjoying it.â
Inside the bedroom you froze, face buried in Homelanderâs neck, horror flooding through you as reality slammed back in. He just smirked against your hair, voice soft and smug, barely above a whisper:
âThey heard you moan my name, darling. My real name.â
Your heart hammered with panic and lingering pleasure. The boys were right outside â and they knew everything now.
I'm thinking of expanding the homelander story. She sees him behind their backs vibes.
Update 4/8/26 - Story has been posted (No More Secrets)
Homelander, I am so fucking sorry that the soulless blood-soaked nazi-built mega-corporation that dehumanized you and tortured you physically and psychologically from the moment you took your first breath, in ways that are almost incomprehensible to the human mind, all for capitalistic greed⊠got to walk away from this series completely unscathed and intact and ready to make more hopeless monsters exactly like you.
You had to go, thatâs true. You were a monster that could not be rehabilitated. But you were a monster that Vought made. You should have at least gotten to take Vought down with you. But that wasnât in the cards I guess. Supes still exist and Vought still exists, and because of that, somewhere in the world in a laboratory deep underground another little child just might exist with a future as hopeless as your own.
(being a supe with powerful regeneration isn't great. Being a breeding vessel for Vought isn't so great either)
Part 2 here
Being a supe wasn't as amazing as everyone thought it was. At least not for you. You were a regenerative supe, one that could regenerate faster then any other supe. Eventually Vought realised you were the perfect opportunity to breed supes. You couldn't die, age and you would heal straight after childbirth. You'd forgotten about escaping a long time ago and now you were treated quite well. You had a nice apartment, food, money and all the clothes and designer bags you could ask for. Maybe it didn't matter if you had to be constantly pregnant. You were about 7 months along in this pregnancy. You'd lost count how many babies you'd had, you didn't even see them as living beings anymore. It was easier that way. You'd began popping out babies around the 70s, even having a few of soldier boys children. The one you were carrying now was Homelanders. They often used his sperm considering he was the most powerful in the seven. Only thing you hated was that Homelander became possessive over you once he learned you would carry most of his children. You made your way down to the labs in the morning. They needed to check how the baby was going, you were used to it by now. You made it to the lab and saw Homelander waiting. You groaned and rubbed your head. 'You're absolutely glowing, my darling. Your breasts are looking...full,' he said as he licked his lips. You rolled your eyes and laid down on one of the beds.
'You don't need to be here for this,' you said. He chuckled and began to rub your stomach as you relaxed on the hospital bed.
'I'm not busy and I want to be there for you, mommy,' he said. You groaned and rubbed your face again.
'No! What did I say about that goddamn name?' you said as his hand stopped.
'Fine, fine. I won't use it,' he said. You rolled your eyes as the doctor entered.
'Looking glowing like usual, my dear,' she said as you closed your eyes and let her start the ultrasound. Homelander stood beside you and watched as the image of the baby showed up. 'Still a perfectly healthy little girl. She's going to be a big girl, too.'
'Definitely my kid then,' Homelander said with a smirk. You rolled your eyes again and looked at him.
'Don't you have that podcast thing to do today?' you asked.
'Yes, it's not for another hour,' he said. You wanted to face palm, another hour with him around wasn't ideal.
After the doctor told you the baby was still nice and healthy you wanted to go back to your apartment and enjoy a bath, but of course Homelander had other ideas. You were preparing to leave when he grabbed you from behind and buried his face in the crook of your neck. 'You're so big and swollen,' he whispered.
'Why do you make everything sound so gross?' you asked as he began kissing your neck. You pulled away and looked at him. 'What's the one rule?'
'Not to have sex. I'm not going to have sex, I just want to touch you. Is that a crime?' he asked.
'Sweetheart, this whole thing is just a business transaction. We won't even know the child, it'll get shipped off to God knows where like usual.'
'I know, but you're still carrying my child. That gives me the right to touch you,' he said as he moved closer.
'You do realise I've given birth to your siblings? And that I've fucked your father?' you asked. His jaw clenched a little before he smirked.
'I'm very aware. I wish you had given birth to me,' he said as he licked his lips again. You groaned and shoved past him.
'Nope! Not dealing with your gross shit today!' you shouted as you left him alone in the lab.
--
After some relaxing time alone you headed to the gym to do some light exercise, it usually helped when you felt uncomfortable because of the baby. You were walking on the treadmill when Firecracker entered. You groaned and continued walking. You couldn't stand her one bit and often had to stop yourself from throwing her out the window.
'The amazing mother to be! Shouldn't you be taking it easy, darling?' she said. You rolled your eyes like you did almost 100 times a day.
'Exercise is good for my body and also for the baby,' you said without looking at her.
'You and homelander spend a lot of time together.'
'Yes, well I would rather it be the opposite and he stop bothering me,' you said as she chuckled.
'You're quite hold, aren't you? I bet you wouldn't say that if he were here.'
'I would, and I have. He doesn't scare me, he actually listens to me,' you said. She stepped closer and stood beside the treadmill.
'Do you love him?' she asked. You looked at her in disgust.
'God, no. He's like a goddamn annoying puppy. Our relationship is just business.'
'And that's why he's always touching you? For business?' she asked.
'Homelander is possessive. Especially when I'm carrying his child. You know what he's like,' you said. Firecracker reached up and turned off the treadmill. You turned to her and smiled. 'Have you ever been slapped by an eighty year old pregnant woman?' you asked as she looked at you in confusion.
'You're eighty? I knew you didn't age, but that's quite the wisdom you must have.' You stepped off the treadmill and wiped some of the sweat off your forehead.
'What do you want? I'm not in the mood.'
'I just want to understand why homelander likes you so much.'
