Sup Bitches

Butcher: ¿Depression?

Frenchie: ¿Your past?

MM: ¿Remorse?

My first soldier boy fic, soldier boy/f!supe!reader.

TW: violence, possible smut, obvious cursing, soldier boy in all of his soldier boy glory, future pregnancy. If there’s anything else that should be tagged let me know.

May be slightly OOC sometimes, manipulating canon as well.

It had been a long time since anyone had bothered to show up to your door asking for Banshee. Despite that, when you threw open your door early in the morning still clad in a very old set of Vought produced Payback branded pajamas, it was the first thing you heard.

“Banshee? Would have thought you’d be a hell of a lot older.” A heavy British accent and a slightly unnerving smirk greeted you as soon as your door swung open.

Taking a moment to snap into old habit, you assessed the man in front of you. Rough looking, with a glint of danger in his eyes but he wasn’t a supe. You could tell that the tall skinny man behind him who looked like he might be about to throw up wasn’t one either. They looked familiar, familiar enough to set alarm bells off.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing at my house?” You asked looking between the two men, decidedly putting most of your attention on the man with the accent. He seemed like the bigger risk in this scenario.

“Seems we might have a common enemy… and a common friend.” He spoke again glancing at your pajama shirt before back up at you again. “Names Butcher, and a little birdie informed me that you have a problem with Vought. Now… we do too.”

Now that was something you couldn’t deny. Vought had done a lot to make your life a living hell. You’d been part of the first trials of compound V, experimented on with promises of changing the world. Instead you’d ended up as nothing more than a cheesy marketing gimmick and a photo opportunity. When you’d lost your appeal, they’d used the chance the experiment a bit more. As soon as Vought got what they wanted, you’d gotten a tiny severance check and thrown out on your ass.

“Well congratulations, you’re one of millions with an issue with Vought. Hop in line.” You said about to shut the door on them. A familiar voice stopped you in your tracks before the door was fully closed.

“I’m sick of waiting in the fucking car like a kid while my mom goes shopping.” The voice rang out, that smooth timber and angry edge sending a rush of adrenaline and shock through your system.

Just as soon as the door was about to close, you flung it open again. You felt like you were looking at a ghost, he hadn’t changed one bit. His hair was the only thing that had really changed, instead of his polished slicked back army cut, it flopped a bit in his face now. Everything else was spot on compared to the memories you relived almost nightly.

“Ben?” Your voice sounded far away, even to yourself, as you stepped out of your house pushing the British man out of your way easily.

His head snapped towards you, and his face looked much like you assumed yours did. It had only lasted for a moment before that same old whiskey and honey smirk crossed his face. You noticed a hint of danger behind his eyes you never had before now, and you wondered what exactly had happened to him.

“Well fuck me upside down… (y/n)? Look at you.” That same old swaggered walk had you pushing the skinny one out of your way too as you closed the distance between the two of you.

“They said you were dead… in Nicaragua. Edgar came back and said you’d been killed and they’d taken your body…. How?” You asked, stopping an inch in front of him.

“Yeah well they fucking lied. Set me up and sold me out to the Russians. My own fucking team.” His fists were clenched at his sides and he was jaw was locking up the way it did when he was angry.

You reacted before the two men behind you could, gently putting your hand on Soldier Boy’s chest. “Hey… you want a drink?” You said simply, knowing him the way old friends did. “Come on… whatever these two fucking dicks wanna talk about they can talk about inside.” You gave him a little grin moving to turn on your heels and head inside, knowing he would follow.

Behind you, you heard the skinny one let out a relieved sigh and you wondered just what Soldier Boy was doing to them to have them this on edge. You knew he could be pretty aggressive, relying on his fists to do what he couldn’t say but neither of them looked beat up. You moved to the cabinet above your sink, getting out four glasses. “Whiskey or rum?” You asked already knowing the answer as you poured the whiskey. You filled Soldier Boy’s a bit more than the rest passing the glass over before taking a seat at your small kitchen table.

“Nice pajamas. Glad to see you’re still walking around with my face on your tits.” Soldier Boy’s self satisfying grin made you roll your eyes as you took a long sip from your glass.

“Part of my severance package, Vought really knows how to rub your face in the dirt when they’re done with you.” You said with a bit of a scowl, Vought really had a sick sense of humor.

“If you two are finished with your little, flirting session, we came here for a reason. We’ve come to a little agreement, that I think you might like to get a piece of. We’re finding Soldier boy here’s team, and in return he’s helping us take down Homelander. Now we know you’re the only part of that team that didn’t make it to Nicaragua, and we know… you want to get rid of Vought just as much as we do. We could use another supe against Homelander.” Butcher, you were pretty sure that was his name, drawled in that accent with a look on his face like you’d already said yes.

“So… who’s left on that list of yours? I saw Gunpowder and Crimson Countess are dead… that leaves the fucking wonder twins, Mindstorm, and Noir right?” You asked glancing between Butcher and Soldier Boy before finishing your drink. “Fucking count me in…. Not like I have much else going for me.” You said finally.

The look on the skinny one, who’s name you still didn’t know’s, face was a mix of surprise and hope. It had been a long time since you’d seen anyone look at you with hope in their eyes. You sent a look between them all before heading back into your room, opening your closet and digging to the back. It had been almost twenty years since you’ve even bothered to put the costume on. It took a moment to remember how to even tug it all on, but you managed. Slipping on your boots, you heard the door open and you didn’t need to look up to know just who it was. There was no mistaking the sound of those boots and the permanent gunpowder scent. You could still remember the first time you’d seen him.

It was 1951, the world was recovering from the Second World War and superheroes were appearing left and right. Vought had such a success with Soldier Boy that they’d decided they needed more. A world full of heroes specially selected to make them the most money. You’d been the first trial to be injected as a child, testing the possibilities. You’d destroyed home after home, even a Vought compound once before you’d learned to control your powers.

At twenty, Vought had decided you were ready. Going from concrete rooms to the spotlight had been such a change, and then you’d met him. Soldier Boy. He’d been barking orders and downing drinks like they were water but something had drawn you to him. Like a moth to a flame, you’d found yourself circling him. He’d sent you that swaggered grin, and he’d called you songbird. You hadn’t been sure if that was one purpose, or if he hadn’t bothered to learn your name. It hadn’t mattered then and it didn’t matter now.

“I’m glad you’re alive. I missed you.” Your voice was barely audible but you knew he heard you.

#what weed does to a motherfucker