#supe reader

There were talks of a supe that was even more powerful then Homelander himself. The supe was being kept hidden away, a sort of fail safe if vought ever needed to take homelander down. It had taken the boys over a year to finally find out your location and how to get in. So, that's how Billy ended up standing in the centre of a high security underground prison. He heard the door to your cell click open and knew Frenchie and Kimiko had done their jobs. He wandered in and saw you curled up in the middle of the cell. He saw shadow like tendrils crawling all around you and the room. A few came to his feet and he stomped on them. You yelped in pain and sat up, you and all of the shadows on high alert.

'You're not a doctor here, who the hell are you?' you growled at him and looked ready to attack. He held up a device and you instantly shrunk back.

'I found this little device in a doctors pocket. Looks like you and your little friends are quite scared of it, huh?' he said as he stepped forward. The shadows quickly retreated back within your body.

'Don't use it... Please,' you whispered as Billy let out a dark chuckle. He continue to step forward as you scurried backwards into the corner.

'An obedient little supe, aye? Haven't ever come across a submissive supe,' he teases as he stood in front of you and looked down at you. Your shadows suddenly lunged at him and he quickly pressed the button. You screamed in pain as it delivered a powerful shock from the collar around your neck. The shadows quickly retreated back into you as you panted and whimpered in pain. 'Now, that's a handy little trick, isn't it?' he said. You looked up at him with tears in your eyes as your shadows wrapped around you protectively. 'They're protective little things, aren't they?'

'Just tell me what you want,' you whispered. He chuckled softly and knelt down in front of you, his hand still gripping the remote to your collar.

'Rumour has it you're pretty powerful. I need a weapon like you if I'm going to take down Homelander. So, what do you say you be a good little supe and do as I say?' he said with a wicked smile.

'If I do... You'll get me out of here?'

'Exactly, luv. You be good and listen to me and you can be free of this place. You just gotta be nice and loyal to me, got it?' he said. You looked at him and thought for a moment. 'Come on, sweetheart. I'm not that bad. Wouldn't you rather have me and be out in the world then have no one and be locked up in here?'

'Okay... Okay, I'll go with you,' you whispered. He chuckled darkly and stood up.

'That's a good girl, come on then,' he said. You slowly stood up and Billy looked you up and down. 'You don't look like much, do you? I suppose all that power comes from your little friends?'

'Yeah... Plus the collar is also a power dampener. You can use the switch on the remote to dial it up or down,' you explained as Butcher looked at the remote.

'So, I can completely control how much power I want you to have. What if I turn your powers all the way off?' he asked.

'It wouldn't be good... My body can't stabilise without my powers, without my shadows. If I had no powers at all I would die pretty fast,' you explained.

'Pretty easy weakness you got there, darling. That's alright, I'll be the only one that ever touches this little device anyway,' he said as you nodded a little. 'Stay close to me, kill anyone that tries to kill me,' he demanded as you began to follow him out. Your eyes darted around as you took in the carnage he had caused. 'You impressed, love?' Billy asked. He began to walk and you stuck close to him.

'They weren't good people anyway,' you muttered.

'Anyone that works for Vought isn't good.'

You made it out and Billy hurried you into a van. A black pillowcase was shoved over your head and your shadows went to attack before Billy pressed the button again and you screamed in pain.

'Butcher, cool it with the damn shock collar. She's just scared,' Marvin said. Billy rolled his eyes and sat beside you and kept a tight grip on your arm. You felt the van speed off and you tried your hardest to stay calm. Hughie watched from the other seat as your shadows crawled around your hand almost like they were holding it in a comforting way.

They made it to a safe house where they were planning to keep you. It was more secure and further away from the city. Once you were there Billy ripped the pillowcase off you and threw you onto the couch. 'Sit and stay,' he grumbled. Hughie brought over some water for you and handed it to you.

'Thank you,' you whispered. He smiled and flinched when he saw one of your shadows wrap around his leg. 'It's okay... They won't hurt you,' you said. He stepped forward and sat beside you. He let the shadows crawl around him.

'It feels...odd. Not bad, just odd,' he said with a small laugh. You smiled and watched as they curiously crawled around Hughie.

'They can do a lot of harm... Only if they're threatened though. Kind of like a dog, they're loyal and affectionate as long as you don't hurt me or them,' you explained. He nodded and let one crawl around his hand. He gently curled his fingers around it and noticed how it almost nuzzled into him. He chuckled softly and watched them before Billy came over.

'Trust Hughie to make friends with the bloody tendrils,' he grumbled.

'Can we go outside?'

'Why the bloody hell do you wanna go outside?' he asked.

'I haven't been outside in a long time,' you said. Billy rolled his eyes as Hughie stood up.

'I'll take her outside,' he said before Billy shoved him to sit back down.

'I'll take her, I'm the one with the remote,' he said. Billy grabbed your upper arm again and dragged you outside. You shadows crawled on his hand as he dragged you out. 'If those things don't get off me right now I'll fuckin burn em,' he growled. They quickly retreated back into your body before he shoved you roughly forward. 'There, we're outside.'

'Thanks,' you muttered. You sat down in the grass and sighed. Your shadows began to crawl around the grass as you smiled. 'Been a while, huh?' you whispered. Billy watched as they crawled around the grass.

'These things are meant to take down homelander, huh?' he grumbled.

'Yeah... They can take over anyone's mind. Infect them and use them as a host basically,' you said. Billy had a wicked smile on his face before he sat down beside you.

'Use that bastard as a meat puppet. You ever met him?' he asked.

'Once... He found out about me and wanted to prove he was stronger or something. They turned the power dampener up almost all the way and just let him beat me to death and then let me regenerate,' you said. Billy looked at you.

'So, you hate the bastard too?'

'Yeah, you could say that. What did he do to you?' you asked. Billy looked away and stared forward.

'He ruined my entire life,' he said. You glanced at him and saw one of your shadows crawling towards him. You went to stop them before he rolled his eyes and held his hand out. 'Bloody hell, let them sniff me over or whatever they're tryna do.'

You watched as they cautiously crawled over Billy's hand. They focused on a cut on his hand and seeped into it as he flinched.

