butcher wasn't the type of man to be shy. he was brazen, arrogant, and always spoke before he thought. never in his exhausting, shitty life would he have thought he'd ever be able to be ashamed. until you came along.
so innocent, so sweet, but he knew there was evil lurking within you. a perversion. you were like a little devil on his shoulder, tempting and encouraging him to do things he never would have thought of. okay, maybe he did, but he wouldn't have acted on them. not in public.
or so he told himself.
until one day, while he was talking to hughie about another incredible plan to catch homelander and punch him in the face once and for all, he heard the soft creak of a door. it was you. you entered the room and, slowly making your way towards butcher, met his gaze.
a moment later, you were sitting on his lap. and despite the stoic expression on his face, butcher felt himself burn inside. like a bomb. you straddled his thigh, your arms wrapped around his neck. you pushed yourself into his personal space, completely unconcerned with hughie standing right next to you. as if he had any strengh to complain at all.
butcher cleared his throat, trying to continue the conversation. but he couldn't. not when he felt the lace of your panties brushing against the denim of his jeans. not when you looked at him from under those thick lashes, your lower lip pouting.
"fuck..."
he muttered, placing his hand on your waist, simply accepting it. he wouldn't be able to bring himself to push you away.
"don't swear, daddy."
you replied, smirking at him, watching his face turn red.
summary: while helping you clean your room, dean gets distracted by your lip balm collection and uses it as an excuse to kiss you over and over
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You were in your room in the bunker, trying to organize the small disaster your room had slowly become over the last couple weeks.
Clothes were scattered around, the laundry basket was half full, and your bedside counter was full with makeup, skincare, hair ties, perfumes, and random little things that somehow always accumulated there.
Dean was "helping", though mostly he just wanted to be in your space.
While you organized the mess on your bedside table, he was sitting on the edge of your bed, helping with your clean clothes, though his version of folding laundry involved a lot of "inspections"
He suddenly held up a lacey pair of your panties between two fingers with a grin.
“Oh yeah” He said casually, nodding approvingly “These are definitely one of my favorites”
You looked over your shoulder.
“Dean” You laughed, shaking your head.
“What?” He asked innocently “I’m just being appreciative”
You rolled your eyes playfully and tossed a shirt at him “Fold the laundry”
“I am folding the laundry” He defended himself.
Another pair appeared in his hands a minute later.
“Ooh, and these ones?” He added “Strong contender too”
You snorted, shaking your head as you turned back to your bedside counter “You are unbelievable”
Eventually, after a lot more teasing than actual productivity, Dean finally finished folding the laundry and wandered over to where you stood organizing your bedside table.
“What’s all this?” He asked, snooping through your things.
“Just stuff that I need to put away”
Dean picked up one of your makeup products, inspecting it with squinted eyes.
“You don’t even need this stuff, y’know” He said "I like the way you look when we wake up. Messy hair and all"
You chuckled softly at that and leaned over to kiss him quickly “That’s sweet”
“I mean it” He said, setting it back down “You’re pretty without all this”
You smiled a little at that before continuing to organize things.
His eyes wandered over the counter until they landed on a small army of colorful tubes.
“Why do you have so many of these?” He asked, picking up one of them “There’s like a hundred of them”
“Those are my lip balms”
Dean counted dramatically “One, two, three— Sweetheart, this is a problem”
“I like them” You laughed, shrugging a little “They keep my lips soft”
Dean paused, then slowly looked at your mouth.
“…Oh” He smirked “So that’s your secret for soft lips, huh?” He leaned in, pecking your lips “That’s why you’re so hard to stop kissing?" He murmured, leaning in to steal a few more lingering kisses.
You laughed softly against his lips “It is”
“Huh” He murmured thoughtfully, pressing another kiss on your mouth "Yeah. Works. I'm a fan"
You shook your head, smiling.
Then Dean picked one of the lip balms up again, squinting at the label.
“'Wild Cherry'?” He read the label “They’re flavored?"
You nod “Yeah, most of them are”
“Huh” He hummed "And here I thought you were supposed to wear 'em, not eat 'em” He teases “You got a secret snack habit I should know about?"
"It’s for the scent, you dork" You snort, poking his chest.
“The scent, huh?”
Immediately, a playful grin spread across his face.
He scooped up a handful of the tubes and held them out to you "Try 'em on"
You snorted “What, now? Why?”
"You try 'em on…" He said, his voice dropping to a low, playful tone "I’ll close my eyes, and I have to guess the flavor. It’s a very important scientific experiment"
Dean shut his eyes and puckered his lips, waiting patiently like he was taking the challenge very seriously.
“Ready” He announced.
Laughing, you picked one and applied it. Then you stepped closer and kissed him softly.
Dean kissed you back deeply, his hands finding your waist. Hhummed against your lips thoughtfully, like he was genuinely analyzing the flavor.
"Hmm, I don't know" He whispered, his eyes still firmly shut "That’s tricky. I’m gonna need another taste. Just to be sure"
You chuckled “Dean”
“What? I’m concentrating” He said innocently “I need to be sure, y’know, for the accuracy of the investigation. So c’mere”
He pulled you back in for a much longer, slower kiss.
Each time you switched to a different flavor, he’d give the same performance; furrowing eyebrows, pretending to be confused, and insisting he needed "one more sample" just to be absolutely certain.
"You know exactly what the flavors are" You chuckle.
His lips lift in a small smirk.
"I have no idea what you're talking about" He said, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you "I’m a very thorough investigator. I think I need to go through the whole collection. At least twice. Just to be sure"
You laughed. The sound making him smile before leaning in and kissing you again.
dumb idea lol i got it while shopping for lip balms because my lips are in fact very dry 🥲 anyway
tw. trailer park princess! reader x soldier boy. alcohol use. pillow humping. age gap. reader is of age. southern aesthetic. icky ben! loss of virginity (r). p in v. cowgirl position. creampie. pet names (baby, honey, dolly, sweetheart.) sex under the influence. title from only angels have wings - nicole dollanganger.
the trailer park squatted at the edge of town like a stray dog too tired to bite. rust-buckled trailers leaned crooked beneath a bruised southern sky, porches sagging under ashtrays and dead plants and old men too drunk to remember what year it was. weeds swallowed fence posts whole, cicadas screamed loud enough to drown out the highway. every evening smelled like wet dirt, gasoline and somebody frying meat in reused grease.
dirty and sometimes too rough, but the only home you’ve ever known.
you lived in lot seventeen with your mama’s old floral curtains still hanging in the windows and a busted washing machine sitting permanently in the yard like lawn decor.
and three trailers down in lot twenty, lived ben.
nobody called him soldier boy around here. not unless they were stupid. to everyone he was just ben- the broad-shouldered veteran with mirrored aviators, cigarettes tucked into the sleeve of his white T-shirt and enough violence simmering under his skin to make stray dogs avoid his porch.
he’d arrived six months ago in a black pickup with new york plates and a duffel bag that looked heavy enough to carry bodies. folks whispered, said he killed a man in pure rage. said the government was after him. said he wasn’t right in the head.
you mostly noticed how lonely he looked.
sometimes late at night you’d see him sitting shirtless on his trailer steps under the jaundiced porchlight, smoke curling around him while old songs from before your time crackled from a radio inside. almost like he was waiting for something that would never come back.
one afternoon he caught you snooping out the window, your fingers gently folding the curtains back and he smiled. whistled and held up his lit joint like an offering, frowned when you cowered back inside with wild thoughts and a pillow between your legs, pink panty clad pussy grinding against the plush while thinking about him.
the first time he spoke to you, you nearly dropped your groceries.
“hey, dolly.”
you froze halfway up your porch steps, clutching a paper sack full of canned beans and bread. ben leaned against the railing of his trailer porch, beer bottle dangling from two fingers.
“ya’ got a second?”
you glanced around like maybe he meant somebody else but there was nobody else.
your cheeks went hot as you crossed the dirt path between the trailers slowly, flip-flops crunching over gravel. up close he smelled like old Spice and cigarette smoke and something metallic underneath. blood maybe. or motor oil.
ben looked you over in that lazy dangerous way older men did around town sometimes- except somehow meaner and softer all at once.
“you livin’ at seventeen, right?”
you nodded.
he tilted an empty beer bottle toward you.
“need a favor.”
you stomach fluttered nervously, what could ben possibly need from you?
“…what kind?”
“the gas station down the road. he reached into his pockets pulling out crumpled bills. “need’a beer.”
you blinked, boots nervously scuffing against the dusty road. “they won’t sell it to me…”
“sure they will.” he held the money out. “ya’ got one of those faces.”
“what’s that suppose to mean?”
“innocent, young. just flash em a bit a cleavage’ they’ll serve ya.” he said it like it amused him, no hesitation at how inappropriate his words may be.
mama always warned you about men like ben. men with charm sharpened into weapons. men who smiled like they’d already survived the electric chair once before. you should’ve said no. its inappropriate and illegal.
but you’d been lonely yourself for so long that sometimes loneliness made bad ideas feel holy.
so you took the money.
the corner store sat beside an abandoned car wash twenty minutes away on foot. neon faulty beer signs buzzed in the windows. old men crowded around scratch cards whistling when you walked past, cleavage on show just like ben had said.
you bought the cheapest six-pack they had and the cashier barely looked you in the eye. on the way back you didn’t pull your top back into place, you wanted ben to see what you did just for him.
“took your sweet time.” he called.
you held up the plastic bag. “they only had warm ones..”
“tragic.”
he stood and took the bag from your hand. his bruised knuckle velvet fingers brushed yours, eyes trailing down your body, lingering at your chest.
your heartbeat stumbled.
he pulled a beer free and cracked it open against the railing, liquid sputtering down his fingers.
“you want one?”
“I’m not really supposed to drink..”
he barked a laugh. “jesus, kid.” then he looked at you again, slower this time. “i aint’ gonna ask again.”
you should’ve walked home then. instead you made your way up his steps, boots clanking against the wood taking a seat next to ben.
ben laughed when you coughed after the first sip.
not a mean laugh. low and rough and surprised, like he hadn’t expected anything genuinely sweet all week.
“easy there, sweetheart.” he leaned back in the rusted lawn chair, boots kicked up on the porch railing. “beer ain’t’ supposed to be fought hand-to-hand.”
you wiped your mouth quickly, embarrassed. the can felt ice-cold in your hands, condensation dripping over your chipped polished nails.