'And I told you, I'm carrying his baby. Plus, I knew him when he was a child. I met him a few times and being without a family he probably had a small obsession with the pregnant women,' you said. She crossed her arms and looked at you.
'You knew him as a child and now you're having his child? It's a little sick isn't it?'
'You're apart of vought and you're surprised they would do something like that? Open your eyes, sweetheart,' you said as you pushed past her. 'Don't bother me again.'
--
You made it back to your apartment and fell asleep on the couch. When you awoke again you felt groggy and like youâd been asleep for years. You groaned and opened your eyes to see you werenât in your apartment anymore.
âAs beautiful as the day we met,â a voice said as you glanced up to see Soldier boy. You groaned and collapsed back against the bed.
âWhy couldnât you stay dead?â
âThatâs really what you want to say to me right now, huh? Did you even notice I was missing?â He asked. You looked at him and rolled your eyes.
âYes, and I prayed every night your death was brutal,â you said before he slapped you across the face. Just as he did so two other man walked in.
âWoah! Letâs not hit the pregnant woman!â The younger man said as he rushed forward. You looked at him and held your hands out.
âHelp me sit up,â you said. He carefully pulled you into a sitting position and your hand rested on your pregnant stomach.
âThis is the slut I was talking about,â Soldier Boy said as you rolled your eyes.
âAlright, letâs not go shoutinâ slurs at the lady,â the older man said as you looked at him. You took a moment before realisation dawned on you.
âButcherâŠâ
âSo, you do know me, luv. Iâm flattered,â he said. You sighed and looked around trying to find something to tie your hair up with. You groaned and reached behind to tie your hair into a knot instead. âYou seem quite casual for someone whoâs been kidnapped.â
âYeah well, not much shocks me these days,â you said. You looked at Ben and he looked like he wanted to slap you again. âWhat, Ben? You want me to run into your arms? Want me to cry and say thank god youâre alive?â
âIt would be nice. I didnât realise I mattered to little to you,â he grumbled.
âForgive me for not forming a connection with the man I was forced to spread my legs for every nine months,â you said. Hughieâs face went red as he quickly looked away.
âHeard your having my sonâs baby now. Thatâs a bit sick, isnât it?â He said. You rolled your eyes and felt like punching him.
âWell, thankfully now they just inseminate me instead of making me get fucked,â you said. Soldier boy stepped forward and Hughie moved to your side just in case.
âI bet youâd still love it, huh? You miss my cum between,â you quickly cut him off by kicking him in the nuts. You looked at Billy.
âBritish man, slap him for me.â
âWell, Iâm tryna get the bloke on my side,â he said. You raised an eyebrow before Hughie helped you stand up.
âFine, Iâll do it.â As Ben stood up you slapped him hard against the face. He went to grab you but Butcher quickly stepped in and used a tranquiliser on him. Ben fell to the ground as you sighed and placed your hands on your hips. âSo, why have you kidnapped me?â
âWeâre aware youâŠbreed supes for Vought. We need to put a stop to that. It was soldier boy who told us about you and wanted you out of Vought,â Hughie said.
âI bet he said I was this gorgeous babe with a great pair of tits?â You said.
âAlong those lines, yes,â Hughie muttered.
âYes, well Iâm sure he didnât bring up the part where he used to request I be sedated when he would have sex with me because he âdidnât enjoy my sounds of pain when he was too roughâ or something,â you said. Hughie stared at you in shock. Billy stepped forward and looked at you.
âIâm gonna take one guess and say you havenât had a say in any of these pregnancies?â He asked.
âYouâre smarter than you look. No, none were my choice. I canât even remember how many babies Iâve had by now. After the first four I stopped caring about the children so I wouldnât get hurt,â you said. Hughie looked at you sadly.
âIâm guessing they take the children away from you?â
âYeah, but itâs not like I want them anyway. Not when theyâre a product ofâŠyou know,â you said. The two men nodded and were glad you werenât as brainwashed as they thought you would be.
âSo, the one youâre carrying now is Homelanderâs?â Billy asked.
âYeah, this is the third one thatâs his. Iâm just glad I donât have to have sex with the fucking creep,â you said. Billy chuckled and led you out of the room where Ben still laid unconscious. You groaned and sat on the crappy couch as Hughie went to fetch you some water.
âYou hate the bastard, then?â
âYep, heâs always touching me and being weird around me. At least he actually listens to me,â you said. Billy sat across from you.
âHe bloody listens to you?â
âYeah, heâs a fucking man child with mommy issues. Iâm the closest thing to a mother figure heâs ever had,â you said. Billy looked at you in disgust.
âHe sees you as a mother figure and still wants to touch you in that way?â
âYes, are you surprised?â You asked as Billy scoffed.
âNo, I know heâs a deranged freak.â
Hughie returned with some water and you smiled. âThank you, sweetheart,â you said as you noticed him blushing a little. Billy chuckled and looked at you again.
âAre you this maternal with everyone?â
âIâm well and truly old enough to be your mother, Billy.â
âBloody hell, when were you born?â He asked.
â1946, in September to be exact,â you said as they stared at you in shock.
âYouâre bloody eighty!?â Billy said as you laughed.
âHey, Iâm seventy nine.â
Hughie chuckled and sat down next to Billy.
âWell, you look bloody good for your age,â Billy said. You smiled and took some small sips of water.
âWhatâs the plan then, boys? Canât exactly kill me,â you said.
âWeâre gonna keep you away from Vought,â Billy said.
âAnd what about the baby?â
âWe plan toâŠuse it to our advantage,â Hughie said. You sat forward more and looked at them.
âHow do you plan on using a baby to your advantage?â
âWell, the kid will have powers. Plus, itâll be a good bargaining tool for Vought and Homelander,â Billy said. You thought for a moment.