'It's okay, they're healing it,' you said. He stayed still and they moved away and the cut was completely healed.

'Bloody hell, you are useful aren't you?' he said. You chuckled a little and smiled.

'Does that mean you're going to be nice to me now?'

I rolled my eyes, redirecting my focus to Spectra as she traced a possible cybersecurity breach downtown.

“Next time,” I muttered, “You’re taking the damn elevator.” Spectra snickered over the comms, the faint static crackling between bursts of laughter. “I was gonna take bets on whether you’d actually get on an elevator before lunchtime. Looks like I lose again.”

Torque’s voice boomed through the channel, reverberating like he was leaning back in his chair. “Remember last month? That stairwell in the warehouse district? You climbed three flights just to avoid one elevator ride! I put fifty on you taking the lift that day—wasted!”

Cinder’s chuckle came next, smooth and teasing. “Don’t forget the cargo lift incident. Dude stayed on the loading dock for twenty minutes because the metal box ‘looked unsafe.’ Then he carried a full supply crate up six flights just to prove a point.”

Oh, for fucks sake I began slamming my forehead into the desk. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered briefly, and the faint hum of the air conditioning made the room feel warmer than it should. All of B-Team was on the channel.

Whisper’s voice cut in, dry as ever over the comms. “Statistically, Reaper has spent more time running stairs than we have on actual missions. That’s… dedication, I guess.”

Reaper huffed audibly, irritation threading through the static. “I… prefer control… over gravity and cables.”

Sharp cackle from Spectra. “Control, right. Sure. Whatever keeps you from hugging the elevator shaft, buddy.”

Torque chimed in mock-serious, the edge of laughter barely restrained. “Next time, we should just carry him in a backpack. Cheaper than letting him walk the entire building.”

Cinder rattled lightly in the channel. “I vote we get betting slips for every mission. ‘Reaper elevator gamble’ highest odds, guaranteed payout.”

I was done. My repeated forehead slams had stopped partly out of concern for the coworkers in the cubicles next to me, the dull clatter of keys was lessened and a low murmur of voices made it clear some were already staring. Forehead red, I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the slight thrum of tension in my shoulders, then snapped over comms, sharply and calmly. “Knock it the fuck off, everyone, and focus on finishing your tasks before the end of day.”

Comms went dead immediately.

Spectra finally muttered, a grudging note of respect in her tone. “Fine… but only because the cardio’s already done.”

After wrapping up with B-Team, it was already creeping past 5 a.m. The office was quiet now as most of the night shift was leaving and the day shift was starting to filter in.  My watch vibrated softly against my wrist as I stepped into the break room, its sterile glow cast over the tiled floor.

I yanked open the fridge, wincing as a sharp burn crawled from my arm up into my shoulder blade. The cold air bit against my skin. Breakfast, if you could call it that, was just whatever leftovers I’d shoved in from the night before.

I took a seat and pulled out the small orange bottle from my back pocket. Twisting the cap off and shook four white tablets into my palm before swallowing them dry.

I looked up to see Chase shuffling in, leaning slightly against the open doorway. How the hell had I not heard him?

I smiled faintly. “Hey, old man.”

He glared. “Watch it. I’m only thirty-nine.”

“Funny… didn't you qualify for early bird specials last week at Mario’s? Didn’t hear any complaints.”

“Ha! Stop evading the question. You’re not due in the med bay for another hour.”

I paused, setting my fork down, feeling the burn of fatigue in my shoulders. “Picked up another dispatch shift last night. Someone called out, figured SDN could use the help.”

Chase raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “And here I thought you were trying to catch up on sleep instead of burning yourself out before sunrise.”

“Please… don’t tell Blazer,” I muttered, glancing down at my untouched breakfast.

“Too late. Already knows. Also knows you’ve been skipping your physical therapy.”

I froze mid-forkful, the burn in my shoulder suddenly sharper traveling down my arm. “She… what?”

Chase smirked, leaning casually against the doorway. “Relax. She just reminded me she’s keeping tabs. Figure you’d like to know someone’s watching out for you. Whether you like it or not.”

I rubbed at my shoulder, feigning irritation. “Great. Just what I needed, an audience for my suffering.”

“Hey,” Chase said with a mock-serious tone, “someone’s gotta keep you honest.” taking a seat next to me. He leaned back slightly, giving me a look that brooked no nonsense. “Come on, kid. Talk to me. What’s going on? Haven’t seen you this down since you were ten, refusing to tell me where you’d hidden my shoes so I wouldn’t leave. Took me an hour to track down where you were holding them hostage.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at my lips remembering how I hid them behind the dryer. 

Chase didn’t push, just waited, arms crossed, eyes sharp but patient. I looked down, sleeves pulled up, and caught sight of my arms. The scars stretched across my skin like fault lines, ranging in width and color, hues of silvers, deep reds, bruised purples tracing a map from my neck down to my feet. Light glinted off them unevenly, highlighting every ridge and crease. “You ever… stop feeling like yourself?” 

Chase raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Kid, I haven’t felt like myself since the first time I hit Mach 2.”

I felt my throat tighten. “They keep saying I’ll recover. That my cells just need to ‘recalibrate.’ But what if this—” I gestured to my arms, the scars, “what if this is as good as it gets?” I paused before continuing. 

“I used to be a force,” I whispered, the words slipping out like something fragile. “I was the first one in, ready and unbreakable. Now I can’t even look at my reflection without feeling like I’m staring at someone else. Yamada says it’s progress, but I don’t feel whole. Every scar hums like it’s waiting for me to change again, and I don’t even know if I’ll survive the next one.” I leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles. The hum of the vents filled the silence  steady, mechanical, almost like breathing. Four months into SDN and I was still pretending it all felt normal. Pretending the world hadn’t shifted underneath my feet when my body stopped listening to me. “I miss it,” I admitted, barely more than a breath. “Not just the size, the strength. The way everything felt smaller when I was her. Like I could hold the whole damn city together if I had to.” I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Now I can’t even carry a file box without my fucking body lighting up like a live wire.” My fingers brushed over one of the faint scars, tracing the uneven lines. “They say this is the new beginning. Stability. Safety. But it doesn’t feel like living, Chase. It feels like I’m playing house in someone else’s skin.” I paused, eyes unfocused, watching the thin blue light from the break room’s vending machine flicker across my arm. “I tell myself I’m lucky... But there’s this quiet part of me that keeps wondering if the world will even forgive me.”