“it tastes awful.”
the bitterness made your face scrunch up. ben smirked around his cigarette.
“jesus’ ya really never drank before?”
you shook your head.
“not even at parties?”
“i- i don’t really get invited places…”
the words slipped out before you meant them to. bens expression shifted into something- not pity but worse somehow. like he understood too well.
“you serious?”
you shrugged staring into the can. “people around here think I’m.. weird.”
“that’ so?”
“mama says I’m too soft.”
ben huffed smoke into the humid night air. “ya’ mama’s probably right.”
you glanced at him, fingers tight around the metal.
“but” he added, “ain’t the worst thing to be.”
the beer made everything warmer after a while. your cheeks tingled. your limbs felt floaty and loose, porchlight glowing syrupy gold around the edges.
ben watched you carefully.
“you okay?”
“mhmm..”
“ya’ sure?”
you giggled unexpectedly at the seriousness in his voice. “think my head’s fuzzy.”
“that’ll happen.”
he stood then, broad and imposing even in the dim light and crushed his cigarette beneath his boot.
“cmon’ dolly.”
you blinked up at him, “where?”
“inside. before mosquitoes carry you off.”
bens hand closed around your elbow as you stood before you could stumble. the touch sent a strange nervous flutter through your chest.
“tsk. ya’ lightweight.” he muttered.
“sorry..”
“s’ alright, sweetie.”
the rusted door of the double-wide groaned as ben pulled it open, the stale scent of cheap beer and unwashed denim washing out into the humid evening. the inside was dim, a single yellow lamp casting long shadows over a sagging couch, empty bottles scattered. He kicked the door shut behind you, the latch clicking loud in the sudden silence.
his eyes narrowed, hands still holding on your hips as you looked up at him nervously.
“yknow why i invited you here, dont you smart girl?” he mumbled.
you nodded breathe heavy lingering with his.
“say it.”
“b-because you want me… and i want you..” you whispered.
“thats right. ya gonna’ let me pop that cherry right here on my couch.” he let go of your chin and stepped back, pussy fluttering at his words.
your hands shook as you fumbled with the buttons of your blouse from the excitement that ben could actually like someone like you. he watched patient as a cat, his eyes tracing every inch of skin you revealed- your collarbone, the curve of your breasts in their cotton bra, the trembling line of your belly as you pushed your shorts down your thighs. when you stood before him in nothing but panties and bra he let out a low whistle.
“sweet’ jesus.” he muttered, his hand moving to the front of his jeans, palming the obvious bulge straining the denim. “turn around let me see that peach.”
you obeyed turning slowly, your hands clasped behind your back. his palm landed flat on your bare hip then slid down, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass cheek. he squeezed hard enough to make you gasp
“perfect body, honey.” he breathed. “now get on the couch for me okay?”
you climbed onto the worn cushion, knees sinking into the ancient foam as you faced him. he unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, watching your tongue peeking out between your lips like a puppy to a bone. He didn’t bother pulling his jeans off- just shoved them down enough to free his cock. springing up thick and heavy, the head flushed with a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.
“this is what’s gonna fill that tight little cunt.”. he said, wrapping his fist around the shaft, giving it a slow stroke.
“i-its big..” you mumbled innocently.
“thats okay honey, feel better snugged in that little hole.” he settled onto the couch, back against the armrest and pulled you onto his lap. your thighs straddled his hips, the rough denim of his jeans rasping against your sensitive inner thighs. his cock pressed against your belly hot and hard. he reached between you hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tore them off with one sharp tug.
“no need for those..” he grunted tossing them aside.
his hand slid down, fingers finding your pussy. they were rough and calloused, knowing exactly where to press. he circled your clit with his thumb, laughing as some of your juices sputtered onto his hand.
“look at you..” he murmured, his eyes dark and hungry. “so wet already. you were made for this weren’t you? made to take my cock.”
you whined deep in your throat, hands digging into his shoulders. “mmmf- mhm.”
he lined himself up, the fat head of his cock nudging your slick folds. you felt the pressure, the stretch and you braced yourself.
“ready, dolly? say ya want it.”
“i want it.” you whispered, voice trembling but sure.
he smiled and then he thrust up. the pain was sharp, a burning stretch that stole your breath. you whined out, your nails digging into his skin. he held your hips stilling you, letting you adjust.
“shh.. take it slow.” he said with a voice surprisingly gentle. “first time always hurts.”
you nodded tears pricking your eyes. he stayed still with just the tip buried inside you until you relaxed. then he slid deeper inch by inch until he was fully seated, his balls pressed against your ass.
“fuck- yeah..” he groaned, his eyes half-closed. “feel that? your so tight. so fuckin’ tight.”
he gave you a moment to breathe then he began to move—a slow deep grind that rocked your whole body. his hands found your hips, guiding you into a rhythm. up and down, your pussy gripping him sliding down his length. each stroke sent fresh waves of sensation through your core, the pain melting into a deep aching pleasure.
“thaaats it..” he encouraged. “ride me. show me what you got.”
you found your pace, your body moving instinctively, your breasts bouncing in front of his face. he leaned forward taking one nipple into his mouth sucking hard, his beard grazing the sensitive peak. you moaned with your hips moving faster, the friction building into something urgent desperate.
“i-im close i think..! you gasped though you barely understood what that meant.
“good job dolly- cream on my dick..”
his thumb found your clit again rubbing in tight circles and that was it. the orgasm crashed over you like a wave your whole body tensing, your pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. he groaned his hips thrusting up chasing your pussy burying himself deep as he spilled inside you hot, thick filling you up.
you collapsed against his chest, breathless your skin slick with sweat. he wrapped an arm around you holding you there, his cock still twitching inside you.
“good job, honey. did so good just f’me.”.
“j-just for you ben..” you mumbled breathlessly and full, letting yourself sink into his warmth.
ben catches you humping your soldier boy pillow….. !
mdni. 18+
the apartment was quiet, ben had just gotten back from a late training session with the team, his muscles still humming with residual adrenaline. he’d expected to find you reading or scrolling through your phone, maybe already asleep. what he found instead made him freeze in the doorway.
the dim lamplight painted your body in warm shadows. you were sprawled across the bed face-down, your hips grinding into the pillow beneath you—his pillow. the one with his face printed on it, a promotional stunt vought had pushed out last year that he'd thought was ridiculous but you'd kept anyway.
your fingers were gripping the edges of the pillowcase, knuckles white as you rolled your hips in slow deliberate circles. a soft breathy moan escaped your lips, muffled against the fabric.
he didn't move. didn’t speak. just leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and watched.
your shorts were bunched around your thighs, the damp fabric of your pink underwear clearly visible as you pressed yourself against the pillow again and again. your legs were spread just enough to give him a perfect view of the way your ass clenched with each thrust.
"mmmf…. ben.. “ you whispered into the pillow, your voice strained. "god, yes..."
his cock twitched behind his jeans. he reached down palming himself through the denim, not bothering to be quiet about it.
the sound of his zipper made you freeze.
every muscle in your body locked up as you turned your head eyes wide, face flushed. your lips were parted with a string of saliva connecting your mouth to the pillowcase.
"dont stop caus’ me, honey.”
his voice was rough, a command that left no room for argument. he pulled his cock out already half-hard and wrapped his hand around the shaft. the sight of him towering in the doorway stroking himself while staring at you like prey—sent a jolt of electricity through your core.
"b-ben… i-“
"i said don't stop." he stepped into the room, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. "you were into it a second ago. dont get shy on me now."
he sat down in the armchair by the window, the leather creaking under his weight. his hand moved along his length slow and deliberate as his eyes locked onto yours.
"go on.” he growled. "show me what you were doin’.”
your body moved before your brain could catch up driven by a mix of embarrassment and arousal. you lowered yourself back onto the pillow, the material still warm and damp from before. the pressure against your clit sent a shudder through your thighs.
"yeaaah... just like that." his voice was a low rumble barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing. "grind that pretty cunt against my face."
every movement pressed your clit against the printed fabric, the friction making your hole clench around nothing.
his hand moved in time with you, the wet sounds of his palm sliding along his shaft filled the room mixing with your soft moans and the faint creak of the bedsprings.
a low approving growl rumbled from his chest. "that's it.. baby. keep goin’ dont you dare cum until I tell you to."
the command made your thighs tremble. you pressed your face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne that still lingered on the fabric and continued your rhythm imaging bens cock snug in your guts. the pressure was building coiling tight in your belly but you held back, waiting for his permission.
ben stood up, his boots clicking against the floor as he crossed the room. the bed dipped under his weight as he knelt behind you close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"look at you..” he clicked his tongue. "humpin’ a pillow like a bitch in heat. and it's my face you're rubbing that wet pussy against."
his hand came down on your ass cheek, a sharp stinging slap that made you cry out. the pain bloomed into pleasure and you thrust harder against the pillow.
you could see his hard cock in your peripheral vision—the slick glistening length of him, the way his muscles bunched with each stroke. the sight was enough to push you closer to the edge.
"mmf- can i cum daddy? please! feels so good on my pussy…”
"fuckin’ drench that pillow.” he laughed.
the command shattered you. your orgasm ripped through your body, a tidal wave of heat and pleasure that made your vision go white. you whimpered his name- a broken desperate sound as your hips bucked wildly against the pillow, riding out the waves of ecstasy. slick sputtered from your heat, dripping down your thighs and leaving a stain on the cotton.
behind you ben groaned. his hand moved faster until you felt it—hot thick ropes of cum splattering across your lower back and the curve of your ass. he cursed a string of filthy words as he painted your skin with his release.
he leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear with that million dollar smirk.
"next time..” he murmured, his voice rough and satisfied, "you use the real thing."
Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Female Reader x Mr. Marathon
Summary: Soldier Boy interrupts you and Mr. Marathon, along with Homelander, who are searching for something called V1. But instead of putting him to work, he decides to interrogate you. Or at least that's what he tells his son.
Word Count: 1,055
Tags/Warnings: +18, smut, anal, p in v (unprotected), creampie, threesome, dacryphilia
Mr. Marathon’s super speed made your insides vibrate as he thrust his hips hard upward against you. You moaned and laughed on top of him, those vibrations even tickling you.
“Who’s my good girl, huh?” He murmured.
His hands held your breasts so they wouldn’t bounce so much and hurt.
“Me! I am, Mr. Marathon.”
And of course, he loved it when you called him by his superhero name.