âI donât know⊠Do you really want a baby around?â
âWell, weâre going to set up a hide out. Somewhere Vought wonât find you. Somewhere you can take care of the child,â Hughie said.
âAnd Iâm guessing I donât get a say in this?â You asked.
âWe could try abortion, luv. But considering the baby is a supe we donât know what would happen,â Billy said. You sighed and nodded, knowing he was right. You placed your hand on your stomach.
âI donât want to get my hopes up,â you whispered.
âWhat do you mean?â Hughie asked.
âI donât want to be excited about finally getting to keep my own baby just for someone to take her from me,â you whispered. Hughie sat beside you and offered you a smile.
âWeâre going to do everything we can to protect you and the baby. We wonât even let soldier boy know the location. Heâs useful, but we wonât let him near you,â Hughie said. You smiled and took his hand.
âYouâre a good kid⊠Thank you. I guess itâs worth a shot. Iâve been nothing but a damn breeding machine since the 80s, may as well risk whatever I have left,â you said. Hughie smiled and you felt the baby start to kick, you guided Hughieâs hand to your stomach so he could feel it. He chuckled when he felt the movement against his hand.
âSo, itâs a girl?â He asked.
âYeah, sheâs healthy. The doctor says sheâs gonna be a damn big baby too,â you said. Billy looked at you with a fond smile. He knew he couldnât protect Becca when she was pregnant, so he was going to do everything he could to protect you. You heard a noise coming from the room and Billy groaned and stood up.
âThatâll be soldier boy waking up. Iâll handle it.â
Summary: After the blast, you drag Soldier Boy to safety and stash him in your apartment. Heâs wounded, paranoid and mouthy, and youâre stuck playing nurse and âplease donât explodeâ handler. Somewhere between the arguments and the accidental laughs, you start to wonder whatâs more dangerous: getting caught⊠or getting close.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst, violence
Word Count: 4663
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 hadnât planned on working that evening. For once, you were off duty, wandering the city with a coffee that had already gone lukewarm, when the ground shook hard enough to send a car alarm blaring two blocks over.
People screamed. Glass shattered. The sky lit up with a pulse of energy, and for a heartbeat you thought it was a terrorist attack. You ducked into an alley, hands over your ears, waiting for the blast wave to finish rolling through the street.
When you came out, smoke hung in the air, and the crowd had scattered. Thatâs when you saw him.
A man, hunched forward, stumbling like heâd just taken a bullet to the gut. His clothes were scorched and ridiculous. Sweatpants and some kind of ratty jacket like heâd escaped from a gym in the 80s. His face was streaked with soot, jaw clenched as if even staying upright was an act of will.
You recognized the look instantly: post-blast disorientation, the kind you saw in trauma wards. He was going down.
âHey!â, you called, moving toward him before you could think better of it. âDonâtââ.
Too late. He crumpled against the hood of a parked car, one hand leaving a smear of ash across the paint.
You rushed over, scanning him for visible wounds, though something about the sheer heat radiating off his skin made your stomach flip. He wasnât bleeding. He wasnât burned. But the air around him shimmered like asphalt in July.
His head turned, and for the first time you got a good look at his eyes. Sharp, green and so unfocused.
âWho the hell⊠are you?â, he rasped, his voice deep and raw. He smelled like smoke and man, and for some reason you felt your pulse quicken. Not out of fear, not entirely, though fear was in there, too.
âDoesnât matterâ, you said, pressing your hand lightly to his chest to keep him from trying to get up too fast. âYou need to stay down. You just got hit with somethingâ.
He pushed off the hood of the car, ignoring your hand, and staggered upright. For a second, it almost looked convincing, his shoulders squared, chest out, like some guy whoâd just walked out of a bar fight and won.
Then his knees buckled.
You caught his arm before he face-planted, the weight of him nearly dragging you down with him. Jesus, he was solid. Muscles coiled under your grip like steel cables, but his balance was shot.
ââM fineâ, he muttered, trying to shrug you off. The word slurred at the edges, betraying him. âAlways fineâ.
âYeah? That why youâre swaying like a drunk at last call?â, you shot back, tightening your hold. âYouâre not fine. Sit down before you fallâ.
That earned you a sharp look â pride and irritation sparking in those green eyes â but he didnât fight you. Not really. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue, but the effort it took just to keep standing was betraying him.
âCanât⊠sit down. Not safe hereâ, he grumbled, eyes scanning the street like he expected something to come after him.
You followed his gaze. Nothing but smoke, sirens in the distance, a few gawkers filming on their phones. If anything, the attention was the bigger danger. A man like him collapsing in public? Heâd be on the internet before you could blink.
âAlrightâ, you said, firm, slipping your shoulder under his arm. âThen we move. My place is three blocks over. You can crash there before the cops or an ambulance show upâ.
He gave a humorless chuckle, even as he leaned more of his weight against you. âWhat, you take every half-dead guy home?â.
âOnly the ones who look like theyâre about to faceplant in the middle of the streetâ. You adjusted your grip, huffing. âCongratulations. You made the cutâ.
For a man who claimed to be fine, he was sweating bullets, every step heavier than the last. You could feel the heat radiating off him through his clothes, unnatural and almost feverish. He wasnât just drunk or concussed, there was something different about him.
Still, he kept moving, leaning on you but refusing to let himself collapse. Pride. Pure stubborn pride.
By the time you reached the side door of your apartment building, his breathing had gone ragged, each inhale like sandpaper.
You fumbled with your keys, glancing up at him. âStill think youâre fine?â.
His lips curled in the faintest smirk, though his eyes were glassy. âDamn rightâ.
You half-dragged, half-steered him up the narrow stairwell, your muscles screaming by the second flight. He was dead weight one moment, then suddenly pushing forward like he didnât need you at all. Until his body betrayed him again, swaying hard enough that you had to slam your back into the wall to keep both of you upright.