Chase leaned back, taking in what I had to say before looking at me straight and leaning in.

“You think you’re the only one who’s broken?”

I looked up, surprised at the edge in his voice.

“I used to run across continents,” he said, staring into distance, I could feel the nostalgia dipping off. “Could circle the globe in minutes. Just like that." He emphasized, snapping his fingers. "But every sprint took months off my life. Didn’t realize it ‘til it was too damn late. Now, I get winded climbing the stairs.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I used to think speed was what made me untouchable. Turns out, it just made me burn out faster.” He paused “We all lose pieces of what made us feel invincible, kid. The trick isn’t getting them back. It’s figuring out what’s left… and making that count.”

I stayed quiet, the words hanging there like smoke. He wasn’t trying to comfort me. He wasn’t trying to fix it. He was just… telling the truth.

His voice dropped low, steady. “You think dispatch is a retirement home? It’s the second chance nobody else gets. You and me…we may not be out there in capes anymore, but we still save lives every damn day.”

I felt my eyes glisten, blinking hard to steady myself. “It’s not the same.”

“No,” he said softly. “It’s realer. Out there, people cheered. In here, nobody sees us and we still do it anyway. That’s the part that makes you a hero.”

Silence fell again, but it was gentler this time.

I exhaled slowly. “Do you think I’ll ever get better?”

Chase looked at me for a long moment. “I think,” he said finally, “you’ll stop needing to be who you were. And start becoming who you’re supposed to be.”

I sat with that for a while. The hum of the vending machine. The faint buzz of the overhead light. All of it settling into a strange kind of peace.

When Chase finally stood to leave, he gave my shoulder a reassuring pat. “Get some rest before your shift,” he said over his shoulder. “And get me something from the vending machine while you’re at it. I’m fucking starving.”

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head as he walked out of the break room. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Location: SDN, Torrance Branch — 9:04 a.m. Status: Med Bay — (Y/n L/n) on Medical Duty. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flambae was already fussing over a small mirror, looking at the burn off area that had singed his eyebrows.

“I don’t see how this qualifies as an emergency,” I muttered, setting my medical kit down.

“That’s because you don’t care about appearance,” he shot back, voice sharp. “All you do is wear baggy clothes, and I’m pretty sure you’re just rotating the same three outfits.”

I looked down at my blue SDN shirt layered under a compression long sleeve that hung far past my wrists and jeans that were three sizes too big. The medical belt cinched around my waist was barely helping keep my pants up. “Keep it up and I won’t help.”

I raised an eyebrow, careful not to touch too roughly as I examined the area along his brow and hairline, checking to see if burns were present. “I feel bad… for that guy, having to put up with you.”

He shot me a glare that could’ve set off a fire alarm. “Excuse you. Feel bad for me.”

I leaned back slightly, studying the pattern of the singed hairs and seeing it was slightly inflamed. I already knew that Flambae was possibly wasting my time knowing he was fireproof but I decided to help him anyway “Knowing you,” I said, voice low, as I stayed focused “Kinda hard to, Matchstick.”

He scowled, but the corner of his mouth twitched. The faint smell of antiseptic and charred hair hung in the air as I dabbed at the area with a sterile pad, careful to soothe without stinging.

“Stop fucking calli—OW! The fuck kind of nurse are you?” Flambae yelped, jerking his head back as the antiseptic stung against the raw skin.

I didn’t flinch. “Medic and no,” I corrected dryly, holding the pad steady as I dabbed at the burn with deliberate precision. The tang of alcohol still clung to his singed hair, mixing with the sterile scent of the Med Bay.

I leaned back slightly, letting him flinch under the sting, and continued. “Look, your eyebrows will grow back. And since I can’t medically cure you from being a douche, here’s my professional recommendation: quit picking fights. That being said…” I paused, meeting his glare with an unflinching stare. “…as myself? Yeah, you definitely deserved this. And the other guy? He was definitely holding back.”

Flambae groaned, leaning back further. “Wow. Thanks for the moral support, doc.” A soft knock at the door drew both of our attention. Blonde Blazer.

“Hey—oh, sorry, didn’t expect you to be with a patient,” she said, stepping inside.

“It’s fine,” I replied, tossing a container of minoxidil towards a scowling Flambae. “He was just leaving.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, flipping me off as he hopped off the bed, the faint squeak of his boots fading down the hall.

I turned back to Mandy, letting a small, tired smile play on my lips. “Just a difficult patient. Anyway, what’s up?”

She closed the door behind her with a soft click, and I felt that familiar spike of tension

Fuck. 

The hum of the Med Bay seemed louder suddenly, the faint antiseptic scent mixing with the lingering burnt hair.

“Been hearing about the extra shifts you’ve been taking… and skipping your physical therapy,” she said, stepping fully into the room, her gaze steady and unflinching.

“Look—” I started, already bracing myself. She raised a hand to pause me, her movements calm but deliberate, “I’m not reprimanding you. I’m not judging you. I understand that you have to deal with this in your own way. This… It's a major life adjustment.” She paused, letting the weight of her words hang in the air. “So I want to offer a deal of sorts.”

I shifted on the edge of the chair, the medical belt digging slightly into my waist, and waited. She smiled “We have a new dispatcher for the Z-team and I want you to train him, you know show him the ropes that kind of thing”

“Mark quit? Damn… I thought this one would actually stick this time,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair and feeling the lingering burn crawling down my back.

“Well…” Mandy began, her tone careful, like she was trying to soften the blow, “…let’s just say he didn’t exactly make it past the probation period.”

I leaned back slightly, letting out a low whistle. “Figures. And having your car totaled would also play a role.”

Mandy gave a nervous smile. “Yeah… that probably didn’t help morale.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, rubbing at my shoulder again. “But then again, we aren’t your typical company. If things went smoothly around here, I’d probably start worrying.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “True. You definitely have a knack for keeping it interesting.”