Your ass slammed against his pelvis again and again at an incredible speed, and every second that passed was one second closer to orgasm.
“Well, this is definitely a good fucking view.”
You looked over your shoulder as soon as you heard that voice and screamed instinctively, sliding off Mr. Marathon and lying down next to him, covering yourself with the sheet.
“Whoa, whoa.” Your partner put a hand out in front of him, covering his crotch. “Wait… Homelander? Soldier Boy?”
Your breath was rapid, and you pressed yourself as close to him as possible. You stared in astonishment at the two men standing in the room in their suits. Homelander wore a look of disgust on his face, unlike Soldier Boy, who smirked and looked at you intently and with a perverse intensity.
“God, you guys are the ones from TV.” You said, your eyes wide.
“Ugh, this is disgusting.” Homelander said, rolling his eyes. “We’re looking for the V1, and we were told you had it.” He stood at the foot of the bed, and you turned to look at Mr. Marathon.
“Um, well, I’m kind of busy right now.”
“I need it now.”
You swallowed at his threatening tone.
“Relax, son.” Soldier Boy said, patting his shoulder. “Why don’t you leave us alone and wait outside for a few moments, huh?” He led him to the door, a hand on his shoulder.
“What? Why?”
“I’m going to interrogate them about the V1. Now go.” He closed the door in his face and looked at them, walking slowly to your side of the bed.
“Uh, I don’t know anything about something called a V1, sir.”
He smirked and stroked your chin.
“Well, aren’t you a total sweetheart?” He glanced at Mr. Marathon. “Would you lend her to me?”
“W-What?” You stammered.
“Sure, Soldier Boy. It would be an honor.” You looked at your boyfriend in surprise, and he just smiled gently and stroked your shoulder. “Relax, sweetheart. It’s Soldier Boy!”
You turned your gaze back to the man standing beside you. He started unzipping his suit.
“Have you been with two supes at the same time, doll?” You shook your head. “Awww, look, we’ve got a virgin in our hands. What about your ass? Have you taken a supe there yet?” Your eyes widened, and you shook your head again.
“No, I haven’t deflowered her down there yet.” Mr. Marathon added, pressing a kiss to your hair.
“Uh, so we not only have a virgin of supes, but also a virgin of ass.” He unzipped his pants. “Well, what the hell are we waiting for?”
⋆⋆⋆🝳✞✧★ఌ𐙚⋆⋆⋆
You felt your insides stretching deliciously as both supes pounded inside you. You were on top of Mr. Marathon, your hands on his chest as he thrust into your pussy again and again, while Soldier Boy was behind you, attacking your ass and making you feel things you never thought possible.
“Oh, this little fucking girl can really take it.” He said before grabbing your neck and pulling you back, pressing your back against his chest.
His balls slapped against you as Mr. Marathon’s cock pounded deep into your cervix, his hands holding your hips as he watched intently, licking his lips.
“Yeah, she takes it like a good girl.” He used his super speed to flick your clit with two fingers, making you tremble.
You were so close, and the pleasure was so intense, that you started to sob. It was simply too much, but you wanted more.
“Awww, look at her. She’s crying like a little girl.” Soldier Boy grunted. He licked a tear that rolled down your cheek and groaned. “Christ on a cross, even her tears are delicious.” He thrust his cock hard into you and you whimpered. “Yeah, that’s it. Keep crying. Quench my thirst, baby.” He licked two more tears from your face, moving your face to his liking with one hand.
“She’s close, I can feel her squeezing me.” The man beneath you groaned.
He began using his super speed again, thrusting in and out of you rapidly, making you bounce on his lap and causing Soldier Boy’s cock to move pleasurably inside you as well. You reached the peak of pleasure. Your body shook as if possessed, and your holes squeezed tightly around both cocks.
“God-Fuck, yeah, like that.” Mr. Marathon growled. “Y-yes, fuck!” He ejaculated his warm semen inside you, painting your pussy white as if his life depended on it.
“Shit, y-you’re squeezing me so good.” Soldier Boy closed his eyes tightly and tightened his grip on your neck, even making you gasp for air in those few seconds before he reached orgasm. “Yes! Yes, fuck!” He groaned deeply and he too released his semen, filling you.
You had never felt so full and tired in your life, and you were loving every second. Your body went limp, but Soldier Boy held you firmly from behind, so you stayed against him until he gently lowered you onto the other man’s chest. He slowly withdrew from you, feeling your walls wet with his semen, until he pulled his cock out. Immediately, his white fluid began to flow from you, and he laughed.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He slapped your ass, and more of his semen flowed out of you. “Look at that. Fucking perfect.”
He got off the bed and began to dress. Mr. Marathon stroked your back while his cock was inside your pussy, his semen oozing out all around under the watchful eye of Soldier Boy, who smirked.
“I’ll probably be back.” He winked at you. “Now, Marathon, get dressed and tell us what you know about V1.”
“Of course, Soldier Boy.” He nodded.
He gave you one last arrogant look before opening the bedroom door.
Homelander was on the other side, furious, his hands behind his back. He also looked horrified.
the x reader "consumers" on tumblr lowk are so entitled, i said consumer bcs these people do nothing to support the writers but complain about FREE fanfics that other people write for FUN and for the LOVE of the game. THEY DON'T OWE YOU ANYTHING.
i'm so tired of you people who can only pressure these writers, make memes, and ridicule them for writing something that was not fit to your standards or liking.
you don't even write or contribute anything to the community, don't even support or atleast reblogs to the writers you actually like.
stop filling the tags with your consistent complaints about the fanfics that obviously wasn't meant for you (not to your liking) and start learn how to write.
he thinks he's being super smooth and charming, meanwhile she's just being nice and friendly cause that's who she is. he asks if she wants to get outta there so he can "see her pretty pussy for himself" and she tells him that she's busy, but can show him pictures if he wants.
he smirks deviously, getting closer in anticipation because after seeing how modern phones work he's ready to inspect her nudes eagerly until—she shows him a picture of her cat. a literal cat, chunky little furball laying on it's side, arms curled above it's head in the most adorable pose.
he looks at it, looks at her, then responds with "the fuck is this", to which she furrows her eyebrows in adorable confusion. "you said you wanted to see my cat?" and she's being a hundred percent serious, completely genuine. she thought he was just being old school per usual (like, pussycat). he just pinches the bridge of his nose with a defeated sigh.
"god i'm so fucking sick" "this is so wrong" "please be quiet sweetie" "dad is so sorry" "i'll be fast please stop crying" "fuck fuck fuck" "you're such a good daughter" <33
i don't get it, why in this fandom writing fauxcest/ddlg/incest x reader fanfics with sam or dean is okay but when someone ships wincest they are the worst person in the world and should kill themselves ://
i'm not wincestie and idgaf about this ship, but i think it's due to the fervent homophobia that still lingers within people, and the fact that most fauxcest fanfics are consumed solely for the sake of porn, when wincest is analyzed and shippers look at it not only from a horny perspective but also from a psychological. what's also important is that incest between a daughter and her father or a sister and her brother is more normalized than incest between brothers—if sam were a girl, i think even the show itself would be making some incest jokes about it.
NOTES: You cannot convince me that Ben wouldn’t be utterly obsessed with his girl. I won’t hear anything of that silliness. He’s crazy in love with you and he’d be a total wife guy.
TW: smut, romanticized ben, oral/fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, wedding ceremony, getting married, this is just such a fun time to me, ben says fuck it to tradition
You’re walking down the aisle, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands, vision hazy with happy tears and sunlight. Everything is warm. Perfect. A dream.
And there he is.
Standing at the altar, looking way too handsome in that suit to be real. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes are locked on you, dark and wild and hungry. He looks like he wants to throw you over his shoulder and disappear, which, honestly, is fully within the realm of possibility for him.
You don’t notice the lace right away, too locked in on Ben and the fact that you’re about to get married. He’ll be yours, for better or worse. Until death do you part.
Everything is a bit of a blur at first, including the soft flicker of white peeking from his breast pocket. You had picked the blush pocket square he was meant to wear yourself, spent hours painstakingly matching the color to the linens, the roses, your blush.
That isn’t it.
You blink, once. Twice.
White lace.
You recognize that lace. It’s yours. Your favorite, in fact. The soft scalloped lace, delicate and feminine. A tiny satin bow.
Your panties.
The ones you’d worn just the night before. The ones he’d taken off you the night before.
They now sat tucked in the breast pocket of Ben’s suit, like a twisted little keepsake.
You hadn’t meant to let it happen.
You’d been in your room, tucked into the ridiculous bridal suite with white sheets and pressed linens and a do not disturb sign on the door. Hair perfectly blown out, veil steamed and hanging next to your dress, a glass of cucumber water untouched on the bedside table. Your maid of honor had just left with a stern “don’t let him sneak over here, you know he’ll try.”
And you really did try to be good.
Until your phone buzzed.
-> New Messages: BEN ❤️🔥
baby
this tradition fucking sucks
i’m losing it
You smiled. That helpless, hopeless smile you only got with him.
Then came more texts:
come over here
please
i’ll behave, scouts honor
i miss you so bad i can’t think straight
And this is exactly why no one told him what your room number was—because he absolutely would have shown up and never left if he could have.
You were already blushing when he called.
“Ben-”
“Where are you,” he asked immediately, low and wrecked. “Are you wearing that ridiculous little robe? You better be wearing that robe.”
Your stomach flipped. Something you’d come to love throughout the planning process was how much he’d listened to your ideas. This one in particular being the custom, satin robe you’d ordered for tonight and the morning.
“We agreed to this, Ben. We’re not supposed to see each other until the ceremony. It’s bad luck.”
“I’ve seen you naked more times than I’ve seen you dressed, baby. You think I’m gonna up and forget what you look like because of some old-ass wedding rule?”
You snorted.
“Baby, I need you. I'm suffering.”
“You’re being dramatic, Benjamin.”
“I’m being deprived,” he groaned. “My hands are shaking. I’m half hard and fully miserable. I can’t sleep in this stupid king-sized pillow fort bullshit without you breathing next to me like a soft little kitten. I’m a wreck, babe.”
You were already halfway out of bed. “Ben, seriously.”
“You wanna be a blushing bride tomorrow? You want me standing at that altar with a straight face? Sober? Something’s gotta give, sweetheart. I won’t touch, scouts honor. Just let me see you. Two minutes.”
He was lying.
You knew he was lying.
