#give them hell

WARNINGS / TAGS MDNI 18+! The Boys styled Canon-divergent (set after S3 - HL was iced instead of SB) | Alternating POV | Ending a toxic relationship The Boys-style | Soldier Boy misreads reader's cues until the penny drops | "Touch Her and Die"-Trope | Protective!SoldierBoy | Hint of Strangers to eventual Lovers? | Canon Dark / Morbid Humor ! | Canon Language / Sexual implications / Misogyny is strong | HEAVY implications of domestic abuse ( mainly reader's husband, but he’ll pay for it ! ) | reader shows signs of PTSD | Death / Canon Violence + Gore !! | Ben does not take well to domestic violence !! | Ben piñata's a skull 🪅 | Soldier Boy - and in this case every character - is a warning tag for themselves | No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS …let’s just say it’s over 7k.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SONG PROMPT I'm On Fire by Springsteen

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES Thanks for the great song prompt, @zepskies! I tried something ...different with this fic (as you can already anticipate by "The Boys-version" summary 😂). And I am aware that I'm over the official wc limit and I am so sorry for that! It was meant to be an entry for your 5k Summer Writing Challenge and I really tried to cut it down, but eventually couldn't bring myself to do it… you'll just have to squint at those extra words and let Ben distract you. 😭

Also, a huge shoutout to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @bettystonewell for your great support. <3

Final Warning: I cannot stress this enough, it's all 50 shades of fucked up and basically everyone’s being awful like we know it from the show and the misogyny is STRONG here. But it's also satisfying to see SB - out of all people - teaching reader's husband a lesson. 😉 For everyone who's still here, enjoy the ride!

Your husband's a supe. Goes by the name Kingsmen. Is good looking, caring and rotten to the core. Unfortunately, you only found out about one of these three traits after he'd put a ring on your finger. Mainly, because there's another, fourth trait, you didn't know about until it was too late;

He's an excellent liar.

And now he's burnt to a fucking cinder.

The melody of "I'm on Fire" by Springsteen is blasting through your home, the sound distorted by the hungry flames eating out the insides of the stereo system.

The tears that would've rolled down your cheeks and soaked the carpet of your shared penthouse evaporate before they can even leave your eyes. Not to mention the carpet's pricey material, which coats the hot air of the living room in a burnt stench. Embers swirl around your naked form. Your face, that you're used to being sticky and wet when you would have one of your breakdowns, is now sizzling.

Air scorching hot. On fire. Literally.

Flames lick at your skin, tender, like a pack of dogs trying to soothe their leader. The tip of the tongue follows the curves of your body, up the spine to the puncture where you'd placed that needle only 5 minutes ago.

5 fucking minutes and a shot of blue liquid was all it took to change your entire life and reduce everything to a molten mass.

With you sat in the middle of it, curled up, wheezing and sobbing tearless cries while the building around you was getting devoured by Hell.

What's going to happen to you now? Will you eventually burn as well? End up as a corpse next to your husbands? Beyond recognition? Like a burnt and shrivelled worm on the summer asphalt? Or will Vought show up and take you away? Lock you up in some kind of looney bin for supes out of control? Or will -

CRACK!

You startle - eyes snap up; One of the flames just tossed down a picture from your husband's secretary. The glass shattered, cracked the smile of yours in meringue, tore a rift across the strong arm that's slung around your waist, the fingers that dug into your side. A silent warning you had learned to take serious from that day on.

A low snarl of a bulkier blaze has your focus shift back to the crumpled heap of charcoal and black bones, a couple of feet away from you. The blaze stills and lets go of the corps when doubt begins to wash over your mind.

He deserved this, didn't he?

No… no how could he – he… he wasn't that bad, right?

Oh my God – I'm – I'm a monster.

Your arms tighten around your pulled up legs, and you burrow your face between your knees as you try to shield yourself from the roaring hellfire that has began to tear down the apartment building around you. Screams and agonizing cries echo through the walls, their sounds devoured by the howls of Hellhounds and the excited crackling of their fangs as they maul and gobble down everything in their way, barging down doors and snapping pillars in two, their charred paws scorching the floor and shredding the bodies they've pulled down into the flames.

A ball of fire suddenly drops off the ceiling and lands on the remote control on the coffee table before it rolls off and scurries away. The TV springs to life. Your eyes trail up to watch over the curve of your knees how the large screen flickers into a commercial;

Oh the fucking irony. Of course.