I smirked, remembering the chaos. How I’d had to put the fear of God into Punch-Up and Golem just to get them to apologize properly, Golem sulking like a toddler while Punch-Up muttered under his breath, arms crossed and scowling the entire time. Sparks from the demolished car still danced in my memory, the sharp tang of burnt metal lingering in my nose. Somehow, amidst all the yelling, the fire, and the wreckage, I’d managed to drag some semblance of accountability out of them.

“Exhausting,” I muttered, more to myself than to Mandy, shaking my head. “My monkeys, my circus”

Mandy crossed her arms, giving me that look, the one that meant she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to ruin my morning. “Speaking of which, you’ll be helping him get on board with the new protocols. So you can stop volunteering for extra dispatch shifts.”

“Why do I feel a but coming on?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“But,” she said with that too-sweet smile, “you do need to start showing up to your physical therapy appointments. Or you’re on suspension.”

I blinked “I thought this wasn’t a reprimand!”

“It’s not,” Mandy replied, entirely too calm. “It’s a friendly reminder from someone who’s tired of filling out your overtime forms and covering for you with Dr. Yamada.”

I groaned, dropping my forehead into my hands. “Friendly reminder, my ass. Also, Yamada can go suck it.”

Mandy didn’t miss a beat. “He’d write that in your chart too, you know.”

I shot her a sideways glare. “Good. Maybe then he’ll finally stop calling it ‘muscle re-acclimation therapy.’ It’s just torture with nicer lighting.” Mandy smirked, crossing her arms. “You know, most people would kill for the chance to recover their abilities at all.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, “most people haven’t experienced their body practically tear itself apart from the inside out.”

Her expression softened, but just for a moment. “You could make this easier on yourself, you know. Show up, do the therapy, stop acting like every medical order is a personal insult.”

“I am showing up,” I said defensively.

Mandy arched an eyebrow, arms crossing. “Sitting in the waiting room for five minutes and then ghosting because ‘Dispatch needed you’ doesn’t count.” She even threw in the finger quotes for good measure.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “You know, I miss when everyone just listened to me.”

Mandy laughed under her breath, shaking her head as she moved toward the door. “Tell that to Yamada. He’s still convinced you’re gonna start a fight in his lab one of these days.”

I gave a humorless smile. “If he decides to try that thing with my shoulder blades again, I might.”

That earned me a genuine laugh this time, quick, bright, and gone too fast. She sobered after a second, leaning against the counter beside me. “Seriously though, Y/n. We both know this place runs because you refuse to quit. But there’s a difference between holding the line and burning out.”

She turned toward the door, her shoes clicking softly against the linoleum, then paused halfway through. “Don’t forget to swing by my office at 10:30. That’s when our new dispatcher will be clocking in today.”

“So what’s this guy’s name, anyway?” I called after her.

She glanced over her shoulder with the faintest smirk. “Robert Robertson. Remember, 10:30.”

And just like that, she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft hiss.

I blinked, staring at the empty space she’d left.

The apartment smells faintly of damp carpet, stale smoke, and the kind of cheap cleaning spray that tries, and fails to convince you the place isn’t falling apart. You’ve lived in worse. But not by much. The radiator in the corner rattles like it’s dying, coughing out bursts of lukewarm air that barely reach the threadbare sofa across the room. Paint curls off the walls in thin flakes, revealing older layers beneath it like scars that never healed properly. The kitchen light flickers every few seconds, casting the cramped space in an uneven glow. Vought calls it temporary housing. You call it what it is. A box for things they don’t know what to do with anymore. You lean against the narrow kitchen counter, a chipped ceramic bowl balanced in one hand while the other absently scrapes a spoon through soggy cereal. The flakes dissolved minutes ago, floating limply in greyish milk that tastes vaguely like cardboard. It’s the cheapest brand you could find.

Not that Vought’s payment stretches very far these days. Not for someone like you. The spoon clinks against the bowl again. You chew mechanically, staring at nothing in particular as the television murmurs in the next room. The sound leaks through the doorway in a constant stream of corporate cheerfulness and background music designed to make everything seem better than it is. You swallow. Another bite. Another. Your life, reduced to this quiet, stale routine. The irony of it almost makes you laugh. A long time ago, someone told your parents you were going to be special. They’d said it with bright smiles and crisp suits, sitting across a polished glass table while sliding contracts forward like gifts. They’d talked about heroism, about service, about being part of something bigger. Classified operations. Elite training. Your parents had looked like they’d just won the lottery. You’d been too young to understand why the adults in the room seemed so excited about needles. The memory flashes briefly through your head and you crush it before it can linger. No point in digging through old ghosts. You take another bite of cereal. The milk has gone warm.

Perfect.

You step into the living room, bowl still in hand, and collapse onto the sagging couch with a tired exhale. The springs groan under your weight, the fabric worn thin enough in places that yellow foam pokes through.

Across from you, the TV glows against the dim room.

A smiling news anchor stares back.

“…another unfortunate incident earlier this afternoon,” the woman says brightly, the tone of her voice carefully measured, concerned but not too concerned. “Officials from Vought International have confirmed that the situation has been fully contained.”

You already know where this is going. Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth. The screen cuts to footage of flashing lights and police barricades. A city block you vaguely recognize. Smoke curling into the sky from shattered storefronts. Then the familiar blue and gold logo fills the bottom corner of the screen.

Vought.

Of course.

“…sources close to the company state that members of The Seven were responding to a credible threat when the altercation occurred,” the anchor continues smoothly. “While there was some property damage, Vought representatives have assured the public that no civilians were seriously harmed.” You stare at the television. Your jaw tightens slowly. The spoon drops back into the bowl with a dull clink. “No civilians were seriously harmed,” you repeat under your breath.

Your eyes drift to the footage again. They’re showing carefully edited clips now. One of the heroes standing heroically in front of emergency vehicles. Another shaking hands with police officers. Smiles. Reassuring gestures. They don’t show the other footage. They never do. The screams. The panic. The moments when someone with godlike power forgets, or doesn’t care, that the people around them are made of fragile things like bone and skin. You’ve seen it before. More times than you can count. Your grip tightens around the bowl. Milk sloshes against the rim.