But when you stepped into his suite just one floor down—barefoot, breathless, the aforementioned robe tied too tight (as though that’d deter him) and cheeks already warm—he looked at you like he might actually drop to his knees at the sight.
“Christ on a cross,” he rasped, stepping toward you. “You’re a vision.”
“Two minutes,” you warned.
“Sure, sure,” he said, already pulling you in by the waist. “Two minutes, maybe three. Five tops.”
“Ben-”
“You’re my girl,” he whispered, mouth against your neck. “You think I’m gonna sleep well without making you come first? Not a fuckin’ chance.”
You gasped, pointing at him accusedly despite the smile on your lips, “You promised! You said scout's honor!”
“Yeah, well, I lied. And I wasn’t a scout, so it doesn’t even count. And, if you care to remember,” he started, voice dropping, “when I asked you to marry me, I promised to get you off every single day for the rest of your life. You think our wedding day is the exception? Absolutely not, sweetheart.”
You were already laughing. Giggling against his chest like a traitor.
“Let me take care of you,” Ben muttered, voice rough, breath warm against your cheek as his hands slid beneath your robe. “Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be goin’ to bed all tense. That’s real bad luck.”
You tried to swat at him, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” he said, pulling the robe open, eyes flicking down to your panties with something hungry. “I’m in love. And I’m about to marry the hottest girl alive, and some dumb old fuck decided I’m not allowed to even see her tonight, let alone get my mouth on her.”
You giggled, flustered. “It’s tradition. It’s supposed to be romantic.”
“It’s bullshit,” he huffed. “I should be fallin’ asleep with my face between your tits, like God intended,” he muttered, already easing you back onto the bed.
Your legs parted for him automatically. You didn’t even try to pretend they didn’t.
He settled between them like he belonged there, big hands wrapping around your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles over your skin. His eyes locked on the spot where the lace met your inner thighs—thin, soft, soaked.
He groaned. “Fuck. Look at this.”
“Ben…”
“Lemme see her,” he said, already tugging the panties to the side. “Just for a sec, baby.”
You moaned before you could stop yourself.
Ben grinned.
“There’s my girl,” he said, leaning down and mouthing against your inner thigh. “Missed this pussy all fuckin’ day. Been tryin’ to think about anything else. Couldn’t get you off my mind.”
“Stop talking,” you gasped, face flushed.
“I will not,” he said proudly. “You’re all wet and pretty and you were tucked away in that fucking suite, hiding all of this from me. You think I’m not gonna revel in the fact I got you to break the rules and come in here?”
“You’re such a-”
He didn’t let you finish. He ducked his head and licked, slow and broad and hot—one long drag from your entrance to your clit that made your thighs twitch.
You gasped, high and breathy. “Fuck, Ben.”
He moaned into you, thick and greedy. “God, baby. You always taste this good? Or is it just ‘cause you’re about to be mine forever?”
You let your head fall back with a whimper. “I’m already yours.”
“Damn fucking right you are,” he muttered, right before his mouth sealed around your clit and he sucked.
You jerked against the bed, a choked sound slipping from your throat as your hips arched into him.
“Thought about this all day,” he went on, barely pulling away. “Your legs over my shoulders, hands in my fuckin’ hair, those little noises you make—fuck, I’m obsessed with you.”
You were panting now, thighs shaking as his tongue licked up and down your folds, slow and relentless.
“Tell me you missed this,” he said, dragging his mouth over your clit again.
“I did,” you gasped, one hand gripping the soft hotel sheets tightly.
“Tell me you didn’t want me tonight. That you didn’t hope for this.”
“I always want you,” you cried, your back arched off the bed just so.
He groaned, voice low and reverent. “You gonna come for me, baby? Make it nice and loud. C’mon, give me a fuckin’ wedding gift.”
Your fingers curled hard in his hair. “I- I’m- Ben!”
He latched onto your clit again, tongue flicking, sucking, moaning like you were his last meal. One of his hands moved to slip his fingers inside you. His grip on your thigh tightened, and the second your hips started to shake, he pulled you in tighter—wouldn’t let you go.
“Let go, baby. Be sweet for me.” He said, hot and breathy, as his nose nudged at your clit, and crooked his fingers just right inside you.
You came with a whimper, back bowing off the bed, one hand flying to cover your mouth, the other still tangled in his hair as your legs clamped around his head and shook.
Ben growled.
“I got you,” he said, licking you through it, slower now, indulgent, slowing his finger’s movements but never stopping. “Good girl. Just like that. Fuck, sweetheart, look at you. You should see how pretty you look when you come.”
You trembled under him, brain fried, mouth slack, robe slipped halfway off your shoulder.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was slick, chin shining, and he looked so fucking smug when sucked his fingers clean.
Eventually sat up on your elbows, still dazed, and you reached for your underwear only to find that Ben had them in his fist.
You narrowed your eyes, “don’t even think about it.”
He just grinned. “Nah, I’m gonna keep em. I need company tonight.”
“Ben-”
“I need something to sleep with,” he said, deadly serious. “Otherwise I’m gonna lie awake thinking about how fuckin’ sweet you tasted, and how stupid it is that I’m not allowed to keep my mouth on you all night like a decent husband.”
“We’re not married yet.”
He ignored that statement in its entirety. “They’re mine now,” he said, folding them like a goddamn gentleman and tucking them neatly into the pocket of his sweats. “You gave them to me.”
“I did not!”
“You knew what this was, baby. Don’t act all holier than thou about it.”
And now, dressed to the nines and just half an aisles length from him, your eyes flick back up to his. He doesn’t look away. Just tips his chin like, what are you gonna do about it, baby?
Your cheeks flush, lips parting to mouth, ‘seriously?’
He gives you a smirk. Barely there. Just enough. Yeah. Dead serious.
By the time you make it to him, your heart’s pounding louder in your ears than the music. You let out a soft breath as you pass your bouquet to your maid of honor.
He takes your hand, brining it up to press a kiss to you knuckles, that smirk melting into something softer. His thumb slides slow over your knuckles, gaze dipping down your body with zero shame.
“Wasn’t gonna make it through the whole thing without ‘em,” he murmurs, low and lazy.
You blink. You try not to laugh, pressing your lips together.
“Pocket square didn’t smell like you,” he adds.
You make a quiet, shocked noise that gets swallowed up by the crowd.
“You are mentally unwell,” you whisper back to him, praying to officiant didn’t hear him, even though you were certain he did.
He winks. “And now you’re stuck with me.”
You’re still blushing by the time the officiant starts the vows.
When the time for "I do's” comes, Ben says it before he’s even supposed to—loud and clear and without hesitation, like someone might try to interrupt him.
And when he kisses you, it’s not delicate or practiced. It’s a little rough. A little too eager. His hand slides around your waist, fingers flexing just enough to remind you’re in for a very long night.
After, as the guests cheer you on as you recessed down the aisle and out of the venue to the waiting car, you lean close to whisper, “you better hope no one else noticed.”
Ben just grins and taps his pocket. “I sure fucking hope they did, sweetheart.”
And then he winks.
And you’re going to be so late to the reception if he’s got any say in it.
Notes: the original idea for this was like a mid life crisis kind of Ben, idk if that still translates but I think the whole idea makes sense with that in mind. This isn’t bullet pointed but I think it works
TW: age gap (legal), sort of maybe sugar daddy dynamics (very lowkey if at all), drunk Vegas wedding, drug + alcohol mentions, super adorable and precious to me
MASTERLIST
Ben didn’t mean to fall in love with her.
Honestly, he figured he was doing her a favor — giving her a taste of the good life, buying her shiny shit, showing her off on his arm like a trophy he could still win, even past his prime.
At first, it was just fun. She was young, stupid hot, way too sweet for her own good — a little thing with big eyes and a laugh that cracked him open like a goddamn beer can.
He kept it casual, he told himself. Bought her things because he could. Fucked her like he was twenty-five again because he wanted to. No strings. No promises.
And then one night she fell asleep curled up on his chest, drooling a little on his bare skin, holding onto him like he was her whole fucking world — and it hit him like a bat to the chest: Fuck. I’m screwed.
He fucks her like he’s still got something to prove — like every stroke is a reminder that no slick-haired little douchbag could ever ruin her the way he can.
She calls him "daddy" once and it short-circuits something in his brain. Now he chases it like a drug. Spoiler alert: it definitely wasn’t a one time thing after that.
He loves when she’s loud in bed. Loves knowing the walls are thin and she’s screaming his name. He’ll mutter, “Yeah, that’s right. Let ‘em fuckin’ hear who owns you.”
Aftercare is a mess. He gripes about the sheets, grumbles that she’s all over him, but he still carries her to the bathroom, kisses her neck while she brushes her teeth, wraps her in his T-shirt without being asked.
Says he doesn’t cuddle — then holds her like a human teddy bear til morning.
He’s got a thing for lingerie — the expensive kind, the kind he picks out himself. Loves taking his time peeling it off her, growling how pretty she looks while ruining it on purpose.
Sometimes he slows it down — kisses her like she’s breakable, spreads her open and takes his time like he’s memorizing her. Says things like, “You know how good you are for me, baby?” in a low, gravelly murmur that makes her legs shake.
He married her half on a dare, half because the idea of anyone else even looking at her made his blood boil.
What started as a tipsy mutter — “You oughta marry me, y’know. Lock this shit down before some punk-ass college boy tries to play house with you.” — turned into a lot more real fast.
She laughed, kissed his cheek, called his bluff — and Ben, cocky bastard that he is, doubled down. Because fuck it. If anyone was gonna put a ring on her finger, it sure as hell wasn’t gonna not be him.
They were in Vegas. Of course they were. High as hell, champagne drunk, riding the high of some bullshit hotel suite with a hot tub in the living room and a minibar they’d already cleaned out.
She was in a tiny dress and glitter heels, laughing at everything he said like he was a fuckin’ rockstar — and Ben, never one to back down from his own chaos, leaned in close, dragged his nose along her neck, and slurred, “C’mon, baby. Be Mrs. Soldier Boy.”
She giggled and said yes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He woke up the next morning to a room that looked like it had survived a low-level explosion — champagne flutes tipped over, white powder dusted across the dresser like a goddamn pastry counter, one of her shoes dangling from the chandelier — and her curled up on his chest, still in her lashes, with the most obnoxious ring he could’ve possibly found glinting on her finger.