âFine, huh?â, you muttered between breaths. âYouâre so fine youâre about to take us both down the stairsâ.
He gave a grunt, something between a laugh and a cough, but didnât answer. His jaw was clenched, stubborn, eyes glassy with that soldierâs refusal to admit defeat. Youâd seen it before in patients, the kind whoâd rather bleed out than let anyone think they were weak.
Finally, your door. You got it open, wrestled him inside, and aimed him straight toward the bedroom. His boots scuffed against the hardwood, every step heavier than the last, until you gave up trying to steer and just let his momentum carry him forward.
He collapsed onto the mattress like a felled tree, the bedsprings groaning under the sudden weight. You reached to steady him, but he was already gone, sprawled on his back, chest heaving, eyes shut tight.
Unconscious.
You hovered at the edge of the bed, breathing hard, your heart hammering louder than it shouldâve. The man was a furnace; the heat rolling off him practically seeped into your skin.
You shouldâve checked his vitals, shouldâve grabbed your kit from the closet. But⊠there was no blood. No visible injuries. His pulse thundered steady when you pressed your fingers against his wrist, strong enough to make you doubt he was even human.
Who the hell was he?
Your gaze lingered on his face, smudged with soot, beard rough along his jaw, expression softer now that unconsciousness had stolen the sharpness from it. For just a second, he looked less like a walking disaster and more like a man whoâd been fighting for far too long.
You let out a slow breath, tugged the blanket over him, and sat down in the chair across the room, watching him like you expected him to wake up swinging.
Because someone like him? You doubted he ever stayed down for long.
-
The first thing you noticed was the silence.
For two days, the man didnât stir. No tossing, no muttering in his sleep, not even shifting on the mattress. Just steady, thunderous breathing that sounded too powerful to belong to anyone human.
It shouldâve unnerved you â hell, it did â but not in the way you expected. Youâd dealt with patients clinging to life before, hooked to machines that did their breathing for them. This wasnât that. His chest rose and fell like clockwork, each inhale steady and sure, as if his body had decided sleep was simply another form of maintenance.
A supe. Of course he was. That explained the heat, the unnatural weight, the way the air around him had shimmered after the blast. You didnât know his name, but you knew enough. Regular people didnât glow like a furnace and apparently drop buildings like toothpicks.
So you let him be.
You took the couch, shoving an extra blanket under your head for a pillow, and tried to go about your life. Coffee in the morning. Quick walks around the block to avoid climbing the walls. Even caught up on some reading youâd been putting off.
But it was impossible to forget he was there.
Every time you passed the bedroom door, you half-expected him to be gone. Or worse, awake and tearing your apartment apart. But no⊠there he lay, sprawled across your bed like some mythic relic unearthed from another era, sweatpants and all.
The first night, you tiptoed in to check his vitals, more out of habit than need. Still strong. Still steady. You pulled the blanket higher over him before you realized what you were doing, then backed out quickly, muttering to yourself like an idiot.
The second night, you didnât even bother. You just sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the ceiling in the dark, and wondered what the hell youâd gotten yourself into.
Because sooner or later, he was going to wake up.
And you had no idea what kind of man would be opening his eyes in your bed.
-
You had your legs tucked under the blanket, phone pressed to your ear, half-listening as Lila rattled off the nightâs drama from the ER.
ââand guess who rolled in, drunk off his ass with a split lip and two busted knuckles?â, she said, her voice laced with amusement.
You didnât need to guess. âDonât tell meâ.
âOh, Iâm telling youâ. You could practically hear her smirk. âYour ex. Jackass tried to break a beer bottle over somebodyâs head. Missed. Ended up eating the counter insteadâ.
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. âGod. Typicalâ.
âMm-hm. Still thinks heâs ten feet tall and bulletproofâ.
âHeâs barely five-ten and a moronâ, you muttered, leaning back into the cushions.
Lila laughed, but softened. âAnyway, figured youâd get a kick out of it. You doing okay on your days off? Havenât heard much from youâ.
Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the closed bedroom door, your pulse quickening. You hesitated before answering, biting your lip.
âYeah. Just⊠catching up on sleep. Reading. You knowâ.
âUh-huhâ. Lilaâs tone carried the suspicion of someone who knew you too well. âNo late-night Netflix binges with questionable takeout?â.
You forced a laugh. âNope. Just me, the couch, and peace and quietâ.
She hummed. âWell, good. You deserve it. Just donât get too comfortable with that couch. Iâll drag you back into twelve-hour shifts soon enoughâ.
âLooking forward to itâ, you said dryly.
You hung up after the usual goodnights, shoved the phone aside, grabbed the remote, and pushed play. The tinny intro music filled the apartment, a welcome distraction, and you popped a handful of popcorn into your mouth. For a moment, it almost felt normal again. The couch, the quiet, the glow of the TV.
Then the air shifted.
You didnât hear a footstep, didnât get a warning creak of the floorboards. Just skin. A muscular arm hooked around your throat, cutting your breath off before you could even gasp.
The bowl of popcorn went flying as you clawed at the forearm pinning you back against the couch. Solid. Steel under skin.
Your brain scrambled, panic spiking, until you caught a glimpse of soot-streaked knuckles and a flash of that same ratty shirt from two nights ago.
The man from your bed. Awake.
He said nothing, his grip unyielding, dragging you back tight against his chest as the TV flickered blue light across the room. His breathing was ragged, harsh against your ear.
You choked out a sound, words half-formed. âW-waitâ!â.
The arm didnât loosen.
You kicked against the coffee table, heart hammering, fingers digging at his skin. The heat rolling off him was even more intense now, like being pinned under a furnace.
Finally, his voice came, low, gravel dragged over glass.
âWhere the hell am I? Who the fuck are you?â.