A medieval throne hall pops into view. Children fight with wooden swords in the foreground. On the throne is a crowned boy seated – bored, kicking his legs. His head suddenly perks up. Cut to a guy in a gleaming silver plated supe-suit, resembling a knight, entering the scene. His gait is confident, his wavy, raven hair slicked back, the light of the torches on each side contrast his icy blue eyes and contour his sharp jaws. He looks like freaking Baron Thomas Sharpe of Crimson Peak - a look that has all the girls swoon. But he only ever had eyes for you. A thought that always filled you with pride – made you feel seen and valuable. He walks up to the throne, drops to one knee, the crimson knight's cape ripples and pools at his sides as he reaches behind his back to pull out a golden goblet. He holds it up to the "king". The children play-fighting stop, some drop their swords and they all turn to face the supe with wide eyes. A dramatic pause. The crown-wearing boy nods. The knight produces a can of Cherry Coke – cracks it open in slow-motion with a sizzle and a close up of the red juice getting poured into the goblet. Cheering ensues, the kids swarm him. He picks up the smallest one – a little girl – lifts her onto his shoulders and smoothly turns to look at you – the audience. The slogan "Strength runs in the Blood" rolls onto the screen – the camera zooms in on Kingsmen, his robe flowing in the background. He smiles, humbly, and speaks in a soft, warm voice that sends a shiver down your spine. "Every drop makes a difference."

Then a voice over goes on; Every sip of Cherry Coke goes towards Kingsmen's Royal Blood Drive, bringing hope, healing and heroi-

The screen explodes - glass splinters; Where your husband's face has been moments ago, is now stuck a dagger.

What?

Your head whips around in panic. Breath caught in your throat as you watch a bulky figure emerge behind you in the hallway, engulfed by flames and smoke.

"That son of a bitch never knows when to shut up, does he?"

12 hours ago. Your POV.

"Cut! And that's a wrap!"

"Fuckin' finally. Somebody take this drool-bomb off me-"

Kingsmen turns and shoves the toddler into the next passing by lady who happens to be a set assistant. She wants to protest, fumbling with cables and the additional squirming child in her arms, but Kingsmen just pats her ass with a velvety "Thank you darling" and moves past her in quick strides, his attention quickly shifting to the other supe who'd just walked onto set and nearly stumbled over two kids running around with their wooden swords.

"The Deep!" Kingsmen calls out with a lazy wave of his hand, "What bestows me with one of the Seven? You got my invitation for tonight?"

The Deep jostles against a clothes-hanger – no wait, that was you – whatever, you're used to being ignored – as he walks up to him, followed closely by Ashley, CEO of Vought, who's flanked by her assistant, also called Ashley. Better known as "Also Ashley".

"Yeah, thanks bro! Got your application too." The Deep buddy-handshakes him with a grin before both supes take in hands-on-hips-macho-poses that has you mentally roll your eyes to the back of your skull. "I like it, we think it's very promising. And now that Homelander's – you know -" The Deep clears his throat "- gone, we could really use someone like you."

What he means is: Good looks. A Q-Rating of a whopping 86%. And a flawless reputation. You'd love to add your own experience but know better than to open your mouth. So instead you flash a proud smile and let the men do the talking.

"Ah- fret not my friend, I got your back. You also got my donation for your little fish friends?" Kingsmen says and pats his back. The Deep nods enthusiastically, starts to babble about some dolphin mating facts, while they continue schmoozing each other and Kingsmen starts steering The Deep and the two women off the fake medieval set. When you don't move straight away, your husband subtly beckons you to follow him with his index finger.

You hold back the sigh that's been stuck in the back of your throat for the past three hours and pad after him like the loyal wife you are.

Kingsmen wraps a loose arm around the other supe's shoulder. "Heard about your Ex" - he holds out his free arm for you to take off his leather glove while he keeps talking - "And that book of hers?" - he lets out a low hiss between his flashing teeth while waving you off dismissively again - "That must’ve stung." The Deep shifts awkwardly, trying so hard to act unaffected by covering it up with a chuckle.

Also Ashley whispers next to you. "She called him a squid-fucker and said he once ate out a dolphin."

Ashley's eyes bulge like she's recalling the moment she saw the interview. "Starlight leaked 'evidence pictures' of it"- she air-quotes dramatically -"Cost us a fucking fortune to proof them as deepfakes."

The Deep interjects. "That's not – Ambrosius is an octopus, it's –" Ashley gives him a pointed "zip-it" hand gesture "– all total bullshit, of course. She's trying to ruin me."

Supes. You'd fight the urge to gag now if it wasn't for the fact that you're used to this shit-talk by now. For the past 6 months it's always been either about someone who blew up something or someone - or someone who fucked someone or something they shouldn't, and how to wipe their plates clean again. Throw some charity party for sick children or animals in need, smack a "Vought approved" sticker onto their backs and continue the show like it's all a damn family commercial.

Kingsmen playfully elbows The Deep. "Looks like someone didn’t keep his lady in line, huh?"

The Deep snorts, still trying to play it cool. "She was a difficult one for sure."