Big-ass stone. Flashy as all get out. Sparkly. He didn’t even remember picking it out, but damn if it didn’t suit her.
And she was beaming at him like he’d hung the goddamn moon, like waking up married to him was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
He cleared his throat, scratched at his stubble, and muttered, “…Well, guess that makes me your fuckin’ husband now.”
She kissed him like she’d won the jackpot.
In public, he still acts like the big man — cracking crude jokes, pretending he’s the one doing her a favor.
“What can I say? She’s got good taste.”
“Can’t blame the kid for wanting a real man.”
He doesn’t cheat. Which, honestly, surprises the hell out of everyone — including himself.
Because Ben? Ben used to cheat like it was a game of cards.
Didn’t matter — if he wanted it, he took it. No guilt. No second thoughts. That was just the game. He was a goddamn American hero, girls lined up for him. He never said no.
But with her? It’s different. She’s different.
At first, he thought he’d still want to — figured he’d at least think about it. Old habits die hard, right?
But the first time some girl tried to cozy up to him at a bar — young, eager, very much his type — he didn’t feel that old familiar thrill.
He felt annoyed. Like, what the fuck are you doing? He’s got someone waiting at home who knows every mark on his body and still kisses them.
Someone who laughs at his dumb jokes and sleeps in his shirts and makes his grumpy ass pancakes in the shape of dicks just to piss him off.
He doesn’t want anyone else. Doesn’t need to “prove” he’s still got it — because she reminds him every damn day.
She touches him like he’s a god. Looks at him like he is the center of her world. Calls him “husband” all soft and sweet like it means something.
Ben used to think monogamy was for suckers. Now he thinks if anyone so much as looks at his girl sideways, he’ll break their jaw and sleep like a baby afterward.
So he doesn’t cheat. Not because he can’t. But because he’d rather die than be the reason she ever looks at him like he’s just another asshole.
He calls her “Mrs. Soldier Boy” during sex at least once a week, just to hear her giggle and roll her eyes. But sometimes he’ll use her real married name just because he loves to watch her melt.
He knows he’s the real deal. He spent decades being Soldier Boy — the original, the best. No shiny little punk or pretty-boy kid is ever gonna top that, not in looks, not in strength, not in anything that matters.
Younger guys try to flex sometimes, thinking they’re slick, and Ben just smirks and lets ’em embarrass themselves. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in my shoes, kid.”
If one so much as glances at his wife, he’s shutting it down without blinking — all smug grins and low, mocking laughs, like “Nice try, Junior. She’s already got the full package.”
He brags about her constantly — shows the boys pictures of her on his phone like a proud grandpa, talks her up like she’s the hottest, smartest, funniest woman alive (because to him, she is).
If anyone so much as suggests she’s too young for him, he flashes that cocky smirk and says, “Sounds like jealousy, champ. Not my fault you can’t pull.”
He still walks like he owns the whole damn world — and hell, maybe he does. He’s Soldier Boy. No one’s ever gonna take what’s his.
But in private, it’s different. In private, he’s all hands and low, desperate murmurs. In private, he kisses her like he’s scared he’ll lose her if he stops. In private, he lets himself need her.
She’s got him wound around her little finger and doesn’t even seem to realize it half the time. Pouts at him for a new purse? He’s already pulling out his wallet. Says she’s cold? He’s handing over his jacket without a word, even if it’s freezing and he’s standing there in a goddamn t-shirt.
He bitches about it, of course. That’s part of the deal. Groans when she drags him into Sephora. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.” Swears he’s gonna cut up his own credit card every time she flutters her lashes at him in the shoe department.
But the truth is, he likes it. He likes feeling needed. Likes knowing he can give her a life where she doesn’t have to think twice about anything but which lip gloss she wants.
Some nights, when she’s out with her friends (girls barely old enough to drink), he sits on the couch in the dark like an old man, scowling at his phone that she “didn't teach her how to use” (she absolutely did) and pretending he’s not checking her location every ten minutes.
The jealousy still creeps up sometimes — not because he’s worried, but because he knows exactly what he’s got. He sees the way guys her age look at her, all wide-eyed and stupid, like they even have a shot. And they are always looking because his wife is fucking hot as hell. It makes him territorial — sharp-edged and cocky — grabbing her a little too hard in bed, fucking her like he’s daring anyone to even think about touching her. “Mine, babydoll,” he growls into her skin, rough and smug. “You fuckin’ hear me? All mine.”
She always takes it, smiling that lazy, wrecked little smile afterward, tracing the lines of his face with her fingers like she doesn’t see the wrinkles around his eyes or his smile lines.
Every time she does laundry, she finds little surprises in his pockets: crumpled receipts, loose cash, half-melted mints, a crushed protein bar — and at least once, a live round.
She makes a face and tosses it on the counter with a “Ben, what the fuck?"
He just shrugs, “Guess it wanted to come home.”
It’s never anger or annoyance, well that’s not strictly true. Sometimes it is because believe it or not, being married to Ben isn’t easy. It’s fun, sure, and it certainly has its perks. But easy is never on the table. And she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the whole entire world.
That’s the thing about her: she loves him. Not just the money. Not just the life he gives her. She loves him. His gruffness. His arrogance. His terrible jokes and stupid temper and the way he looks at her like she’s the only thing left in the world worth fighting for.
And Ben — big, arrogant, invincible Ben — doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that. So he buys her things. Holds her too close when he thinks she’s asleep. Lets her have the last word even when it kills him.
One afternoon she runs into the room, clutching something behind her back — a little shopping bag from some boutique — and he groans, already reaching for his wallet.
“Jesus, what now, babydoll?”She beams at him, shoves the bag into his hands, and says, “Happy six months, old man.”
Inside is a cheap little keychain, plastic and glittery, with a pink heart and the words “Best Husband Ever.” It probably costs five bucks, if even.
Ben stares at it for a second, dumbfounded. His throat goes tight in a way he can’t explain. He clears it with a rough cough, claps her too hard on the ass just to cover it up, and mutters, “Damn right I am.”
NOTES: one little tw for wrongfully presumed hearing loss (if that even counts). Ben is a sweetie in this. Just another sweet little silly to help with my funk
MASTERLIST
You couldn’t figure out why Ben had been so weirdly gentle with you all week.
Not that he wasn’t normally soft in his own gruff, rough-handed way—but this was different. He kept kissing the top of your head. Kept calling you baby in that low, coaxing voice he usually reserved for when you were sick or hurting. He’d even started constantly brushing your hair behind your ears and looking at you with this tragic, adoring expression like you’d just told him you didn’t have long to live.
It finally clicked when he sat down next to you on the couch, nudged your shoulder, and said, almost shyly, “You know I don’t care, right?”
You blinked, pulling one of your AirPods out. “Care about what?”
“That your hearing’s goin’,” he said softly, eyes flicking toward the little white earbud in your hand. “I noticed you’ve been wearin’ those every day. Didn’t say anything ‘cause I figured maybe it embarrassed you. But you don’t gotta be embarrassed, baby. I still love you.”
You stared at him. “…Ben. These are AirPods.”
He looked at you, brows pulling together. “Yeah. For when your ears are… gettin’ worse.”
Your heart ached. You cupped his face, smiling helplessly. “They’re just Bluetooth headphones. For music.”
He blinked. Paused. “They’re not… hearing aids?”
“No.”
Silence.
He muttered a curse under his breath, rubbed a hand over his face, and then gave you a look that was equal parts grumpy and flustered. “Goddamn it. I’ve been treating you like you’re halfway to hospice over music.”
You burst out laughing. “That explains so much.”
“Don’t laugh,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. “I was ready to start learnin’ sign language. Had a whole plan. I was gonna learn how to say ‘I love you’ with my fingers and everything.”
You climbed into his lap, arms winding around his neck, giggling into his shoulder. “You’re unbelievable.”
He held you a little tighter than usual. “Still love you either way, y’know. Even if your ears fall right the hell off.”
You kissed his cheek, still laughing. “Good to know. But maybe next time, just ask.”
“…Thought I was bein’ fuckin’ sensitive,” he muttered, nuzzling his head into your shoulder—but not before he pulled the other AirPod from your ear and threw it across the room.
𝒹𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸 ! 𝓈𝑜𝓁𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑜𝓎 who smacks ur ass a little too hard while ur standing at the stove cooking a meal for the both of you, savoring that stunned, half annoyed half prudish expression on ur little face
domestic soldier boy who thanks you for starching his jeans “real nice and good” by bending you over the washer the next time ur loading the laundry in. his hands grip ur hips tight after lifting ur skirt, grinding his thick cock against ur ass as he groans in ur ear.
domestic soldier boy who buys u little sets of delicate lingerie for your birthday and holidays, just for him to shove the soft fabrics out of the way when he’s got his cock buried in u. ur folded in half beneath him on the bed, taking each thrust with little girlish uh, uh, uhs that makes him grin.
domestic soldier boy who occasionally makes you kneel under the desk in his study, his leaking dick in ur mouth as he signs off at monthly bills. because he refuses to have shit automated, much less digitally. you brush ur tongue flat against his cockhead, lazily stroking the untended inches. and when he’s about to cum, he grabs your hair in his fist and shoves you down until u gag, ur nose buried in his pubes as he shoots thick ropes of hot cum down ur throat- and u have no choice but to swallow.
domestic soldier boy who holds u flush against his chest, his boner pressed against your back. one hand grips ur tit, infrequently pinching your nipple through your shirt as his arm holds u in place with no escape. his fingers plunge inside your tight cunt, switching between quick little juts and slow, steady up and down thrusts that absolutely should not have happened before he’s obligated to head out.
and you already know what his face will twist into if u ask him about washing his hands after u cum, crying out, clenching ur fists and eyes shut: positively offended and confused. he’d let you go, smirking as your legs wobble, and he’d kiss your forehead before leaving, keeping the smell of u on his fingers all day as a sweet reminder.
a/n: genuinely why is it so much easier for me to write for homelander than soldier boy. and the gag is i want to write so much for him. idk. hope u enjoy i havent watched the finale yet i will the day this gets posted with my friends and i’ll definitely have stuff to say. love yall gn
summary: in your younger years, you were soldier boy's biggest fan. now, your life is dedicated to stopping supes. somehow that's brought your paths to cross. people always say don't meet your heroes, but in your case, maybe that's not so bad...
cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, dry humping, a single use of daddy, age gap (reader in early to mid 20s), power imbalance (reader was a fan of soldier boy and had a hugeeee crush on him in the past)
wc: 6.9k
a/n: based on a request i will post in a second. i hope you guys like this one, i've been working on it for an embarrassing amount of time lol. so sorry to the original anon if you see this bb. but yeah, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <33
'Two minutes away. Butcher says have the door unlocked.'