The news anchor keeps talking, praising Vought’s “rapid response” and “commitment to public safety.” Something hot and ugly curls in your chest. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Real committed.” The cereal suddenly tastes even worse. You shove the bowl onto the small coffee table in front of you, the chipped wood wobbling slightly under the weight. A drop of milk splashes onto the surface and slowly spreads into the cracks. The television continues its polished performance.

“…a spokesperson from Vought stated earlier today that their heroes remain dedicated to protecting the American people-”

“Bullshit.”

The word leaves your mouth flat and sharp. You lean forward, grabbing the remote from beside the couch. The plastic casing is cracked down the middle, the batteries inside barely holding on. Click. The channel changes. A sitcom laugh track bursts into the room, canned laughter echoing off the peeling walls. You sit back again, running a hand through your hair with a tired sigh. For a few seconds, you just stare at the screen. Then you reach into the pocket of your worn jacket draped over the arm of the couch and pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Your fingers move automatically. Tap one loose. Slide it between your lips. The lighter sparks on the second try. Flame blooms briefly in the dim apartment, warm orange reflecting in your eyes as you bring it to the cigarette’s tip. The paper crackles softly as it catches. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, rough and familiar. When you exhale, the grey cloud drifts upward toward the stained ceiling.

“Goddamn parasites.” you mutter.

The cigarette burns slowly between your fingers as you sink deeper into the couch cushions. Outside, somewhere beyond the thin apartment walls, traffic hums along the street. Distant sirens wail faintly in the background, a constant soundtrack to the city’s chaos. You barely notice anymore. Your eyes flick back to the television for a moment. The sitcom characters laugh and argue in a brightly lit kitchen that looks nothing like your own. Another drag of the cigarette. You hold the smoke in your lungs for a second longer than necessary before letting it out.

The room grows hazy.

“Vought,” you say under your breath, the word tasting bitter. You used to believe in them. Well. Not believe. But you’d thought there was a point to all of it. All the training. All the tests. All the sleepless nights spent under fluorescent lights while people with clipboards watched from behind glass. You close your eyes briefly.

A flicker of memory presses against the inside of your skull, sterile white hallways, the smell of antiseptic, a voice calmly instructing you to go deeper. You crush it before it can surface properly. Not tonight. Tonight you just want to sit in your shitty apartment and smoke in peace. The cigarette glows faintly in the dim room as you take another drag.

“Heroes,” you scoff quietly. The word feels like a joke. You glance around the apartment again. The peeling walls. The broken furniture. The thin layer of dust clinging to the windowsill. Vought’s idea of temporary housing for a former asset who didn’t quite turn out the way they’d hoped. Failed supe. The label had come later. Quietly. Like most things they didn’t want the public asking about. Your lips curl slightly. “Yeah,” you murmur to the empty room. “Real nice retirement plan.” Smoke drifts upward again, curling against the ceiling like lazy ghosts. And somewhere in the back of your mind, buried beneath layers of bitterness and exhaustion, the faintest whisper of anger continues to simmer. Because Vought might be done with you. But you’re not quite done hating them yet.

The sitcom laughter grates on your nerves after a while. At first it’s just background noise, something to fill the silence in the apartment. But after a few minutes the exaggerated cackling starts sounding hollow, like nails scraping over glass. You flick ash into an empty soda can sitting on the coffee table. The cigarette burns low between your fingers. On the TV, the characters are arguing about something stupid, who forgot to buy groceries, who left the door unlocked. The audience roars with laughter at a punchline you barely hear. Your jaw tightens. You glance toward the remote again. You told yourself you didn’t care. That whatever corporate lie Vought was peddling tonight wasn’t worth your attention. But the irritation lingers. It sits in your chest like a splinter. Because they always do this.

Always spin it.

Another destroyed street becomes “heroic intervention.” Another injured civilian becomes “collateral damage.” Another body becomes something the cameras simply never show. You drag deeply on the cigarette, the ember flaring red. “God, I hate them.” you mutter. The remote sits on the couch cushion beside you. You stare at it for a moment. Then, with an annoyed sigh, you grab it. “Fine,” you say to the empty room. “Let’s see what fresh bullshit you’re feeding everyone tonight.”

Click.

The sitcom vanishes. The news channel returns instantly, the same polished studio lighting and professional smiles waiting for you. But something’s different now. The tone has changed. The calm corporate narration is gone. A red banner stretches across the bottom of the screen.

BREAKING NEWS

Your eyes narrow slightly. The anchor’s expression looks carefully controlled now,excited, but trying very hard not to look too excited.

“…repeat, this is developing information,” she says, voice slightly tighter than before. “Vought International has just released a statement confirming that-” The camera cuts to shaky footage. A crowd gathered outside what looks like a military transport site. Flashing lights. Security vehicles. Reporters shouting questions. Then the words appear across the screen.

SOLDIER BOY CONFIRMED ALIVE

Your cigarette pauses halfway to your lips.

“…sources inside Vought have confirmed that the legendary hero-” You feel something cold slide down your spine.

“…Soldier Boy-previously believed to be missing for decades, has officially been recovered and returned to Vought custody earlier this evening.” The room goes very quiet. You stare at the television. The news continues, reporters speculating wildly about what this means for Vought, for the public, for the future of superhero operations. But you barely hear any of it. Because that name drags something unpleasant through your memory. Soldier Boy. Vought’s golden relic. Their all-American war hero. Their favorite propaganda poster. You remember the training videos. The speeches.

The footage they’d shown during your early years in the program, grainy clips of him punching through tanks, smiling for crowds, draped in red, white, and blue. Back then they’d talked about him like he was a god. Your cigarette burns forgotten between your fingers. “…Vought representatives have stated that the hero’s recovery marks a historic moment,” the anchor continues. “Many are calling it the return of one of the greatest symbols of American heroism-”

“Yeah,” you mutter darkly. “I’m sure.” Something about this feels wrong. Your instincts twitch. Because Vought doesn’t bring out old legends unless they’re planning something. You take another drag of your cigarette. The smoke burns harsher this time. The news keeps rolling, speculation piling on speculation.