"Tell you what, why don't you stay for the after party tonight? I invited some big names, even the American Legend himself." He pulls his cape off and tosses it your way without breaking eye-contact with The Deep. You catch it and add it to the rest of the things you're balancing on your arms. "I can also give you some advice in that department, if you know what I mean." His eyes flicker your way – just for a split second, but it's enough to burn the skin over your ribs – before they return to the Deep with a wink.

6 hours ago. Ben's POV.

Soldier Boy adjusts his shield in front of his chest, forces a smile for the photo-op with some supposedly important jock he couldn't care less for. He'd probably even enjoy this shitshow if it was about him – but unfortunately those times of him being in the spotlight are long gone. Now he's only invited to these parties as a guest, like when it's a charity event for blood donation and the guy hosting it is on the Boys' target list.

"Give 'em your best fuckin' smile, big boy," Butcher teases through the intercom in his ear, "Gotta sell it."

The cameras flash, he holds his iconic Soldier Boy-pose until the people move on and he drops the bottom tip of the shield into the red carpet with enough force to make a couple of women jump and one of them drop her clutch. His attention shifts to the woman dropping to her knees to follow it, when his view's blocked the same moment.

"There he is," Kingsmen opens his arms as he walks up to Soldier Boy, "America's long-lost Son."

Soldier Boy's eyebrows quirk. An amused expression melts over his face as his eyes flit across the supe's knight-like suit, red cape including.

Kingsmen holds out his hand towards him, chest puffed out like a fucking cock. "Glad you made it. You gotta know, I'm your biggest fan, watched all your movies." Soldier Boy's chin raises, takes his hand, grips it with a little too much force.

"And who are you again?" he answers with a subtle, mocking smile.

Kingsmen's smirk doesn't waver but instead widens to Soldier Boy's surprise. "I like your old humour." He gently pats the back of Soldier Boy's gripping hand with his other one like he's soothing some grandfather. "By the end of tonight, you'll remember who I am."

Soldier Boy forces a pressed smile. "Counting on it."

"Oh, I'll put a tenner on that," Butcher comments smugly from the sidelines.

They're still shaking hands for the cameras when Kingsmen suddenly turns halfway to pull you over by your waist. "What are you doing back there, darling? Come here-"

"Soldier Boy, this is my wife," Kingsmen introduces you. His grip on Soldier Boy's hand hardens, for a moment matching Soldier Boy's before he finally breaks the handshake. The unexpected force definitely throws him off but he doesn't have any time to think about it as his focus is drawn to the woman stumbling into his view.

"Nice to meet you, sir," you greet him softly.

His eyes flicker down to the clutch under your arm – you're the one who dropped it seconds ago. He takes note of the way your fingers curl around it, and how your pretty red lips click into place like the smile was fucking stapled there.

Once your eyes lock, they linger on you for a little too long – which doesn't go unnoticed by your husband. The hand on your waist begins to subtly draw circles up your side. Soldier Boy notices the small tremor that follows the slow, deliberate movements of his fingers. But before he gets to drop a smug comment, your focus suddenly snaps to the floor and he's forced into the next stupid photo-op pose.

4 hours ago. Your POV.

You check your makeup in the mirror of the lady's restroom. It stayed on well for the main event of the evening, and it showed in the way your husband looked proud and pleased with you when he'd called you up on stage to announce the grand number of children he'd already donated his own blood to by now.

People applauded. Journalists snapped their pictures. Kingsmen praised you with a kiss in front of the entire crowd. Everything went as planned.

But now you want to make sure you look just as flawless for the after party.

Your hands smoothen the folds of your red dress, move gently as they adjust the sleeves and the neckline. A hiss slips from your lips when you tug at the fabrics where you shouldn't and your fingers instinctively brush back the sleeve to reveal the contours of a bruise on your upper arm.

The tips of your fingers gingerly trace the blue outlines when the door next to you suddenly swings open; Ashley.

Her hand is wrapped around orange locks of her hair, tugging at it as she always does when she's stressed – but her hand drops to her side the moment she spots you.

You smile. She forces one back.

But then her focus darts down to your exposed arm - you tense up - swearing inwardly.

Ashley looks up at you again, and for a moment it seems like concern flickers across her eyes, but it quickly makes way for a scrunched up frown.

"Jesus Christ - cover that up," she hisses.

You flinch. Her tone came as sharp as the cuts below your skin.

"I-…" you start but she makes your mouth snap close when she continues in a hushed voice.

"You're the wife of Kingsmen for Christ's sake. What the fuck do you want people to think, huh?" She doesn't wait for an answer, of course she doesn't. You are not expected to. You are there for looks, for points and votes of female citizens. Not like emotions - real emotions - have a place in Vought International stock.

You bite your lower lip, hastily tug your sleeve back into place, head lowered in shame.

Ashley hustles past you and towards the last stall, mumbling something under her breath about 'being surrounded by idiots'. You sigh and turn to leave the restrooms when you almost bump into a guy coming your way. He's a small, round man, wearing square glasses – the CEO of Bankley Hospitals and main benefactor of Kingsmen's Royal Blood Drive.