His grip tightened, cutting the air in your lungs down to a thread. Your vision spotted at the edges, and panic surged hard in your chest.
âAnswer meâ, he growled, hot breath against your ear. âOr I snap your neck right hereâ.
You tried to speak but only managed a strangled sound. Your nails dug into his arm, desperate, but it was like trying to pry apart a steel bar. His strength was unreal, monstrous, and he wasnât even straining.
Your chest burned, fire licking up your throat. Instinct made you twist just enough to rasp out a broken word.
âânurseââ.
His grip held. Your legs kicked against the carpet.
âBullshitâ, he spat. âWhereâs Vought? Huh? You one of their handlers? Their little rats?â.
You shook your head frantically, clawing at his wrist. Tears pricked your eyes as black edged in on your vision.
âSaved⊠youâŠâ. The words scraped out, barely audible, torn through your crushed windpipe.
That gave him pause. For the first time since heâd appeared behind you, the crushing hold loosened by a fraction. You dragged in a ragged, whistling breath, coughing hard enough your ribs hurt.
But his arm stayed locked around you, trembling faintly now with tension instead of pure force.
âWhatâd you say?â. His voice had dropped, but it was no less dangerous.
You coughed again, fighting for words. âYouâcollapsed⊠street⊠I brought you here. Off-duty. Iâm not Voughtâ.
He didnât release you, not yet. The weight of him pressed against your back, every muscle rigid, every breath sharp. You could feel the war inside him â suspicion, paranoia, instinct screaming to kill â but also the sliver of hesitation your words had carved out.
Seconds stretched, agonizing, until finally his arm slackened enough for you to gasp in real air.
âWhy the hell would you do that?â, he muttered, suspicion still sharp.
You coughed again, clutching your throat. âBecause⊠you were dying out thereâ.
The silence that followed was thick, humming with danger.
Then, slow and reluctant, his arm slid away completely. You collapsed forward onto the couch, wheezing, your pulse racing so hard it hurt.
A jagged laugh cut through the room, low and rasping like rusted metal.
âCanât die, sweetheartâ. His voice was thick, mocking. âTried plenty. Didnât takeâ.
You hunched forward on the couch, clutching your throat, dragging in greedy gulps of air that scorched on the way down. Every breath wheezed, your lungs fighting to even out.
Behind you, the floor creaked as he shifted his weight. Pacing. The kind of restless steps that screamed he was looking for threats.
âWhere the fuck am I?â. His words cracked like a gunshot, sharp and demanding. âThis ainât the safehouse. And youââ, a pause, another heavy step, ââyou donât look like Agencyâ.
You coughed again, voice rasping. âYouâre⊠in my apartmentâ.
âApartmentâ, he repeated, dripping with disdain. âLooks like a goddamn shoeboxâ.
You forced yourself to sit straighter, though your throat burned raw. âYou collapsed. On the street. People were staring. I dragged your ass three blocks here before you got yourself arrested or worseâ.
He gave another rough laugh, this one darker, humorless. âDragged me, huh? You? Donât flatter yourself, doll. If Iâd wanted to stay down, Iâd be six feet underâ.
âTwo daysâ, you snapped, your voice breaking but fierce despite it. âYou were out cold for two fucking days. I thought you were in a comaâ.
That shut him up for a beat.
You turned finally, lifting your chin despite the raw ache in your neck. He loomed behind the couch, broad shoulders blocking the lamplight, face half in shadow. His hair was a mess, his beard darker and full. His eyes though, sharp, too sharp, locked on you like you were the one out of place.
âTwo days?â, he repeated, disbelief grating in his voice. âNo. No, I donât⊠I donât sleep that long since⊠â. His gaze flickered, jaw working, before snapping back to you. âWhat year is it?â.
You blinked, thrown. âItâsâwhat?â. You watched him for a second. Your voice cracked when you finally got it out. âItâs⊠twenty-twenty-twoâ.
The room went silent, heavy enough that you swore you could hear the hum of the refrigerator over your ragged breathing.
He just stared at you, eyes narrowing, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Then he barked out a laugh, short and sharp, like he was daring you to keep lying. But you didnât flinch, and after a long beat, the sound died in his throat.
That was how the flood started.
You found out who he is.
You explainedâhalting, cautious, your throat still raw from where heâd squeezed itâthat heâd been gone for decades. The Cold War ended, the Wall came down. The U.S. had fought wars in deserts now, not jungles. Vought? They werenât just a shady military contractor anymoreâthey owned everything. The biggest superhero team in the world. Movies. Merch. Hell, you told him they ran ads during the Super Bowl.
Every word came out hoarse, each sentence costing you another layer of energy you didnât have.
Across from you, heâd taken the armchair, sprawled into it like a king dumped off his throne and shoved into a strangerâs castle. Arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched, he listened with a scowl carved deep into his face. He didnât interrupt oftenâjust the occasional sharp, disbelieving snort, or a bitter mutter when you described something too absurd to believe.
Forty years. Gone.
By the time youâd scratched the surface, barely enough for him to understand that his world was dead and buried, your eyelids felt like sandbags. The lamp light blurred in your vision, your voice frayed to threads.
You pressed your hand to your throat and leaned back into the couch. âThatâs⊠thatâs the gist. The world⊠itâs not the one you leftâ.
He didnât say anything right away. Just sat there, staring through you, the kind of stare that didnât see the room at all.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose, slow and rough. âForty goddamn yearsâ. His mouth twisted. âAnd the worldâs gone to shit without meâ.
You let out a tired laugh, more breath than sound. âPretty sure it was already thereâ.
His eyes flicked to you, sharp again, but he didnât bite back. Not this time.