Your phone rings. The sudden sound cuts through the apartment like a knife. You glance toward the small kitchen counter where the phone lies vibrating against the chipped surface. Unknown number. Of course it is. You stare at it for a moment. It rings again. Your first instinct is to ignore it. Most of the time unknown numbers mean one of three things: telemarketers, reporters fishing for interviews, or Vought interns pretending to do damage control. You don’t feel like dealing with any of those tonight. The phone rings again. And again. Your eyes flick back toward the TV. Soldier Boy’s old promotional photo flashes across the screen, square jaw, smug grin, shield resting against his shoulder. The irritation in your chest twists into something sharper. The phone keeps ringing. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter. You stand up slowly, grabbing the cigarette from between your fingers before it can drop ash onto the floor. The couch groans in relief as you rise. The phone vibrates against the counter again. You snatch it up with a sigh. “Yeah?” you answer flatly, not even bothering to check the caller ID. There’s a brief pause. Then a calm, professional voice speaks.

“Good evening.” its followed with your name being drawled out, questioning if it is you. You already hate them. Your eyes narrow slightly. “Depends,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Who’s asking?” Another short pause. “This is Vought International.” The cigarette nearly slips from your fingers. Your stomach drops. You don’t say anything for a moment. Because there are only two reasons Vought calls people like you. Neither of them is good.

“…we’d like to discuss a potential opportunity with you,” the voice continues smoothly. You bark out a short laugh. “No.” The word comes out instantly. Automatic. “Not interested.” You pull the phone away slightly, ready to hang up. “We’re prepared to reinstate your previous position.” Your thumb freezes over the screen. You bring the phone back to your ear slowly. “…you what?”

“Your former role within our special operations division.” Your jaw tightens.The cigarette smoke curls around your face as you stare blankly at the wall.

Images flicker briefly in the back of your mind, sterile white rooms, observation windows, the quiet hum of machinery.

“No,” you repeat.

Your voice is colder now. “Hard pass.”

“We understand your hesitation-”

“You understand nothing,” you cut in sharply.

Your grip tightens around the phone, as you force the end of your cigarette into your counter. “I walked away from that job for a reason.” Another pause. The voice on the other end doesn’t sound offended. If anything, they sound patient. Prepared. “We’re offering significant compensation.” You scoff. “Yeah? Let me guess. Hazard pay and a shiny new NDA?”

“Our offer is-”

They say the number. Your brain takes a second to process it. Then another. Because that number is absurd. Your eyebrows slowly rise. “…you’re joking.”

“We’re not.” Silence stretches across the line. “That’s a lot of money,” you say slowly. “Yes.” You stare at the cracked tile floor. Your brain runs through the possibilities automatically. Rent paid for years. A better apartment. Freedom from this shitty little box Vought stuck you in. “You’d need to return to Vought Tower.” the voice continues. Of course you would. “Attend a meeting tomorrow morning.” Your eyes drift toward the television again. Soldier Boy’s face flashes across the screen once more.

A new caption scrolls across the bottom: Vought preparing official press conference

Something in your chest tightens. “…what’s the catch?” you ask quietly. Another brief pause. “There would be one condition.” Of course there would. You close your eyes briefly. “Let me guess,” you mutter. “I sell my soul again.”

“Not exactly.” You wait. “…to maintain operational discretion, you would be expected to participate in a public relations arrangement.” Your brow furrows. “A what?”

“You would be engaged to Soldier Boy.” You stare at the phone like it just insulted your mother. “…I’m sorry?” Your voice comes out flat. “You want me to do what?”

Thirty minutes later, you’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror. The apartment still smells like smoke. You drag a brush through your hair with more force than necessary. “This is insane.” you mutter. But you’re already getting ready. Because that number keeps echoing in your head. And curiosity, damn it, curiosity is eating at you. You pull on a jacket, glancing once more at your reflection. Hard eyes. Harder expression. The kind of face that doesn’t scare easily anymore.“Just a meeting.” you tell yourself. Nothing more. An hour later, the towering glass structure of Vought International rises above the city skyline. It looks exactly the same as the day you left. Tall. Cold. Untouchable. You stand on the sidewalk across the street, staring up at it. Your stomach twists slightly. Memories flicker along the edges of your mind. Hallways. Training rooms. Observation windows. You shove them down. A gust of wind pushes through the street, tugging at your jacket. The massive Vought logo gleams high above the entrance. You take a slow breath. Then you step forward.

The lobby of Vought International looks exactly the way you remember it. Cold. Polished. Expensive in a way that feels almost mocking. Marble floors gleam under bright overhead lights, reflecting the massive Vought logo mounted behind the reception desk. Everything smells faintly of lemon polish and recycled air. Even the silence here feels curated,controlled, like every sound has been approved by a boardroom somewhere. You hate it instantly. Your boots echo faintly across the floor as you step inside. Security spots you immediately. Of course they do. Two guards straighten near the entrance scanners, their posture tightening when they recognize your face. One of them presses a finger to the small earpiece tucked behind his ear. You don’t slow down. Not until a sharply dressed assistant appears from a side hallway, walking toward you with the kind of corporate smile that never quite reaches the eyes. “Welcome back,” she says. The words make your stomach twist.

“Don’t get used to it.” you reply flatly. She doesn’t react. Just gestures politely toward the elevators. “This way.” You follow her in silence. The elevator ride feels longer than it probably is. The mirrored walls reflect your expression back at you from three different angles, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, eyes sharp and alert. Like you’re walking into enemy territory. Which, technically, you are. The elevator stops with a soft ding. The assistant leads you down a hallway lined with glass walls and framed photographs of smiling heroes shaking hands with politicians. The kind of propaganda Vought loves to display.

Your gaze lingers on none of it. Finally, she stops outside a sleek conference room. Two men in expensive suits sit inside. Waiting. She opens the door.

“Thank you for coming,” one of them says immediately. You step inside slowly. The room smells faintly like fresh coffee and expensive cologne. A long glass table sits between you and them, reflecting the overhead lights in sharp white streaks. You don’t sit. Instead, you fold your arms. “Let’s get something straight before we waste each other’s time.” you say bluntly. Both men exchange a quick glance. You continue. “I’m not here to play house with some walking propaganda poster.” One of the executives clears his throat. “This arrangement would be mutually beneficial-”

“No.”