"I – uh – got to check on my wife… this stays between us, right? Love what your husband has done for us so far."

He chuckles nervously as you move out of the way. You simply smile at him. You're used to this. Lies. And by now you swallow them like candy - in return, bestow them with your sweetest looks and a curt nod. He then squeezes past you and swiftly slips into the ladies restrooms behind you.

Actually, it's not just fucking supes. It's fucking everyone at Vought.

Just as you’re about to turn back, you collide with a wall. One made of military green fabrics, carved by muscles of steel and encased by a fragrance that fills your senses with the scent of cigars, a glass of hard liquor, pepper and a hint of something like vanilla bean.

"We can take the men's stalls." The chest rumbles with a gravel and yet flirtatious voice that has your eyes snap up and meet his.

Vibrant green and muddy brown at the same time, depending on how he tilts his head, the soft shadows frame his face and contour his neatly trimmed beard, while the typical hotel hallway light almost swallows the traces of freckles across his eyes and cheeks.

Soldier Boy.

Ben's POV.

Soldier Boy watches how your breath catches and you jump backwards when you notice how you've practically been nose up to his plated chest.

"I'm so sorry," you quickly apologize, the grip on your clutch growing tighter under his intense gaze.

"Nuthin' to worry 'bout, sweetheart," he chuckles with a flirty smile, "You couldn’t hurt me even if you wanna'd to."

There's a moment of tense silence - not that Soldier Boy takes any note of it - but if he did, he'd know the air feels suddenly thick and heavy. At least for you.

"You up for a round? Get a nice VIP-taste of the Legend?" he asks nonchalantly and tips his head towards the men's restroom as he takes a leisurely step closer.

You blink at him. "…what?"

Soldier Boy stops, places his hands on his canted hips, his cocky expression never wavering once.

"Would ya like that?" he goes on, flashes a crooked grin. Your eyebrows shoot up and he smoothly leans against the wall next to you, flexes his biceps while he continues in a low drawl. "You look a little tense, darlin'. Want me to take care of that?"

Your lips press into a thin line and Soldier Boy takes the cue to press on (yes, Ben's amazing at reading between the lines). His eyes flicker down to the ring on your wedding finger you keep subtly fumbling with. He jerks his chin at it. Silently amused.

"Daddy treat you well?" he asks, all lazy smiles and faux interest. You don't smile back. For a moment it even looks like your jaw clenches – eyes averting his as they drift to the ground like a flustered school girl.

Is she really that much of a prude?

The corner of his lips twitches for a second.

Playing hard to get, huh? Oh I'll have her drippin' down my hand in no time…

Soldier Boy leans in – and Christ on a Stake you look like Hughie when he tries to hide a boner in front of Annie. (Not really.) He has to bite back a chuckle.

"Y'know I could loosen you up, fuck you just right... And my dick can keep a secret between you and me," he purrs in a low rasp and winks at you. That tone usually tickles their skittle.

You take a silent breath, your eyes dart up to lock with his and the moment your pretty soft lips fuckin' finally part –

Your husband's voice suddenly tears through the hallway, calling out your name.

Soldier Boy groans on the inside, his eyes rolling to the side to check on how close the fucker already is. Ten more seconds and he would've had you bent over the next men's vanity, hands smearing the mirrors, whimpering his name while he'd fucked you 'til your legs gave in. What a fuckin' waste of pussy.

Annoyance spread all over his face, he turns back to face you and – huh?

You'd flinched. Benjamin clocks it.

It was only subtle and others would have definitely missed it. But Ben picked up on it. Not because he's sensitive to emotions – he's got the emotional capacity of a bullet shell and he knows it - but because he, even though he'd never admit it, has learned to spot the difference between surprise and induced fear.

His eyebrows furrow as he watches you excuse yourself and hurry down the hallway to where your husband's waiting for you.

Green eyes linger on your back.

Why the fuck did you just flinch?

2 hours ago. Ben's POV.

Soldier Boy's seated diagonally across of you. By now, the lighting has changed to golden, long palm leaves hang over the tables like garlands and the atmosphere has quickly turned into one of those unfiltered supe-gatherings as the ones who remain for the private after party are beginning to loosen up in every aspect. Drinks and plates are scattered across the table like wild animals ravaged it moments ago. Other supes, like The Deep, A-Train and some B-Class guys are loudly laughing along your husband, who's seated next to you, as always.

Ben's only paying half attention though. He has long noticed something's off about you and the way you act around your husband, the way you barely open your mouth, rather cover it up with a smile and a giggle like one of those pretty little housewife dolls.