Your phone buzzes with that message from Hughie. Without second guessing the order, you walk across the motel room and unlock the door. You'd been charged with getting this rendezvous prepared for their arrival.
Despite your assigned task centering around getting this place, you don't really know what it's for. Neither Butcher nor Hughie felt it important enough to clue you in as to why you were meeting in a secluded motel rather than one of the usual spots. You assumed it had something to do with their trip to Russia. Maybe they'd found the super weapon they'd been searching for.
You head back to what you were doing before Hughie’s interruption, unloading the takeout you'd brought onto the table. In the midst of placing the burgers and fries and various condiments in the center, you hear the muffled sound of an engine pull up outside and then fizzle off. Car doors slamming follow accompanied by some voices. If you'd been paying attention, you might have realized an additional person chatted along with your expected two.
But you don't catch that until the door swings open. Before you can look, the deep baritone slices across the space right into your ears.
"So, is she part of your team too?" the man asks.
You freeze. Your heart drops into your stomach. It's almost as if your body has a biological reaction to that low, rumbly way of speaking. You recognize it anywhere. It played over speakers and filled your bedroom most nights of the week when you were younger. The face it belonged to had been plastered across every surface that could hold a poster.
But it can't be his. He's been dead since before you were born. For some odd reason, your mind must have decided today would be a fun day to play tricks on you. To make you think the man of your teenage dreams had been resurrected and brought to you through some sort of star-crossed luck.
You shake your head and swallow down the ridiculous idea before turning to face them. But when you do, he is right there.
Soldier Boy stands between your teammates in all his glory, his brows raised as he assesses you. He sports modern civilian clothes rather than his uniform. It's kind of off-putting to see him in something so current, but the discrepancy doesn't keep your heart from racing. Every other part of him looks just like he used to on your tv screen. His features are still perfectly sculpted. His hair sits on his head soft as ever.
You honestly think you might faint. Your knuckles grip the back of a chair to the point of cramping as you stare at him like he'd risen from the grave right before your very eyes.
"Is she mute or something?" he asks next, still looking unimpressed with you.
Hughie glances between you and him in confusion, not understanding what's stolen your words away. But on the opposite side of Soldier Boy, Butcher eyes you with a small smirk on his face. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the wall before walking over to you and patting your shoulder.
"She talks. Must be feeling a bit shy 'round a stranger," he says.
The physical contact seems to snap you out of your little starstruck daze. You straighten up and shrug his hand off.
"I- I'm not shy," you stutter and smooth your clothes out. "I just um... I think I recognize you from like some old movies my mom used to like. Caught me off guard. Sorry."
A shaky breath expels from your lungs, and you hope the cover-up is enough to stave off any further questions. Luckily, that seems to be true as a grin spreads across his face.
"Your mom, huh? She still around by chance?"
You bristle at the sleazy way he asks the question. It's ridiculous to feel jealous over his interest in a lie you made up, but you still feel it prickling at you.
"No," you answer before turning back to the table to empty the rest of the fast food bag.
You shoot a glare at Butcher who's still grinning at you. Of course. This was why he hadn't told you. It wasn't part of his normal failure to consider anyone else's feelings or his typical manipulative ways. He did this to fuck with you.
He was the only one who knew about your soft spot for Soldier Boy. Though, soft spot was an understatement. Attachment might have been more appropriate. Undying love and devotion also good possibilities.
You adored the guy. Part of your lie had been true, you'd gotten it from your mother. She introduced you to his movies and showed you all the tv appearances she'd taped. You inherited her small collection of posters and t-shirts, and styled your room to reflect your Soldier Boy centered world. Eventually, your obsession superseded the one she experienced in her younger years. That was probably because her love for Soldier Boy fizzled out not too long later when she met your father. Yours stayed strong as you kept to yourself and focused on getting through school.
You'd confessed all of this to your team leader one night after too many drinks. Years had passed between now and the height of your obsession, so your drunken-self figured it was fine. The information came out hiccuped amongst a flood of giggling. You had found it so funny, that you had been so hot for a supe when now, your entire life revolved around taking them down.
Honestly you thought, or at least hoped, that Butcher hadn't cared enough to remember it. But clearly you were wrong.
The four of you sit down to eat the food you bought. You're across from Hughie while Butcher takes the seat opposite Soldier Boy. He obviously finds it amusing to dangle the other man in front of you, taunting you with what he knows you want but will never admit to.
You try your hardest not to stare, but it's a challenge. You're not eating much. Your appetite pretty much vanished with the shock of his arrival. Instead you rest your cheek on the heel of your palm, attempting to keep your eyes on the table and not his face.
The whole thing is just too weird. It's like you've been transported to the fantasy world you used to imagine to fall asleep. In there, Soldier Boy, or Ben as you called him in your dreams, went everywhere with you. He took you to the mall, accompanied you to the family gathering you didn't wanna go to, sat beside you on the bench at the park while you listened to music alone. Imaginary Ben stroked your hair when you failed a test, told you he loved you when you cried, and rubbed your stomach when you had cramps.
He was always there for you in those years, filling the void everyone else's lack of attention left.
That was until he started to fade away. He popped up less and less as you adapted to life and found other people to fill your time. And then one day he just wasn't there anymore. You strolled through the mall with your friends. You went to see your family without anyone on your arm. You sat on the bench alone.
You outgrew the posters and the t-shirts. It all went into a storage bin tucked away in your closet. He went with it. Not thrown away, but no longer a part of your days. Looking back, it feels like you had two different lives — the one when you loved Soldier boy and the other where you remembered him.
But he's actually here now, sitting a foot away from you. Only everyone else can see this version of him, and he writes his own dialogue. Somehow you're just supposed to pretend like it's normal for you.
The guys chatter amongst themselves, but you barely hear it. You consider asking Butcher if you can leave. You'd do damn near anything else to get out of this situation. Your younger self would probably slap you across the face, absolutely maim you for fumbling your chance with him, but you just can't take it. It's like he's radiating humiliation and shame that projects only onto you.
Before you can speak up though, Butcher and Hughie rise from the table. You look up at them, desperation glimmering over your irises.
"Sorry, love. You're on soldier-sittin' duty for the next few hours," Butcher tells you as he goes to grab his coat.
"It's just until we get back," Hughie adds, sensing your discomfort with the situation.
Pouting and rising from your chair, you follow after them. You ignore Hughie and stare right at Butcher putting on his trench coat. "Can I come with you instead? Please?" you ask.
"Why? Thought you would be excited to get some one-on-one time with your-" he starts but you cut him off.
"It's too weird," you whisper. "Plus, he’s not gonna listen to me anyways. Can I please come with you?"
"'Fraid not," he tuts. "This one's for me and Hughie. You'll be fine for a couple hours."
"Butcher," you say, on the verge of begging.
But he holds no sympathy for you. Hughie gives you a kinder look. "Just put on the tv. He seemed pretty interested in filling in his gaps about the world on the drive here."
You weakly nod, watching them gather their remaining things before departing. Their absence leaves you and him alone in the room. It's quiet except for the crinkling of his wrapper and the thundering beat of your heart.
Turning back towards him, you force yourself to return to the room and clean up the other trash Butcher and Hughie had left behind. You gather the greasy papers while trying to keep your hands steady. They're shaking pretty bad, but moving them disguises it. At least you hope so. You don't want him seeing how nervous you are. It's stupid and pointless, but a small piece of you still wants to look cool and collected in front of him.
When you finish, you head over to the small couch that sits against the wall. You can feel his eyes on you. One thing you realize now that your juvenile fantasies failed to account for was that you really had no clue what to talk about with him. What was there to say to someone born nearly a hundred years ago? What could you bring up when he'd missed the last forty years of life? You decide to fill the silence with what Hughie had suggested.
"Do you wanna watch tv?" you ask.
"Not really, but what else is there to do in this shit hole," he says and shrugs.
You nod, reaching for the remote and flicking the screen to life. The first station is on a commercial break. You switch it to the next which is playing a basketball game. Finally, you get to the numbers playing movies and scroll through to find a good one.
While you occupy yourself with the television, he stands from his chair and heads in your direction. He plops down on the couch next to you, spreading his thighs and draping his arm across the back of the sofa. You keep your eyes locked on the screen ahead. There’s no way you’re gonna look over at his open lap. If you do that, you won’t be able to fight off the heat that keeps trying to rise into your cheeks.
You can still feel him looking at you though. The constant weight of his curiosity makes it hard not to shift around in your seat. Your thumb keeps tapping through the channels until you come across one showing something you recognize. It takes you a few seconds to place it, but as soon as you do, you go to skip it.
Before you can, he straightens up. "Wait- what's this? This looks familiar," he says, eyes narrowing.
You glance over at him, blinking a few times before giving an answer. "Um yeah... it's the remake of Red Thunder that came out a few years ago," you explain. You work hard to keep your voice even.
He looks over at you, astounded. "Remake? What do you mean remake? They just did it over again?"
You nod. "Yeah, y'know. Like how Scarface is a remake of the old one from the thirties... Like that."
He scoffs. "They tried to remake my movie?" he asks, still in disbelief. He examines the tv again. "Which one's supposed to be me?"
You wait a few seconds, looking for the updated version of him. "Um... that one," you say and point to the younger actor dressed in Soldier Boy gear.
He laughs, the sound booming across the room. "That guy? That's who they chose to play me?" he mocks. "Jesus, if that's the type of man you kids think a hero is no wonder the world is in the state it's in."
"Yeah..." you say, a little smile rising to your lips. Your nerves begin to settle. This isn't so bad when you keep your mind off your feelings… even if he does talk a little bit like your grandfather. "I like the original way better," you continue.
"Oh do you now?” he asks. That start of a smirk on his face is nearly audible.
"Mhm. This one is just kind of boring," you answer, eyes flitting between him and the screen. "They took all the romance stuff out, and we're not in the cold war anymore so the bad guys are just some vague, random evil army. Plus, I don't understand why they didn't just use one of Vought's new supes instead of imitating you."
The words flow easily, just as they did to all your friends when the movie had first come out. You don't have as much trouble expressing yourself when the topic of discussion is one of your favorite subjects.