Your voice cuts through the room like a knife. You step closer to the table. “I’ll consider the job,” you say, “but the engagement thing? Not happening.” The second executive leans forward slightly. “I’m afraid that aspect of the agreement is non-negotiable.” You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then I guess we’re done here.” You turn slightly as if to leave. “That would be unfortunate,” the first man says calmly. You pause. “…because?” He folds his hands neatly on the table. “Because the individual in question has already agreed.” You turn back slowly. “…what?” The executive sighs, like a man explaining something obvious to a child. “We didn’t want him back.” That catches your attention. Your eyebrows draw together slightly.

“But circumstances changed,” he continues. “And now we’re faced with a rather delicate situation.” Your jaw tightens. “Meaning?” The man glances toward the window overlooking the city skyline. “Meaning Soldier Boy is… difficult to manage.”

“That’s a nice way of saying he’s unstable.” you mutter. Neither man denies it. “He’s powerful,” the second executive says carefully. “Unpredictable. And quite frankly, if he becomes dissatisfied, it’s entirely possible he could tear through half the city before we even manage to contain him.” Your stomach twists. “So your solution,” you say slowly, “is a fake engagement.”

“Public perception matters.” The first man gestures slightly with one hand. “If the public sees him reintegrating into society, settling down, forming relationships, it creates the narrative we need.”

“And you make money off the media circus,” you say. “Yes.” He doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. “And he gets money,” the second man adds. “And… certain freedoms.”

“Meaning he gets whatever the hell he wants.” A small pause. “Within reason.” You stare at them. The anger rising in your chest feels almost familiar. Old. “Well congratulations,” you snap. “You found a brilliant solution.” Your hand slams lightly against the table. “You throw the unstable war relic a fiancée and hope he doesn’t start ripping heads off.”

“We’re not relying solely on hope.” You laugh bitterly. “Oh?”

“You.” The word hangs in the air. You blink. “…me?” The first executive nods calmly. “Your abilities make you uniquely qualified.” Your stomach sinks. Of course. “We believe that if his behavior becomes… problematic,” he continues, “you would be capable of defending yourself.” There it is. The real reason. You feel something inside your chest crack open. “Right.” you say quietly. “Your powers give you an advantage.”

“An advantage.”

The words echo back to you. Something ugly begins to boil under your skin. “You know,” you say slowly, “I shouldn’t even be like this.” The executives exchange another glance. Your voice sharpens. “I should’ve had a normal life.” Neither of them respond. That just makes the anger burn hotter. “You sold my parents a lie,” you continue. The words come faster now. “You told them their kid would grow up doing ‘hero work.’ Classified missions. Protecting people.” Your laugh is harsh. “Instead you stuck me in a lab and taught me how to crawl into someone’s head and tear it apart.” The room goes very quiet. “You trained me to torture people,” you snap. Your hands curl into fists. “And now you’re telling me the only reason you want me back is because you think I’m the best person to babysit your unstable poster boy?” Silence stretches.

Then, the conference room door swings open. “Babysit who?” The voice is deep. Lazy. Amused. Your spine goes rigid. Slowly, you turn. He fills the doorway like he owns the place. Tall. Broad-shouldered.

Wearing his renowned green suit, that looks older than half the furniture in the room. A faint cloud of smoke drifts around his head. A half-burned joint hangs casually from the corner of his mouth. His eyes sweep across the room. Then land on you. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Well,” he drawls. The joint bobs slightly when he speaks. “Guess that answers my question.” Your stomach drops. Because standing in the doorway is Soldier Boy. And he’s looking at you like he just found something entertaining.

“Which one of you corporate assholes ordered me a fiancée?” Neither executive speaks. You stare at him. He takes a long drag from the joint, smoke curling from his nose as he exhales. Then he pushes himself off the doorframe and strolls into the room like he has nowhere better to be. His boots thud lazily against the floor. “C’mon,” he says, glancing between the suits. “Don’t be shy.” His eyes flick back to you. A slow, shameless once-over. “Well?” he says. “Who’s the lucky lady?” You don’t move. Don’t look away. But something inside your chest tightens. Because this man is dangerous in a way that feels completely different from the sterile cruelty of Vought labs. He stops a few feet away. Tilts his head. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re the one?” Your eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He takes another drag. Shrugs lazily. “Thought they’d pick someone prettier.” Your jaw clenches instantly. “Thought they’d pick someone less pathetic.” you fire back. The executives stiffen slightly. Soldier Boy blinks. Then laughs. A rough, genuine sound.

“Well damn,” he says. “Got some teeth.” He flicks ash from the joint onto the floor without looking. Your arms cross over your chest. “You’re not my type.” you say flatly. He grins wider. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice dripping with smug amusement. “You ain’t mine either.” Smoke drifts between the two of you. The tension in the room thickens. He leans slightly closer. “Question is,” he says casually, “how good are you at pretending?” Your eyes stay locked on his. Cold. Unflinching. “Better than you.” you say. For a moment, neither of you move. Then Soldier Boy chuckles again.

“Yeah.” he murmurs, turning to address the rest of the room.

“This might actually be fun.” He takes another slow drag, eyes drifting back to you as he exhales a lazy stream of smoke. His gaze moves over you like he’s sizing up a new piece of equipment, interested, amused, and just a little too comfortable with the idea of owning the room. You don’t look away. Your jaw tightens, shoulders squaring as you hold his stare. Across the table, the executives shift awkwardly in their chairs, suddenly very interested in the paperwork in front of them. Neither of them interrupts. Soldier Boy smirks. “Look at that,” he says, nodding slightly toward you. “She’s glaring at me like she wants to stab me.” Your voice is flat. “Don’t tempt me.”

That only makes him grin wider. “Relax,” he says, flicking ash carelessly onto the polished floor. “If you were gonna try something, you’d have done it already.” Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, but you don’t move. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the building’s ventilation. He leans back against the conference table like he belongs there, joint still hanging from his mouth. “So,” he says casually, gesturing between the two of you with it. “This the big plan?”