He knows he shouldn't be checking on you every second as if you're the only fuckable thing in this room. But Ben's hooked now. He cannot help it but try to figure you out between the hollow laughs, the clinking of champagne glasses, the occasional waves of smoke that swallow your expressions and the boisterous pussy show your husband's holding across from him.

Kingsmen's hand once shoots out to brush your neck while he's telling something to that fish-fucker. You don't move. He pulls it back again, engulfed in the discussion.

It's all over in a beat.

But Ben recognized the signs. The way your entire body just tensed up, how your pulse had spiked, your breath stuttered before it turned ragged. How you – invisible to everybody else – are fighting whatever memory you'd just been thrown into the same torture chamber with.

Over the past hour he has filed away every single one of your cues. Recognising them as what they are.

What he can't wrap his mind around is, why.

It's the 'modern times', as everyone likes to remind him of all the fuckin' time.

Women today never listen and never shut the fuck up.

Like Annie – Christ – bitches at me like Gloria Steinem over every little fuckin' thing. Half the time I wanna smack her ass back to the goddamn '40s.

Soldier Boy has witnessed the beginnings of it in the 80s – but nowadays? It's like they've evolved into an entirely different species. They're "independent", mouthy, wear their tits like Deneux on the Penthouse cover while runnin' around like they've got balls. And some even do.

Point is, women these days are tougher than half the cocksuckers who call themselves strong just 'cause they're supes. They don't take shit from nobody. And a silent part of him respects that.

Then why do you react to your husband like he's some fuckin' Russian scientist about to tie you down again and have his way with you?

1 hour ago. Ben's POV.

Soldier Boy is lounging at the Golden Bar, a drink in his hand, eyes lingering on your back and how you've been listening intently to one of the few other girls at this party for the past half an hour. His attention is drawn away from you when a hand pats his shoulder and he glances sideways to meet your husband's knowing smile.

"Man, they don't make 'em like they used to, right? Back in your day, women knew their place. Didn't bitch about every little thing," Kingsmen comments as he rakes his slicked raven hair back and slides into the bar stool next to Soldier Boy. For a moment, Ben's eyebrows push furrows onto his forehead. But when he tilts his head to face him while leaning back, he plays it cool and snorts.

"Yeah, you didn’t have to listen to 'em talk about "finding themselves" or whatever the fuck. They – hell, they were like Donna Reed." He sticks out his lower lip like a grandfather and throws off a lazy "chefs kiss" gesture with his fingers along the name. "Cooked your meal, sucked your dick, didn't bitch about politics."

"My word!" Kingsmen nods and laughs.

Soldier Boy jugs his whiskey and tips his head to the side with a lazy smirk. "What about your girl? She's a pretty little thing. She a good fuck?"

Kingsmen chuckles, lips curled. "Oh she's good most days. Pretty face, knows how to keep her legs shut 'til you tell her otherwise…" He waves the bartender over for him to refill their whiskey glasses. He takes a sip, then leans in and continues in a lower voice. "But sometimes she forgets who she belongs to."

Ben holds his faint smirk, seemingly unperturbed, although the gloves over his knuckles go taut. "Oh yeah?" He jerks his chin once, encourages him to go on.

Kingsmen gladly takes the cue, his voice turned smug. "Yeh, like last week she mouthed off to me in front of a guest. So I reminded her who's in charge."

He turns sideways on his stool and leans against the bar counter, chuckling again. Scornful. The sound makes something boil under Ben's skin, but he pushes it back.

"But she's a quick learner," Kingsmen continues and he's got the audacity to playfully poke Soldier Boy in the side with his index, which makes his jaw tick in irritation.

Kingsmen goes on.

"Broke 'er a rib or two."

Soldier Boy's face twitches. Smile slipped right off his face.

He slowly wraps his hand around Kingsmen's finger before he can pull it back, then musters another smile. But it doesn't reach his eyes.

It's colder than a goddamn January day in Siberia. "…You fuckin' what?" he asks slowly.

Kingsmen laughs nervously, covering up the subtle wince from Soldier Boy's tight grip on his finger, threatening to snap it without an effort.

You must've picked up on the shift in air because the same moment you appear next to them. Your eyes wide like a deer in headlights, mouth parted.

"What's going on…?" you ask hesitantly. Soldier Boy ignores your question, but he clocks how your husband glances your way as he continues. Tone fucking condescending.

"What? You like it rougher, right darling?"

Ben watches your lips press. Without even thinking, they get forced into that trained smile of yours. Then you nod. Of fuckin' course you do. Kingsmen's eyes never waver from you.

"See? Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Soldier Boy. You, of all people, know wom– gaahk!"

Before he gets to finish his sentence, Soldier Boy flicks his wrist. The bone cracks like a tooth pick – he howls up but chokes on the sound when Soldier Boy's free hand lashes out to grab him by the mouth.

"Eyes on me, buddy," Soldier Boy growls.