Silence hung. He looked like a bomb waiting to go off, but your body couldnât keep up anymore. Your throat throbbed with every swallow, your chest ached, your voice was shredded. Your head lolled against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. The clock on the wall ticked past three in the morning, every second like a hammer behind your eyes.
âLookâ, you rasped, rubbing at your throat, âI⊠I can tell you more tomorrow. Right now I canât⊠I canât keep this upâ.
Across from you, he sat forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, eyes cutting into you like he expected you to break apart under the weight of his stare.
âYouâre tellinâ me Iâve been iced for forty fuckinâ yearsâ, he said, voice low, rough. âYou donât just drop somethinâ like that and go take a nap, sweetheartâ.
You let out a weak laugh that scraped your throat raw. âItâs not a nap. Itâs survival. My throat feels like I swallowed glassâthanks to you, by the wayâand Iâve been talking nonstop since you woke upâ.
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more a grimace. âYeah, well. Nameâs Ben. Guess I owe you that muchâ.
You blinked, barely registering it through the fog of exhaustion. âBenâ. You nodded once, slow. âGreat. Good to know the name of the guy who nearly crushed my windpipeâ.
That earned a rough chuckle out of him, deep and unkind. But he didnât argue.
You pushed yourself to your feet, swaying slightly, and gestured toward the bedroom door. âYou want answers? Fine. Iâll give you more tomorrow. But right now? I need sleep. Youâve got the bed. Donât wreck it. Iâll take the couchâ.
He frowned, arms crossing over his chest again. âYouâre just gonna⊠leave me here? After all that? No restraints, no lock on the door?â.
You leveled him a flat, exhausted look. âYouâre Soldier Boy. If you wanted me dead, Iâd already be a stain on the wall. So yeahâIâm leaving you here. And praying you donât snore louder than you already breatheâ.
For a moment, he just stared, like he couldnât quite process the lack of fear. Then he leaned back into the armchair, still scowling, still bristling, but silent.
You pulled the blanket over your shoulders, and let your body sink into the cushions.
The last thing you heard before sleep swallowed you was his muttered voice, low and bitter in the dark.
âWorldâs gone to shit. And I wake up in a shoebox with some mouthy nurseâ.
But there was no heat behind it. Not anymore.
And then you were out cold.
-
Sunlight hit your face before the sound did. A scrape, a clink, something metallic rattling faintly in the kitchen.
You groaned, rolling onto your back on the couch, every muscle stiff from sleeping half-curled. The blanket had slipped halfway down, and the cool morning air licked at your skin. You rubbed your eyes, throat still sore, and for a blissful second you almost forgot there was a walking nuclear bomb in your apartment.
Then you smelled the aftershave. Sharp. Old-fashioned. The kind your granddad used to keep in a glass bottle. Exactly like your granddadÂŽs one.
You sat up slowly, eyes narrowing toward the kitchen.
There he was. Ben. Soldier Boy. Not collapsed, not half-dead, not looming in shadows, just⊠there. Shirtless, standing broad and solid in the morning light, rifling through your cupboards like he owned the place. His hair was shorter, trimmed down with a jagged hand, beard shaved to a rough scruff. Your scissors and razor lay abandoned on the counter, flecked with dark hair.
You blinked. âYou used myââ.
ââYour bathroomâs a goddamn shoeboxâ, he cut in, gruff and distracted, tugging open another cupboard. âHalf your shitâs from the dollar store. Didnât even find any eggsâ.
Your mouth worked for a moment, caught between outrage and disbelief. âYou used my granddadÂŽs aftershave, shaved with my stuff and now youâre rummaging through my kitchen?â.
He turned, arms crossed, hair shorter but still unruly, jaw freshly cut with stubble that only made him look sharper. âYeah. And? Forty years, sweetheart. Iâm due for a trim. Youâre welcomeâ.
âWelcome?â, you sputtered.
âYeahâ. His mouth twisted in something like a smirk. âMost women would pay to have Soldier Boy standing in their kitchen looking this goodâ.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, groaning. âGod give me strengthâ.
He ignored that, stepping closer, voice shifting back into the sharp edge youâd heard last night. âAlright. Funâs over. Start talking again. I want everythingâVought, the war, whoâs running the show now, all of it. And breakfastâ.
You gaped at him. âBreakfast?â.
He gestured at the cupboards. âYou got popcorn and stale cereal. That ainât breakfast. You dragged me back from the dead, dollâyou can manage some bacon and eggsâ.
Your laugh came out harsh, ragged. âYou nearly choked me to death last night, and now youâre demanding a hot meal?â.
His grin widened, all teeth and arrogance. âThatâs how it works. You wanted me alive, didnât you?â.
You stared at him, deadpan. âNo, I just didnât want a stranger exploding in front of me on the streetâ.
His grin faltered just enough to show it stung. But only for a heartbeat. Then his eyes narrowed again, hard and soldier-sharp.
âWorldâs moved on without me. Fine. But Iâm still here. And youââ, he pointed a finger at you, blunt and commandingâ âyouâre gonna get me up to speedâ.
You sighed, dragging yourself off the couch, muttering under your breath. âI shouldâve just called an ambulanceâ.
Behind you, his laugh rolled low and amused. âToo late for regrets, sweetheart. Youâre stuck with me nowâ.
You shuffled into the kitchen, dragging your blanket around your shoulders like a war-torn cape. Your feet were bare, your throat still sore, and you looked like death warmed over.
Ben didnât care. He was already poking through your drawers like he expected to find a surveillance mic under your forks.
âYou really think Voughtâs watching me?â, you muttered, grabbing a pan and tossing it on the stove.
He didnât answer. He was too busy pulling the batteries out of your smoke detector.
âJesusâ, you muttered, grabbing eggs from the fridge. âIâm making breakfast. You want to be paranoid? At least let me scramble in peaceâ.
