#vought

Butcher

You two barely made it through the door. His lips were on yours instantly, nipping at your lower lip with that sharp hunger that always left you dizzy. Before you could even catch your breath, Butcher had you pinned against the bed, hands rough and greedy—tugging at clothes, gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs like he couldn’t get you bare fast enough.

The old bed creaked loudly beneath you as he slowly lowered himself into you, thick and unrelenting. You gasped sharply, mouth falling open in a perfect, silent O, eyes fluttering shut at the stretch. He eased in inch by inch, deliberate and deep, a low, guttural groan rumbling from his chest the whole way. No words. Just the wet, slick sound of him sinking into you, your shaky exhale, and the way your nails dug into his back as you braced yourself.

In the next room, the boys were trying—very, very hard—to pretend they weren’t hearing every single second of it.

Hughie’s face burned scarlet, eyes glued to the floor like it might split open and swallow him whole. MM rubbed his temples hard, jaw clenched tight, muttering under his breath about “goddamn animals.” Frenchie leaned back with a smirk, cigarette dangling from his lips, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. Kimiko tilted her head, watching the wall with calm, fascinated curiosity, like she was listening to a particularly interesting song.

Another loud, broken moan ripped from your throat—high and desperate—as Butcher hit that perfect spot deep inside you, making your toes curl tight. The bedframe slammed harder against the wall now, rhythmic and violent. His grunts turned rougher, deeper, almost animalistic snarls every time you clenched around him, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder.

“Christ,” MM finally hissed, voice low and strained. “They’re not even trying to be quiet.”

Frenchie exhaled a slow curl of smoke, soft laugh slipping out. “I do not think they remember we exist right now.”

Hughie made a strangled little noise and yanked his hoodie up over his head like that could possibly block out the sounds—your whimpers climbing higher, Butcher’s heavy, ragged breathing, the relentless creak and thud of the bed.

Back in the room, your legs were trembling violently around his waist, voice cracking into soft, needy whimpers as he fucked you through it, hips snapping with raw, primal force. His breathing was harsh and uneven against your neck, each thrust punctuated by a deep, guttural groan that vibrated through your chest.

One last, wrecked “fuck” tore from him—low and desperate—right as you shattered. Your high, trembling moan spilled out, raw and broken, mixing perfectly with his deep, satisfied growl as pleasure crashed through both of you. The bed finally stilled, the only sounds left being your shared, panting breaths.

Silence—blessed, mortifying silence—settled for half a second.

Then Frenchie’s voice drifted through the thin wall, dry as bone:

“…Well. At least someone’s having a good night.”

You buried your burning face in Butcher’s sweat-slick shoulder, half-laughing, half-mortified at how loud you’d been. He just chuckled darkly against your hair, the sound rough and smug, arms tightening around you possessively.

“Let ‘em listen, love,” he murmured, voice gravelly and low. “Let the whole fuckin’ world hear what you sound like when I ruin you.”

Soldier Boy

The team had only been back at the safehouse for twenty minutes when the noises started.

At first they figured Soldier Boy was just being his usual destructive self—pacing, throwing shit, whatever. But then the bedframe started slamming against the wall in a steady, filthy rhythm. Loud. Unmistakable.

Frenchie paused mid-pour. Hughie’s eyes widened. MM’s jaw tightened.

“What the hell is he doing now?” MM muttered, already heading toward the hallway.

Then it hit them: a sharp, breathy gasp—feminine, surprised, melting quickly into a soft, needy moan as the creaking intensified.

The room went dead quiet.

Hughie blinked hard. “Wait… there’s a girl in there with him?”

Another moan slipped through the thin walls, higher this time, raw and trembling. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, faster, paired with deep, guttural grunts from Soldier Boy—low and arrogant, the kind that said he was enjoying every second of wrecking whoever was under him.

Frenchie’s eyebrows shot up. “He brought someone back? Without telling us?”

