dad!soldier boy x daughter!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖⭐️˖ ݁𖥔 . angst, fluff
You’d 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 soft in a way that feels almost defiant in the face of expectations. All warmth and kindness and open heart, like something that shouldn’t have survived being raised in his orbit. It’s 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.
It’s an easy misconception to make, really. People hear ‘daughter of Soldier Boy’ and they fill in the blanks themselves.
They’ve seen the movie version of you.
In The Soldier Boy Story II, you’re 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 they’re met with the reality of you, your soft dresses, careful smiles and eyes too gentle for a building like Vought Tower, it doesn’t quite compute.
The girl on the screen and the girl standing in front of them don’t match.
Most importantly, your relationship with your dad isn’t anything like the silver screen sells it as. It isn’t sarcastic banter traded between punches, or fighting side by side like matching weapons.
It’s adoration. It’s being cherished. It’s the world feeling steadier — whole, even — just because the other is close enough to touch. It’s knowing, deep in your bones, that there is one place you are always safe.
That’s why you’re so excited to meet him after work.
It isn’t 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 he’d like. But today, somehow, the stars have aligned. He told you he’d 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 don’t recognise him. He must be new.
Security is effortless, like it always is. They wave you through with familiar nods, polite Miss’s and practiced smiles. One of them compliments your Soldier Boy T-shirt, voice warm, almost fond.
In hindsight, that T-shirt probably doesn’t help your case.
Once you’re past the metal detectors and the glass turnstiles, you don’t slow down. You don’t think to. You walk straight past reception, heels clicking softly against the polished floor, already scanning the lobby for him.
You don’t see the intern stand up until he’s calling after you.
“Excuse me, ma’am, that area is restricted.”
The voice is sharp enough to make you stop mid-step. Polite on the surface, but tight underneath, like he’s already decided you’re a problem.
You turn, a little startled. “Oh—sorry. I’m just—”
“You can’t be back here,” he cuts in, already moving around the desk. His eyes flick down to your clothes, the shirt, the way you don’t look panicked enough. “Do you have authorisation?”
You blink. You’ve never needed it before.
“I’m meeting my dad,” you say, instinctively, like that should explain everything.
His mouth quirks. Not a smile. “Right. And who would that be?”
And just like that, his expression shifts from bored to amused, from amused to dismissive.
“Uh-huh,” he says slowly. “Look, you can’t just wander into Vought Tower because you’re a fan. If you’re looking for an autograph, you’ll need to wait outside with everyone else.”
“I’m not—” you start, heat creeping up your neck. “I come here all the time.”
“Ma’am,” he interrupts again, firmer now, “I need you to step back toward the exit.”
You hesitate. Not because you’re 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 —
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. There’s dried blood on his knuckles. His presence bends the air around him the way it always does, heavy and undeniable.
Your face lights up without permission. Relief floods you, bright and unguarded, and the word is already on your lips as you step forward.
You don’t even look at the intern as you move past him.
“Hey—!” he snaps, panic bleeding into authority as you ignore him completely. “Ma’am, stop—”
You’re 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 hardness—
He doesn’t 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.
He’s just starting to turn fully toward you—
And you don’t 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.
“Ma’am, you are not authorised—!”
“Let go of me!” 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.
The lobby seems to freeze.
The sound that leaves him isn’t a word, it’s a low, furious bark of your name as his head snaps toward you. His eyes lock onto the intern’s hands on you, the way you’re pulled off-balance, the fear blooming across your face.
And something in him goes cold.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
His voice detonates across the lobby. Loud. Flat. Dangerous in that way people only realise too late is real.
The intern flinches but doesn’t let go fast enough. Keeps talking. Keeps touching you.
“Sir, she’s not authorised—she rushed the floor, I was just restraining her—”
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.
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.
“I’m gonna say this real fuckin’ slow,” he snarls, nose to nose now, breath hot and sharp. “You 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 whatever’s left of your mouth. You got that, you little suit-wearing fuck?”
The intern’s face has gone white. Eyes darting. Hands shaking.
“No,” Ben cuts in, pressing his forearm harder into the man’s throat, “you didn’t ask. Big fuckin’ difference.”
Security is frozen. Nobody moves. Nobody’s stupid enough to.
Only then does Ben turn back to you.
And the shift is instant.
His rage doesn’t vanish, but it redirects, folds inward, softens at the edges where you’re concerned. His hands are suddenly gentle, hovering, not touching until he’s sure it’s okay.
“Hey—hey,” he says, voice dropping, rough but careful. “C’mere, sweetheart. You alright?”
He looks you over like he’s cataloguing injuries — arms, wrists, shoulders, face. His jaw tightens when he sees the red marks already blooming where you were grabbed.
“Did he hurt you?” he asks, deadly quiet now. “You tell me if he hurt you.”
You shake your head quickly, breath still uneven. “He just—he grabbed me. I was trying to get to you.”
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 it’s still mid-battle.
“I got you,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your hair, over and over. “I got you. You’re okay. Nobody touches sweetheart. Not here. Not ever.”
He looks back at the intern over your head, eyes like cut glass.
“You’re done here,” he says casually. “And if I see your face in this building again, I’m gonna introduce it to the sidewalk outside. Repeatedly.”
The intern nods frantically. Stumbles back. Gone.
Ben doesn’t watch him leave.
He’s too busy tilting your chin up gently, inspecting you one last time. “You scare me like that again, sweetpea,” he mutters, softer now, “I’m gonna have a heart attack.”
“C’mon pumpkin. I owe you a milkshake. And maybe an extra treat as a fuckin’ apology for letting this place think it could lay a finger on my kid.”
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 you’re real.
Because the world has never mattered half as much to him as you do.
request from @saltcirclesigil
tags: @witch-of-letters @biancalinkas @littlebitb @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @lyarr24