âParanoiaâs what kept me aliveâ, he shot back. âYou think they just forgot about me? If Iâm still breathinâ, theyâre watchingâ. He held up your old coffee machine like it owed him answers. âYou sure this isnât bugged?â.
You glared at him over your shoulder. âItâs a ten-dollar coffeemaker. If Voughtâs tapping through that, weâre all doomedâ.
He grunted, clearly unconvinced, and started tapping your walls. With his knuckles. Every few feet. Like he was listening for a hollow sound or a hidden panel. The metal-on-drywall thunk echoed through the apartment.
âYouâre gonna put a hole in somethingâ, you warned, cracking eggs into the pan. âI rent this placeâ.
He turned and looked at you like you were the one acting insane. âYou shouldâve moved already. Youâve been compromised since the second I woke upâ.
ââCompromisedââ, you echoed flatly. âRight. Not like you exploded in a city street and then passed out on my bed for two days or anythingâ.
That got a smirk out of him. âYou sound bitterâ.
âI sound tiredâ, you snapped, stirring the eggs with more aggression than necessary. âAnd I still have a bruise on my goddamn throatâ.
He stepped closer, hovering at the edge of the counter like he owned the place. His eyes flicked over your faceâjust brieflyâbut there was a split-second there where his expression shifted. Like he saw it. The mark his chokehold left.
âDidnât know where I wasâ, he muttered, not quite apologizing, not quite not.
You side-eyed him. âYou always wake up strangling strangers?â.
His voice was rough. âOnly the ones I donât trustâ.
âWell, lucky meâ, you deadpanned.
He leaned in, elbows on the counter. âYou got a name?â.
You blinked. âYou choked me half to death, shaved with my razor, demanded breakfast, and now youâre asking my name?â.
He raised a brow. âPretty sure I gave you mine. Fairâs fairâ.
You sighed. âItâs Y/Nâ.
âY/Nâ, he repeated, slow like he was testing it out. Then: âHuh. Doesnât sound like a spy nameâ.
You gave him a tired look. âGlad I passed the testâ.
The eggs sizzled behind you. You turned back to the stove, flipping the burner off and grabbing two plates.
âSitâ, you ordered, setting the food down on the tiny table between you.
Ben didnât sit immediately. He looked at the food, then at you, still suspicious, like maybe you poisoned it. Then he finally dropped into the chair, watching you with a wary, unblinking gaze.
âSoâ, he said around a mouthful of eggs, âafter breakfast, youâre gonna tell me who the hell this âHomelanderâ asshole is. And what happened to my teamâ.
You met his eyes, fork halfway to your mouth.
âYeahâ, you said softly. âBut youâre not gonna like itâ.
dad!soldier boy x daughter!reader .đ„ Ę ËâïžË Ęđ„ . angst, fluff
wc: 1.7K
Youâd think the child of a war veteran (several times over), of a man dragged from decade to decade and dropped into a world he never quite fit into, would be an emotionally constipated train wreck. All sharp edges and daddy issues. A casualty of tough love and colder lessons.
You are the opposite.
You are soft in a way that feels almost defiant in the face of expectations. All warmth and kindness and open heart, like something that shouldnât have survived being raised in his orbit. Itâs as if every missing piece of gentleness in him found a home in you instead. And whatever scraps of it he did have, he saved carefully and deliberately for you alone.
Itâs an easy misconception to make, really. People hear âdaughter of Soldier Boyâ and they fill in the blanks themselves.
Theyâve seen the movie version of you.
In The Soldier Boy Story II, youâre played by an actress who looks nothing like you: jaw set hard, shoulders squared, fists clenched like weapons. A pint-sized, badass echo of him. Leather jacket. Smart mouth. Violence sharpened into something marketable.
So when theyâre met with the reality of you, your soft dresses, careful smiles and eyes too gentle for a building like Vought Tower, it doesnât quite compute.
The girl on the screen and the girl standing in front of them donât match.
Most importantly, your relationship with your dad isnât anything like the silver screen sells it as. It isnât sarcastic banter traded between punches, or fighting side by side like matching weapons.
Itâs quieter than that.
Itâs adoration. Itâs being cherished. Itâs the world feeling steadier â whole, even â just because the other is close enough to touch. Itâs knowing, deep in your bones, that there is one place you are always safe.
Thatâs why youâre so excited to meet him after work.
It isnât something you usually do. Vought makes everything complicated, and his schedule is a mess of classified missions and half-kept promises on the worst of days, which occur far more often than heâd like. But today, somehow, the stars have aligned. He told you heâd be back from his mission early. He told you to come by.
And he promised you milkshakes if you did.
That alone is enough to have you waiting in the lobby, heart light, eyes glued to the doors, completely unaware of how badly the world is about to misunderstand you.
Or, more specifically, the intern stationed at the front reception desk.
You donât recognise him. He must be new.
Security is effortless, like it always is. They wave you through with familiar nods, polite Missâs and practiced smiles. One of them compliments your Soldier Boy T-shirt, voice warm, almost fond.
In hindsight, that T-shirt probably doesnât help your case.
Once youâre past the metal detectors and the glass turnstiles, you donât slow down. You donât think to. You walk straight past reception, heels clicking softly against the polished floor, already scanning the lobby for him.
You donât see the intern stand up until heâs calling after you.
âExcuse me, maâam, that area is restricted.â
The voice is sharp enough to make you stop mid-step. Polite on the surface, but tight underneath, like heâs already decided youâre a problem.
You turn, a little startled. âOhâsorry. Iâm justââ
âYou canât be back here,â he cuts in, already moving around the desk. His eyes flick down to your clothes, the shirt, the way you donât look panicked enough. âDo you have authorisation?â
You blink. Youâve never needed it before.