He nods as if he's genuinely interested in your points before commenting. "I thought your mother was the fan?"
You bite the inside of your cheek, your heart rate picking up again under the spotlight of his attention. It wasn't too big of a slip up. You can play it off like you had with your initial anxiety. Though you can't focus enough to answer while gazing into his cocky eyes, so you look down at your lap.
"She was. But I saw some of your movies too. Doesn't take a genius to know they were better than this stuff," you shrug.
There's a little pause. Your heart beats impossibly faster. But he just chuckles and turns back to the tv. "You sure you've only seen some of my movies? Sounds like you know more than a casual fan," he goads.
Hesitation creeps up on you. Maybe this is your opportunity to tell the truth. You can just confess your thing for him like it's an embarrassing story. Maybe then it won't hold so much power over you and this will be a whole lot easier. Your palms flex against your thighs as you steel yourself.
"Well... more than some. I've seen a lot. I just didn't wanna weird you out or anything," you admit, doing your absolute best to seem casual. Maybe they should give you the Oscar they never offered your beloved.
"There you go. Be honest," he praises, and you think you feel something throb between your legs. You glance up at him for a second before your eyes drop back down. He shakes his head. "It doesn't ‘weird me out.’ I'm used to the attention y'know. I lived with it longer than you've been alive."
"Yeah, but I didn't want things to be uncomfortable. Make you think I was like obsessed or something."
"Well are you like obsessed or something?’ he teases. Something in his tone tells you he already knows the answer.
"No," you deny immediately.
"It would make sense if you were. It'd explain why you're so nervous," he says, his voice smooth as polished marble.
"I'm not nervous," you defend.
"C'mon, sweetheart. You can't look at me for more than a second, and I can hear your heart beating faster than a baby bunny runnin' from a wolf."
You practically swoon when he calls you sweetheart, but you force your eyes up and onto his. No matter how many butterflies erupt in your stomach, you're intent on being professional. That little childish crush is a thing of the past, you're sure of it. You're an adult now with a real passion for your job.
"It's just that you're kind of intimidating," you reason. "It's weird seeing a movie star in person."
"A movie star? You flatter me."
Rolling your eyes, an involuntary huff slips from your lips. "You know what I mean. It's just different talking to you like in real life and not just seeing you on a screen. That's it."
"Is that all? I don't know if I believe you, honey. I recognize that look on your face," he says.
"What look? I don't have a look," you say.
"No, you do. You have that look I used to get from the girls hanging around outside set. They'd stand there with their little autograph books, waiting to get a glimpse of Soldier Boy," he says, eyes almost twinkling as he reminisces. "Only every time I'd go over to sign something for 'em, they could never get their eyes off their shoes. Always looking down, stumbling over their words. I don't typically go for you younger girls, but it was pretty cute."
You feel your cheeks heating up along with a small smile forming on your lips. Just like that, your commitment to professionalism has started to wane. It's dumb, but you can't help yourself. He basically called you cute. You just count yourself lucky you haven’t started giggling.
"Yep they used to do that too. That little smile," he continues.
He's making you malfunction with only a handful of words. Your head spins, but you're powerless to stop it. You can't help reacting like one of those girls because, inside, part of you is still one of them.
"C'mere, sweetheart," he says next before patting his lap.
You know you shouldn't. If Butcher and Hughie came back and saw you like this, it would be the humiliation of a lifetime. But you can't resist him. It's easy to declare your commitment to acting professional when the situation is only a hypothetical. When it becomes real, presented right before your eyes, it's a different story entirely.
Tentatively, you scoot towards him, eyeing his thighs. His hand comes to your back between your shoulders to urge you along.
"I'm not gonna bite you, bunny," he says with that action-hero smile.
More timidity pumps through you at the repetition of that term. You find the courage to close the rest of the gap and crawl into his lap. His arms welcome you, shifting you around on his thighs into a comfortable position.
"Perfect. Feels better like this, doesn't it?" he says.
That palm on your back strokes up and down. He runs it along the length of your spine, bringing a chill over every area it touches. You keep your gaze on your hands in your lap until his fingers tap beneath your chin and redirect your vision onto him.
"Don't hide those pretty eyes from me. That's how I know what you're feelin’. They give so much away.”
You honestly believe you're seconds away from melting into a puddle, from slumping over against his chest and becoming some boneless rag doll for him to play with. You can only imagine how stupid you look if even half of the lovesickness you feel reflects on your face.
"Tell me — have you ever thought about this before? I bet you have," he murmurs.
Of course he's right. You'd envisioned yourself on this very lap countless times when you were younger. But a part of you still clings to the idea that you should hide how absolutely pathetic you are for him. You shrug.
"I guess..." you answer. The words come out airy, almost as if your voice is getting away from you.
He simply smirks at the reply while rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over your chin. "Yeah? You imagined sitting my lap, hm? Dreamed of me holding you close?"
"Something like that," you reply, feeling as though your throat was constricting.
He chuckles at your squeak of a reply. "Well, how do I match up to your dreams? Am I everything you hoped I would be?" he asks. His voice drops, and there's no question about what he wants from you now. Something you would give without hesitation.
"You're doing a pretty good job," you say. You try to adjust yourself to face more towards the tv, but he keeps you pinned in place.
"I haven't really done anything yet," he says.
A little bout of silence rises between you two. Neither of you say anything. The only sound is the hushed chatter of the tv in the background. Despite the lack of conversation, his eyes stay on your face. His fingers caress your cheek before smoothing down to your neck.
"How'd a pretty girl like you get involved with those two jackasses who brought me here anyways?" he asks.
"It's a long story..." you say. Your skin is on fire everywhere his fingers trace. They're working over your throat down onto your collarbone and shoulders.
"Too long for you to care about right now, yeah?" he asks, completely smug.
You nod though because smug or not, he's correct about that. Recounting how you got involved with Butcher ordinarily wasn't too hard. But in this moment, on his lap, it seems like the effort of a lifetime for your foggy brain.
"You're too soft and sweet for hunting supes," he says. Despite poking fun at you, he remains gentle and soft, careful not to really upset you and break you out of this docile little haze he's got you in.
"It's not so bad,” you say.
"Sure, sure. You're strong and independent, can do anything a man can and all that. I'm just saying-"
Talk talk talk. So much talking, and you can barely focus on a word he's saying. Your eyes are lingering on his lips. They look so soft and smooth. Nothing’s touched them in forty years. He’s definitely noticed your stare. And you know that means you should stop. You can’t though. You want it, and he’s practically offering it up to you.
He continues speaking, however. “- I can think of a few things you’d be much better at. Things that don’t involve your little hands getting bloody.”
“Like what?” you start to ask.
“Maybe something like this.”
That hand on your chin tugs you closer. Before you register what’s happening, his mouth is on yours. Electricity zaps all through your body like a live wire. You lean into it without thinking, pressing closer and molding your lips to his.
He chuckles as your arms slide up to loop around his neck. You swallow up the low, rough sound, not disconnecting from him for a moment. His hand flattens out along your jawline. It allows him to hold you right where he wants you for a series of more kisses, all of which you reciprocate.
“Atta girl,” he mumbles in the brief interval where you’re forced to drawback for breath. “Not so shy now, are ya?”
You shake your head before diving in for more. He receives you by opening his mouth. His tongue gently flicks over your lip. He slides it against your own as things become deeper. The heat inside you no longer holds the sting of shame or embarrassment. It aches now. It burns with pure want, clustering in the pit of your stomach rather than in your face.
He leans back into the sagging couch. His hands ensure you move along with him. With a firm grip on your waist, he boosts you closer and shifts you around so your thighs are parted across his own.
A small whimper leaves you. You can’t help it. Your bodies are even closer now. Your center is pressed right against his lap, right where his cock is. You can’t feel it yet, but the idea is enough to send phantom sensations rippling through you.
You feel his lips curling into a smirk against yours. Those hands leave your waist. They dip lower, sliding across your curves to grip onto the plush flesh of your ass. That gets a real moan out of you. Your head falls back, away from his mouth. He doesn’t let you go too far though. A second later, his affections move to your neck. His kisses are hot and wet, tongue laving over your pulse point and teeth nipping sensitive skin.
Just a few simple touches, and his strength shines through each one. The firmness with which his fingers knead your ass is unlike anyone else you’ve ever felt. You’ve been with muscular guys before, but nothing like this. Strong is too weak a word to describe the undercurrent flowing through his grasp.
You roll your hips down in an exploratory swivel, something faint to see if you could find some friction. He aides you. His fingers tighten around your ass, pushing you down harder and then dragging your core back over his lap.
You suck in a little gasp.
“That feel good, huh? Your pretty pussy’s getting wet for me, isn’t she?” he asks with another rotation of your hips.
“Y-yeah,” you stutter. You push your upper-half closer to him so that your chest squishes against his own.
To your dismay, he stops you from fully holding on. He nudges you backwards and boosts you off his lap entirely so that you’re standing on your feet. A whine builds at the front of your mouth, but before you can protest, his fingers come to the button on your jeans.
He flicks it open, looking up at you as he yanks your pants down. “Been forty years since I got some tail. Let’s not waste any more time,” he says in explanation.
You nod along and step out of each of your pant legs, kicking the garment aside. You also take your t-shirt off. The fabric lands on top of your discarded jeans. Once you’re left in just your bra and panties, he tugs you back down.
Your bodies come together with a thud. The material of his sweats grazes your tingly inner-thighs. Before you can get back into rutting yourself on him, he runs his palms over your legs. They’re pretty smooth for someone of his age and experience. You always imagined something a little rougher, something that would contrast against the smooth nature of your own flesh. But forty years in a cryo-tank hadn’t given his skin much opportunity to become weathered.
His hands find your ass again, one coming down to give it a quick smack. Your hips jolt in surprise at the sudden sting. He soothes it away by rubbing over the heated area. His fingers dig into your malleable skin harder now that it’s bare to him.
“Skin’s baby-soft,” he murmurs mid-grope. “Been wanting someone rougher to come and mark it up?”
Your eyes flicker over his mocking smirk, heat filling your face. You grind yourself on him again with a whine. It feels so much better with your clothing out of the way. Even though the thin cotton barrier of your panties keeps you from rubbing down on him raw, the material is skimpy enough that it doesn’t impede. Instead it adds a little extra spark to the building pressure between your legs. Your eyes roll towards the back of your head, fluttering as you rock yourself forward and back.