You gasp – and just like a loyal dog, you follow your first instinct to protect your master and want to intervene. But you still in your movement when an arm shoots out.

Soldier Boy has let go of your husband's finger and instead blocks your way with his hand outstretched in front of you, his other one still digging its fingers into the hollow cheeks of Kingsmen who's choking on his words.

"Honey, don't," Soldier Boy warns you without taking his eyes off that fucker.

A visible shiver runs down your back. You swallow, hands shaking. But don't make any attempts to move.

"Stay here," he mutters and the next moment he sends Kingsmen head-first through the shelf behind the bar.

The bottles explode - the wall behind it collapses - a woman screams. You're frozen to the spot while nearby guests scramble out of the way when Soldier Boy smoothly follows him over the counter into the adjacent hallway.

Kingsmen meanwhile sputters and scrambles to his knees between shattered glass, dust swirling and rubble covering his face when suddenly a hand wraps around his throat and Soldier Boy picks him clean off the floor.

"So. You think hittin' a fuckin' woman makes you a big guy? Huh?" he snarls and holds him in the air like he just picked up the trash.

It all clicked into place now.

Her own goddamn husband.

What's all of this "modern women" crap worth when motherfuckers like this one still get away with it? He's supposed to protect his family, his wife, and not –

When Kingsmen opens his mouth to spit something back, he swiftly slams him into the opposite wall. Feet dangling in the air, pinning him there one-handed like he just nailed a life-sized doll in a knight-suit to the wall.

Soldier Boy chuckles. Low and cold.

"Jesus Christ, you're fuckin' pathetic. You ain't a man – you're a coward two-balled bitch hidin' behind spandex and a PR team with a hard-on for hittin' his wife."

Kingsmen tries, in vain, to push him off, with his hands clawing at his wrist. Even though he's a supe himself, it's like trying to move a friggin' tank.

Soldier Boy doesn't let up but instead shoves him into the brick wall again. Harder. This time the barely contained force shakes the hanging ceiling lamps, cracks the wall and dust rains down on them. The grey flakes get caught in Soldier Boy's neatly swept hair and settle on his broad shoulders, while his eyes have taken a deep night-forest green from the low hallway light flickering and buzzing above them.

Soldier Boy leans in, his teeth flashing at him dangerously.

"Now you listen to me, fuckface. You put your hands on her like that again, I'll fuckin' paint the walls with your pencil-dick and have you choke on my ballsack. You got me?"

Kingsmen sputters droplets of blood. Eyebrows pulled into a low frown. He looks genuinely appalled at the way Soldier Boy's daring to manhandle him, in front of everyone no less.

His eyes dart down; fix onto Soldier Boy's arm when a milky liquid swallows his pupils.

Below the sleeve of Soldier Boy's green suit, the blood begins to collect… until a vein bulges and the supe glances down at it.

A beat.

And… nothing. Soldier Boy's lips curl into a smile again.

"Y-you- you c-can't-" Kingsmen's eyes snap back to normal, voice faltered, breath squeezed into the sound of a hoarse little mouse when Soldier Boy's grip tightens around his windpipe like he’s bending a strawpaper. The corners of his lips pull further up into a cocky grin.

"Your little blood trick doesn't work on me, pal. Y'know I could drive you through every fuckin' wall of this building and not break a sweat," he chuckles. Digs his thumb into his throat until it begins to crackle under the slow and deliberate pressure. Kingsmen begins to choke, pats his wrist and wheezes like a broken pipe.

The hall has gone pin-drop silent, all eyes on the new hole leading to the darkened hallway.

"Soldier Boy… – Don't." Butcher's voice suddenly cuts through the tension as he warns him in his ear. "We need'm bloody alive."

Soldier Boy pauses his death-grip, then grumbles before he loosens his fingers. He gives Kingsmen one more pointed look before he drops him into the rubble and turns around. Kingsmen slides to the ground like a ragdoll, gasping for air, watches how Soldier Boy walks off like nothing happened.

"F'cking coward," Kingsmen spits under his breath.

Soldier Boy stops in his tracks. Turns slowly around again.

"The fuck did you just say?" Kingsmen smiles back at him. As if he'd just won a fucking prize. Soldier Boy's jaw flexes under his beard.

He marches over to him, licks his lips and leans in so that only Kingsmen can hear him.

A cold, lazy smile forms on his face.

"You think you're untouchable 'cause you throw parties and wear a fuckin' cape, hm? Well, let me tell you something, buddy..." – he dusts the rubble off Kingsmen's shoulders with a low, rumbling chuckle – "You're not. Not for me."

With that he straightens his back once more and without wasting another look, turns to step through the hole in the wall, his eyes immediately darting around in search of you.

A gaping crowd stares back at him. Some flinch and gasp when he looks their way.

But none of them are you.

10 minutes ago. Your POV.