âIâm meeting my dad,â you say, instinctively, like that should explain everything.
His mouth quirks. Not a smile. âRight. And who would that be?â
You tell him.
And just like that, his expression shifts from bored to amused, from amused to dismissive.
âUh-huh,â he says slowly. âLook, you canât just wander into Vought Tower because youâre a fan. If youâre looking for an autograph, youâll need to wait outside with everyone else.â
Your stomach sinks.
âIâm notââ you start, heat creeping up your neck. âI come here all the time.â
âMaâam,â he interrupts again, firmer now, âI need you to step back toward the exit.â
You hesitate. Not because youâre intimidated, but because none of this is making sense. Your brows knit together, confusion outweighing embarrassment now. You open your mouth to try again, to explain it in a different way â
And then the elevator doors slide open.
Your heart jumps instantly.
You see him before your brain fully catches up. Broad shoulders still dusted with ash and concrete, suit jacket half-off, hair mussed from combat and sweat. Thereâs dried blood on his knuckles. His presence bends the air around him the way it always does, heavy and undeniable.
Dad.
Your face lights up without permission. Relief floods you, bright and unguarded, and the word is already on your lips as you step forward.
âDadâ!â
You donât even look at the intern as you move past him.
Big mistake.
âHeyâ!â he snaps, panic bleeding into authority as you ignore him completely. âMaâam, stopââ
Youâre already walking, sneakers quickening into something like a run, eyes locked on Soldier Boy as he turns at the sound of your voice. For half a second, his expression is still carved from post-mission hardnessâ
Then he hears you.
He doesnât even need to see you yet. The sound of your voice cuts through the lobby noise, familiar and bright, and a crooked smile tugs at his mouth before he can stop it. The tension in his shoulders eases on instinct, like his body knows you before his eyes do.
Heâs just starting to turn fully toward youâ
And you donât get to reach him.
Hands grab your arm from behind, rough and sudden, fingers digging in as the intern rushes out from behind the desk. He yanks you back hard enough that you stumble, grip tightening like you might bolt.
âMaâam, you are not authorisedâ!â
âLet go of me!â you gasp, shock cutting sharp through your chest. You twist instinctively, free hand coming up to brace yourself, heart hammering now for an entirely different reason.
Your voice carries.
Too far.
Too clear.
Too familiar.
The lobby seems to freeze.
Ben stops dead.
The sound that leaves him isnât a word, itâs a low, furious bark of your name as his head snaps toward you. His eyes lock onto the internâs hands on you, the way youâre pulled off-balance, the fear blooming across your face.
And something in him goes cold.
Dead calm. Deadly.
He starts moving.
The world narrows.
âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doing?â
His voice detonates across the lobby. Loud. Flat. Dangerous in that way people only realise too late is real.
The intern flinches but doesnât let go fast enough. Keeps talking. Keeps touching you.
âSir, sheâs not authorisedâshe rushed the floor, I was just restraining herââ
Restraining.
That word does it.
Ben crosses the lobby in long, violent strides, boots pounding marble. Every step is restrained fury barely leashed by habit. By years of being told to smile for cameras, to swallow his instincts, to play nice for the brand.
Not today.
He grabs the intern by the collar and rips him backward like he weighs nothing. The hands on you disappear instantly, replaced by a yelp as Ben slams him into the reception desk hard enough to rattle glass.
âIâm gonna say this real fuckinâ slow,â he snarls, nose to nose now, breath hot and sharp. âYou ever put your hands on my daughter again, I will snap of your arms and beat you with them, feed you your teeth, and then make you apologise to her with whateverâs left of your mouth. You got that, you little suit-wearing fuck?â
The internâs face has gone white. Eyes darting. Hands shaking.
âIâI didnât knowââ
âNo,â Ben cuts in, pressing his forearm harder into the manâs throat, âyou didnât ask. Big fuckinâ difference.â
Security is frozen. Nobody moves. Nobodyâs stupid enough to.
Only then does Ben turn back to you.
And the shift is instant.
His rage doesnât vanish, but it redirects, folds inward, softens at the edges where youâre concerned. His hands are suddenly gentle, hovering, not touching until heâs sure itâs okay.
âHeyâhey,â he says, voice dropping, rough but careful. âCâmere, sweetheart. You alright?â
He looks you over like heâs cataloguing injuries â arms, wrists, shoulders, face. His jaw tightens when he sees the red marks already blooming where you were grabbed.
âDid he hurt you?â he asks, deadly quiet now. âYou tell me if he hurt you.â
You shake your head quickly, breath still uneven. âHe justâhe grabbed me. I was trying to get to you.â
Thatâs it.
Ben exhales hard through his nose, a sound halfway between a growl and a prayer. He pulls you in then, one arm wrapping around you, solid and protective, your cheek pressed against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering like itâs still mid-battle.
âI got you,â he murmurs, brushing a hand over your hair, over and over. âI got you. Youâre okay. Nobody touches sweetheart. Not here. Not ever.â
He looks back at the intern over your head, eyes like cut glass.
âYouâre done here,â he says casually. âAnd if I see your face in this building again, Iâm gonna introduce it to the sidewalk outside. Repeatedly.â
The intern nods frantically. Stumbles back. Gone.
Ben doesnât watch him leave.
Heâs too busy tilting your chin up gently, inspecting you one last time. âYou scare me like that again, sweetpea,â he mutters, softer now, âIâm gonna have a heart attack.â
Then, quieter:
âCâmon pumpkin. I owe you a milkshake. And maybe an extra treat as a fuckinâ apology for letting this place think it could lay a finger on my kid.â
And with an arm secure around your shoulders, Soldier Boy leads you out, thumb brushing gentle circles into your sleeve like he needs to remind himself youâre real.
Because the world has never mattered half as much to him as you do.