He helps out just like before. His hands rein your movements into a steady rhythm. In between your bodies, his bulge starts to form. With each swipe of your covered cunt across his lap, you feel it becoming more and more prominent; hard and solid right up against your soaked folds.
“Just like that, get yourself ready for me,” he praises with another slap to your backside. “I’ll teach you how to really ride.”
You moan while biting your lip. Your hips work faster on him. Being so close, so lost in his feel and scent, has freed you of your previous trepidation. You’ve lost the ability to be stuck in your head with him like this.
He shifts you over slightly so that you’re lined up with the flat top of his thigh. It makes no difference to you. You keep your hips moving like nothing’s changed, grinding your throbbing clit down onto the firm muscles in his leg.
“Fuck,” you whimper. Your arms wrap over his shoulders once more. You squish your face into the crux of your elbow.
This time he lets you stay. He wraps an arm around you and lazily pats your back. “Good girl. Keep going. I gotcha.” His voice rumbles beside your ear. “Better than any dream, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you whimper. “Fuck- so much better. You- you’re perfect.”
While you continue to pleasure yourself on his leg, he lifts his hips off the couch just enough to push his sweats down towards his knees. He takes his cock out. It’s fully hard now, stiff in his hand as he gives it a few strokes.
You don’t notice at first, so wrapped up in your own bliss. But when he starts pulling you center again, you lift your head and glance down through heavy-lids.
You’d imagined him big, but seeing his cock for real makes you feel like you didn’t imagine big enough. His length is long and moderately thick. It’s flushed for you, the tip shimmery with the slightest bit of pre oozing out.
Your mouth waters. You want to taste him. You want to show him how badly you want it. You want to drop to your knees and think about nothing but how good he fits in your mouth.
But you know you have limited time. Butcher said you had a couple hours, but he’s also unreliable and a liar and purposefully fucking with you today so… you don’t want to take any chances.
He doesn’t seem too eager to have you like that anyways. He gives you a slight boost and pulls the soaked material of your panties to the side. The silky skin of his tip replaces the feeling. He drags himself across your entrance once, twice, and then nudges inside.
Your teeth sink into your lip as your head falls back slightly. You still can’t understand how this is real, but it undeniably is. The feeling of him working himself in, inch by inch, is not a figment of your imagination. That sweet stretch is absolutely real, and it consumes you more with every passing second until your ass is flush against his thighs once more.
He groans. “Shit, that’s good.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “Haven’t felt anything this nice in a longgg fucking time.”
Your walls flutter around him, eliciting another hiss from between his gritted teeth. Every noise he makes feels as good as a physical touch. You can’t get enough of hearing his voice strained with pleasure — pleasure you’re giving him.
You rise on his lap before sinking down. The rhythm is slow to start, a way for both of you to get used to the feeling. His hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bring a little burst of pain. You like it though. You want more of it.
He smacks your ass again. “C’mon, bunny. I know you can do better than that.”
Your hands plant themselves firmly on his shoulders, giving you the leverage needed to go a little faster. You bring yourself up and then down in quicker succession.
“That’s it. Such a good girl. Show daddy what you’ve been dreamin’ about.”
A shudder tears through you. Your muscles feel weak, like the simple string of praise had loosened them up completely. It doesn’t matter though. You start to bounce faster. Your body works with a mind of its own. It doesn’t let you slow down.
He slides in and out easily with how wet you are. Every drag of his cock on your insides is a straight shot of bliss. You feel even better when he grips your jaw and pulls you in for another few kisses. His mouth moves against your own before moving along your jawline to the space below your ear and then onto your neck and collarbone.
“Every inch of you tastes so fucking good. Like cherry pie,” he mumbles. “I’ll have to try out that pussy of yours next.”
“Mhm, fuck,” you whimper.
You keep riding as his teeth nip at one of your bra straps. The noises of your skin on his fill the small motel room. His tight grip on your waist helps you maintain the rhythm, pulling you down hard and boosting you up quick
The tip of his cock bumps up against your g-spot and gets a squeal out of you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as a way of bracing yourself. Neither of you slow down. You stutter slightly, but his hips lift to meet your movements. His fast thrusts strike at that angle over and over until your legs are quivering to the point that it truly feels like they might give out.
Luckily for you, he makes sure you don’t go toppling to the floor. The firm weight of his hands guide you closer to his body. Your weight shifting gives him the leverage to take over pumping in and out of you.
Your cheek hits his shoulder as your head fills with a warm, thick fog. He pounds into that sweet spot inside of you over and over. You can hear him grunting beside your ear, low and strained sounds that have your stomach full of butterflies.
“Pretty, pretty girl. You were worth the wait,” he mumbles alongside another deep thrust.
You whimper, lazily nodding your head against him. “You- mm- you were too.”
Sweet, tight heat coils in your belly. You know release is creeping up on you. Your eyes flutter shut, waiting for it to take over. You don’t notice his hand sliding between your bodies until you feel the pads of his fingertips rubbing at your sensitive clit. Your hips buck into the pleasure, and your walls clamp around him hard.
He lets out a deep laugh that only makes you tighten up more.
“Yeah, that’s a good girl. I know what you need, babydoll. Let go for me. Let me see how good you look when you cum,” he says.
His fingers keep swiping at the little bud between your legs. Syrupy shots of bliss shoot through you, pushing you along, taking you to the edge. It’s no time at all before a round of shudders rack through you. Your arms latch around his neck while your thighs clamp on either side of his. Embarrassing strings of whines trickle into the air.
“I- I- fuck,” you whimper. “Feels so- so fucking good, god.”
The last word to leave your lips is pitchy and broken. Your release cuts it short. Moans replace any coherent praise you could have given him. You bury your face in his neck and pant against the warm skin. Vaguely, you can feel his arms tightening around you. One of his hands rests between your shoulders while the other stays at your waist. He keeps pumping up into you, fucking you through each and every wave of orgasmic euphoria.
He’s less clingy as he finishes. His hips snap up into you a few more times before he groans loud and deep. He maintains the solid grip he has on you, hands still clamped around your waist as he spills inside. His chest rises and falls under your own, puffing quick with the exertion of finishing.
Your eyes stay closed for another several seconds as the room goes quiet and your nerves stop buzzing. His thumb lazily drags back and forth in tiny lines along the base of your spine. That almost makes you shiver more than anything you did on top of him.
With the fog of lust clearing from your mind, you separate from his chest and sit up straight. He’s relaxed as can be, head tilted back against the couch, watching you with the same lazy appraisal you’re giving him. Now that your entire body isn’t thrumming with want for him, he doesn’t seem so intimidating. You know that’s not the truth, that he could still crush any of your bones with minimal effort if he so desired — but in a weird way, you just don’t feel like you’re perpetually looking up at him now. It’s not negative, but the mystique is gone. The man of your dreams doesn’t exist anymore. Soldier Boy is flesh and blood, sweaty and spent beneath you.
You roll off of him to the other side of the couch. You’re pretty sure not much time has passed, but you don’t want to risk anything. You’re gonna be well and dressed when Butcher and Hughie come back. The two of them will be none the wiser that anything out of the ordinary occurred.
He stretches for a moment before adjusting his own appearance.
“Gotta say, I’m in no rush to do whatever it is they thawed me out for now. You’re much more fun.” His voice breaks the silence.
A small smile cracks on your face. “Yeah… think I’ll be pretty distracted too.” You look over your shoulder at him.
Little comments bounce back and forth between the two of you with nothing substantial really being said. That’s ok with you. The fact that you really just fucked Soldier Boy has left your mind void of conversational skills.
After the two of you are back to looking plain as you had been before, your collective attention returns to what’s left of the Red Thunder remake still playing on the tv.
“Who’s the head honcho nowadays? Was it Homelander they said?” he asks you. “Guy must not be able to get it done if they’re remaking this old shit.”
You laugh softly and nod. “Yeah… I’m sure Butcher will tell you allll about him when they get back.”
The two of you watch the remainder of the movie, with you chattering here and there about things you don’t like or little facts you know. It’s nice in a weird way. Feels almost like something you would’ve dreamed up all those years ago.
Your little bubble of fantasy bursts when the car doors slam not too far from the motel room entrance. You sit up a little straighter, smooth out your hair a bit, trying to make sure you look totally normal before Hughie and Butcher walk in.
Soldier Boy makes no such effort. His eyes rest on the tv while his legs stay spread and his posture slightly slouched.
The door creaks open and shuts just as quick. Hughie enters first with Butcher right behind him. You keep your focus on the tv. But even though you’re not looking, you can feel Butcher’s curious stare.
“We got everything we needed, so we should be good to go for tonight,” Hughie says, not giving the two of you any real thought.
You nod and take the chance to look over at him walking towards the table all of you sat at earlier. In your sweep of the room, you catch Butcher’s gaze lingering on the two of you.
“Seems like everything went well here,” he says. You know from that lilt in his tone the words aren’t as innocent as the untrained ear would believe. You know he wants to poke and prod and expose your new dirty little secret, but you won’t let him.
You shrug. “There wasn’t a ton to do here, so yeah,” you huff like it’s obvious.
His boots squish on the cheap carpeting as he takes a few steps closer.
“So just smooth sailin’. Nothing out of the ordinary happened?”
You roll your eyes. Does he somehow know what you did? Is he sick enough to have left cameras or something?
“Yeah. Everything’s the same as you left it, boss.”
He laughs, brief and short, a prelude to his killing strike.
“’s funny cause I don’t remember your shirt bein’ on inside-out when we left.”
Your eyes zip down only to find he’s right. The seams on your shirt puff out as they do on the interior side of the fabric. Heat rushes into your face. You grab the lumpy throw pillow jammed between your hip and the couch and chuck it in his direction.
“Shut up,” you huff as you take off towards the bathroom, swinging the door shut behind you.
His laughter carries after you, and there’s a bit of Soldier Boy’s as well, lower and deeper in timbre.
“What can I say? She’s a super-fan.” His voice rumbles through the thin walls.
You want to be offended, to go back out there and tell him and Butcher off, to not put up with any of their shit. But hearing him talk about you in that sugar-coated, condescending tone of voice, openly acknowledging he’d been with you… it wouldn’t be honest.
You adored him before you learned to hate supes. Even if the fantasy is gone, deep down, you’re not sure you’ll ever fully rid yourself of that version of you who was whole-heartedly a super fan.