One of the executives clears his throat. “As we were explaining-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Soldier Boy cuts in, waving him off. “Fake engagement. Cameras. Smiles. All that wholesome bullshit.” His eyes slide back to you again. “You gonna cry at the wedding too?” he asks. Your lip curls slightly. “You’re assuming there is a wedding.” He chuckles. “Fair point.” Another long look passes between you. Not friendly. Not even close. But neither of you backs down. Finally, Soldier Boy straightens, crushing the end of the joint against the glass table without asking. The faint smell of burnt weed lingers in the air. “Well,” he says, pushing away from the table. “Guess we better start practicing, huh?”

The executives immediately begin talking again, contracts, timelines, media statements, but their voices fade into background noise. Because Soldier Boy is still watching you. And something in that look tells you this arrangement is going to be a lot worse than just a fake engagement. You glance once toward the towering windows of Vought International, the city stretching far below. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life. Then Soldier Boy claps a heavy hand against your shoulder like you’re already his partner.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says with a crooked grin. “Let’s go make America fall in love.”

Your stomach sinks. And just like that, the deal is sealed.

Part 2

A/N: Pls lmk what you guys think, and if you would like to be added to the taglist!!

The motel room was hot and humid, sweat running down the side of your forehead and into your hairline. You could taste the salt whenever you licked your lips, the dingy mattress under you soaked from all the sweat and other bodily fluids that had left not only you but Butcher as well.

The yellowed sheets were streaked with dirt from his heavy boots as he crouched above you, your chest shuddering as his strong hands grasped tightly at your calves. If it wasn’t for your healing factor, dark bruises would have dug into them a while ago, but they faded as soon as Butcher left them on you, making him grumble something about supes and their stupid powers.

You were the only one naked out of the two of you, body glistening in what little light passed in through the blinds, your hair a mess and eyes wet from unshed tears. Butcher had only kicked off his pants, even dragging them down and off, leaving his boots on before he had clambered up onto the bed and shoved your legs up by the knees.

Amazon position, you think it was called, something you had only seen online once or twice. But here was Butcher, smirking down at you as you grip at the sheets, tearing the cheap covers like tissue paper as you panted and moaned. There was something feral in his eyes as you tried to hump up into him, but the way he held your legs and pressed his weight down on you made it almost impossible, even with your super strength.

“B-Butch” you pant out, eyes blinking up a storm as you try to find the words, tongue feeling thick and useless, leaving you floundering like a fish out of water. You two had been going for hours, or rather, Butcher would push and pull at you, put his mouth on you, or jerk you till you were almost there. But then he would pull back, patting you on the head and telling you “Be good” before doing something else.

It could be anything from scrolling through the few channels on the cheap motel tv, to him going out to smoke a cigarette, or leaving to just wander the area or going to the store. The last one he had done before he came back to climb on top of you as he was now, his sturdy body bearing down on you so deliciously.

You were so close, close enough that it made you feel like you were about to cry. Something Butcher could easily tell, if the growing predatory smirk on his face meant anything. A warbled cry left you as he pulled up and off you again, a slick wet noise sounding as his hole pulled off your cock. You didn’t need to look to know that your length was a deep pained color, your balls so full and heavy that they felt almost as tortured as your cock.

Butcher laughed, voice heavy and dominant in the way that made your brain feel like mush melting out of your ears. Your bottom lip drew up and wobbled as you tried hard not to beg or cry, vision growing so blurry with tears even as Butcher’s hand reached down and patted your cheek. “Come on pup, you can take it, can’t ya?” he laughed, his voice so deliciously taunting and cruel that it made you throb, precum pouring out of your slit and down your sensitive aching shaft.

“Ya wanna be good for me, I know you do. My little supe” Butcher purred, leaning down just enough to ghost a kiss against the crown of your head. His satisfied tone made the tears spill over, a shaky sob leaving your chest as you dug your fingers into the mattress, a loud rip ringing out throughout the motel room.

The tsk that left Butcher made your heart ache, another pitiful pained sob leaving you. But this time it was not from the gut aching need to cum, but the very idea that you might have disappointed him. As his hand cradled your face more surely, you couldn’t help but nuzzle into it, kissing at his callused palm as you whimper out broken slurred apologies.

The silence felt heavy and loaded, but in the end, Butcher just sighed like one would sigh if they found out their pet had chewed up the carpet. “Can’t expect a supe like you to control himself. But ya did good enough, good boy” he rumbled out. And before you knew it, that tight wet heat was swallowing up your cock once more, punching the breath out of your chest as you keened, lost for words as Butcher started riding you like he was punishing you.

“come on boy, cum for me, show me what a supe like you has to offer” he growled out in that hot purred way, his weight slamming down on you as he worked his knees. You felt dizzy, sweat pouring off your body as you gasped and let out noises closer to a bark than a moan, the noise punched out of you every time his weight fell on your own.

It was almost enough, but there was something missing, even Butcher seemed to realize this. So, as you cried out tears of edging and sensitivity, Butchers strong hand grasped your chin, pressing his thumb and fingers into your jaw to make it unhinge and hang open. Your vision cleared up just enough to see him purse his lips, and watch as he spat into your mouth.

You couldn’t even tell if his spit had hit your tongue before you came, a noise coming from deep inside your chest as your entire body shook, jolts and quivers rushing through you as your entire lower body burned. It felt like you were underwater, his deep voice nothing more than a pleasant hum as he presumably praised you, his body pressing down on yours more insistently until you could only imagine he had finished too.

You felt like a well loved toy when he rose up off of you, standing on the ruined torn mattress as you spread out like an unfolded piece of paper, silent tears still running down your cheeks as you shivered from the aftershocks. A shaky whimper left you as you sensed Butcher getting off the bed and leaving to somewhere, but he was back before you could start crawling out of that blurry but pleasant spot you were in.

Butcher pressed kisses to your sweaty hair as he wiped you down, his voice low as he rumbled more praise and words of affirmation, even though he knew you couldn’t fully register what he was saying yet. His beard tickled as the kisses traveled down to your cheek, before they pressed against your own, Butcher leaving a sweet lingering kiss on your bitten lips.

Easily Butcher picked you up, moving you to the second bed of the motel room. There was no saving of the torn monstrosity that had been the bed he had played with you on all day, with the large rips and the stuffing spilling out. Hed remember to leave extra cash for it when you two left.