You stumble out of the hallway of your home, skid around the corner with your heart in your throat and lungs burning. The voice of Kingsmen rings out behind you and you know he's taking his time, knows that you cannot escape. You drop to your knees, fingernails clawing at the wood at the edge of the last stair when you scramble for your secret safe, hidden under a loose floorboard. It contains your only life insurance; A metal box with a single shot filled with a blue liquid.

Compound V.

Your only way out – either way.

You rip off the top of your dress, place the needle somewhere at your spine, as best as you can with your shaking hands. It's sloppy, but it doesn't matter. You hear your husband's voice again, his steps echoing down the hallway.

"Honey, you know you can't run," he coos before his voice turns colder, "You felt real clever back there, didn't you? If you thought even for a split second that he'd save you, you're even more naive than you look."

Your eyes water. Throat tightening. You lock eyes with him as he slowly steps into the room – they're milky white – your pulse spikes.

"S-stop- please- I- I don't-" the words cling to your insides, fear clouding your mind.

"You don't what? Look at you, begging again as always," he guffaws, runs one hand though his raven hair while he lifts his other to flick his wrist, "You know what, honey? I think you can do better. Let's try once more, and I'll pop a finger for every stutter, hm?"

You feel the blood in your veins shift. Pressure building, like your left arm is about to explode. Your other hand behind your back tightens around the cold syringe. Shaking.

Do it. You scream at yourself in your head. DO IT.

"You belong to me," he continues and ups the pressure enough to make you bite back a cry, "Don't you ever forget that."

It's now or never.

You inject the shot. The empty syringe clatters to the floor. Your body convulsing instantly.

The next moments pass by in a chaotic blur.

The moment the liquid penetrates your system, everything feels like it is on fire. Heat – not hot, not scorching hot, but melting hot – shoots through your veins. High pitched screams shatter your ears, drown out whatever Kingsmen's shouting.

Everything starts to drift away from you – the room tilts – your back collides with something – your hands blindly flail – music jumps on and blasts through the room – hands grab your throat and cut off your air supply – but all of this is the least of your concerns as you begin to feel your blood boiling in every literal sense.

Then excruciating pain. Cracking bones. The stench of burning hair and roasted flesh. Sound of sizzling, meat on a bonfire.

Once the world comes back into view, you are met with a heatwave that has you squint your eyes and hold your breath.

Silence.

No more pained cries. He doesn't move. For a moment you are not even sure those charred remains are your husband, but when you get a closer look at whatever is left of his face - panic takes over you.

Oh my God. What did I do?

Now.

The smoke hangs thick in the air, the room getting pumped with every exhale of the raging fire. Pillars of flames keep rolling off the dark figure that has appeared in the hallway, embers fly and melted glowing masses drip down from the ceiling, while he just keeps walking like he's strolling through the rain, one casual step after the other, until you recognize the familiar green uniform and his intense eyes.

Soldier Boy?

He stops. Looks down with an arched eyebrow at a particularly relentless flame which had latched onto his red glove like a small savage animal, trying to chew on its fabrics.

Soldier Boy raises his hand up to his mouth, slow and unperturbed, as if he'd want you to watch. And you do. Your eyes widen as you witness how he sucks in the flame through his mouth and goes on to swallow it as if he'd just taken a long drag of a blunt.

His eyes drift across the ocean of fire when they finally lock with yours. The corner of his lips curl up and his mouth parts again for the puffs of smoke he blows out.

"There you are."

Soldier Boy's voice is heavy, but at the same time smooth and oddly calm. Especially for someone who just walked into an ocean of fire like it was just another Tuesday.

He finally steps into the living room, his boots crashing through something on their way down to the floor. The sound crisp and blood-curdling. He purposely digs his heel further into the charcoal covered cracked skull.

Soldier Boy tilts his head down. Grins, like he'd just cracked open a piñata.

"Fucker's got less goo in his melon than my ballsack."

He steps out of the candy, his face grimaced, lips pursed in disgust when he continues to lazily wipe the back of his heel on the burnt carpet, muttering to himself. "Fuck, this shit's as sticky as a load of cum..."

You stare at him. Paralysed. What is he doing here? How is he – what is he going to think of me?

The words drop off your lips, that familiar sense of dread taking over.

"I – I didn't mean to-"

"Didn't mean to what? Huh?" his eyebrows knot, voice gruff and scolding, "You didn't mean to off that pathetic excuse of a wannabe husband? C'mon -" he scoffs "-That cum breathing pussy had it fuckin' comin'."

"But – but -" Your voice falters. Breath strangled.

Ben points his index your way and marches over towards you. "Don't you fuckin' dare feel sorry for that worthless piece of shit." He lowers himself to one knee, grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger to force your eyes to meet his gaze. "Ever. Understood?"

You hesitate. Then nod once. Shakily.

"C'mon, let's get you out of here." Before you get to protest, Ben scoops you up. One strong arm under your legs and one wrapped around your back. Panic takes over you when you see the flames covering your skin, latching onto his. But Ben doesn't seem to care. He tilts his head to smirk down at you, voice gravel like a strong shot of Jack Daniels.

"Don't worry, you couldn't even hurt me if you wanna’d to, sweetheart."

You're curled up in the corner of a shabby couch in a run down office. The TV runs in the background, the news blabbing about some poor kid found dead at the hospital, but you barely catch the gist of it as everyone's gathered around you and discussing the situation in a heated manner, while you're zoomed out and replaying the moment of your husband's death in your head. Over and over.

Your hands are still shaking when one of the guys gently shoves a hot mug of tea into them and snaps you out of your thoughts.

"You...you okay? I'm Hughie, by the way," he mutters and ignores Soldier Boy's pointed look as he slips into the chair close to you. You nod subtly and try to smile back, but your lips waver. MM glances at you while he snaps something at Butcher and it has you pull your feet up and under the hem of the way too big clothings you'd been wrapped up in.

The only other girl, Kimiko, gives you a sympathetic smile before her attention is suddenly drawn to the TV in the background. She blinks at it, then turns to hand-sign something to the French-guy, whose eyebrows jump in response.

"Uh, chérie, does your ex by any chance 'ave a twin brother..?" Frenchie asks, eyes glued to the TV screen.

"W-what?" your voice slams against the sharp intake of a gasp when you hear the familiar voice.

"Yes, not many know but… My wife has always been jealous and toxic. It is unfortunately not uncommon in supe-relationships." The sound of him has your guts drop and your heart stumble.

No. Fucking. Way.

Everyone's focus is now on the breaking news.

"Well, fuck me," Butcher scoffs in disbelief, "How the hell's he still so chipper? I thought you said you'd off'ed the cunt?"

Soldier Boy looks just as confused as you. His eyebrows furrow, then turns to face you seated on the couch next to him. "You sure you barbecued the right fucker?"

"I – yes – of course I am! It was my goddamn ex – I don't know what is going on but I – I know it was him!" you stammer in defence. Your voice bubbling up for the first time in a while before your mind starts to drown in questions.

How the hell did he survive? This is impossible, right? How can he possibly be alive and unharmed after the flames ate him alive and Soldier Boy stomped his skull?

You don't get much time to focus on any of these questions, though. Because the interview on TV goes on, showing your griefing husband answering the reporters questions while the news cuts in wanted-snapshots of Soldier Boy and you.

"Ain't that just fuckin' fantastic," Butcher comments and he tears his eyes from the on-going TV-news to round on you, "We've not only got ourselves Missy Kingsmen 'ere -"

"Don't ever call me that name again," you cut him short. You did not stammer. Voice sharp enough to have Kimiko snap her head up with a concerned 'what's going on?' look.

"Ah, 'xcuse me, sunshine, did I hurt ya feelings? 'Cause you just got us into a shite load of trouble,” Butcher shoots back while sauntering around you behind the coffee table in a half-circle, gesticulating with his hands. "Everythin's goin' ass over tits thanks to your little stunt back there."

"Butcher... go a bit easy on her... she just-" Hughie pipes up but Butcher's having none of it.

"Oi, did I look like I was done? We 'ave fuckin' Mother Teresa over there" - he waves a hand towards the TV where Kingsmen's still being interviewed - "right up our ass, who - mind ya - turns out, has got some fuckin' powers we still know squat 'bout, 'cause Soldier Boy over 'ere has suddenly decided to go woke "- Ben's eyebrows raise and his eyes flicker your way, unsure whether he'd just been praised or insulted - "and is now all over the fuckin' news with his new vigilante friend who can turn anyone that just as much as looks at 'er the wrong way, into a scorchin' Hellfire!"

"She's a real firecracker," Ben chuckles, clearly the only one amused over the entire predicament. He nudges against you with his knee when he notices your lack of reaction.

Your eyes have drifted to the floor where Butcher's boots keep scrubbing the planks as he continues his speech above your head. But you're not listening anymore, neither do you pay any attention to the chaotic bickering that has ensued around you now... your mind circling around what he'd said last...

"can turn anyone into a scorching Hellfire"

Everyone who ever looked down on me... everyone who laughed at me... everyone who hurt me...

I could burn them all.

Something sizzles in your guts. Warm and comforting. Enticing. Powerful. A smoldering ember that threatens to ignite a wildfire.

"Hellfire."

You repeat the word in your mind and it spikes the heat in your bloodstream.

...I think... I like that name.

J/NOTES And this is how antihero!readers are born. 😄

EDIT: I know many of you wonder what Kingsmen’s real supe power is and how he managed to survive. I can tell you this much: The clues are scattered across the story! If you can piece it together and make a good theory I want to hear them 😏

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