Kimiko tilted her head, listening with quiet curiosity as your voice cracked into a desperate whimper, the bed thudding harder.

MM stopped outside the door, hand raised like he was about to knock and tell the asshole to keep it down—until another broken moan rang out, clearer this time.

That voice.

MM froze.

Hughie’s face went pale. “That… that sounded like—”

Your moan cut him off, loud and shattered, as Soldier Boy hit that spot that made your toes curl and your back arch. The rhythm turned brutal—bedframe cracking against the wall, your high, needy cries mixing with his rough, animalistic groans. No words. Just pure filth: the slick, wet sounds of him pounding into you, your legs shaking, voice climbing higher and more desperate with every thrust.

Frenchie’s cigarette nearly dropped from his lips. “Non… no way. That’s not—”

But it was. The next moan was unmistakable—your voice, raw and trembling, cracking beautifully as you tried and failed to stay quiet.

Hughie looked like he was about to be sick. “Oh my god. That’s… that’s her.

MM’s hand dropped to his side, eyes wide with pure shock. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

The pace inside grew frantic. Your whimpers turned into frantic little sobs of pleasure, body jolting with every deep, punishing snap of Soldier Boy’s hips. His grunts got louder, rougher—almost snarls—cocky and satisfied as he fucked you , the headboard slamming like it might break.

Your voice broke on a long, high, trembling cry as you came hard, legs shaking violently around him. Soldier Boy followed with a deep groan, hips stuttering once, twice, before the bed finally went still.

Heavy, ragged breathing filled the sudden silence.

The boys stood frozen in the hallway, stunned into complete silence.

Frenchie was the first to speak, voice hushed and disbelieving. “Putain… it’s really her. With him.”

Hughie pulled his hoodie up over his head like it could erase the last five minutes. “I’m never going to be able to look at her again. Or him. Or… anyone.”

MM just stared at the door, rubbing his temples hard, muttering, “Of all the people… Soldier Boy? What the fuck is she thinking?”

Kimiko’s lips twitched with quiet amusement, shrugging one shoulder as if to say surprise.

Inside the room, you were still catching your breath, face buried against Soldier Boy’s sweat-slick chest, a soft embarrassed laugh bubbling up. He smirked down at you, one big hand lazily stroking your spine, voice low and smug.

“Sounds like the peanut gallery finally figured it out, sweetheart.”

Hughie

You and Hughie had waited until the safehouse felt dead quiet.

The team was supposed to be out for hours, so the second the door clicked shut behind the last person, Hughie had pulled you into his room with that shy, eager grin. Clothes came off fast—his hands a little clumsy with nerves, your laughter soft against his mouth as you tumbled onto the bed together.

He eased into you slowly, careful like always, and the old mattress creaked under you both. You let out a quiet gasp, mouth falling open, fingers digging gently into his shoulders. Hughie answered with a low, shaky groan, burying his face in your neck as he started to move.

No talking. Just soft, breathy sounds—your little moans growing sweeter and higher every time he rolled his hips, his own quiet, desperate grunts mixing with the rhythmic creak of the bed. It felt safe. Private. You didn’t hold back, letting yourself get louder as pleasure built, your voice turning into needy whimpers that made Hughie’s breathing hitch.

The bedframe started knocking gently against the wall. Then harder.

You were both so lost in it—your legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts getting a little faster, a little deeper—that neither of you heard the front door open.

In the living room, the team had just walked in.

Frenchie stopped mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. MM’s expression shifted from tired to confused. Kimiko tilted her head. Butcher leaned against the wall with a slow, shit-eating grin.

Then your moan floated down the hallway—soft at first, then louder, higher, cracking beautifully as Hughie hit that spot that made your toes curl. The bed was really creaking now, steady and unmistakable, paired with Hughie’s low, embarrassed little grunts that somehow still sounded desperate.

Hughie froze for half a second when he heard voices, but you clenched around him and he couldn’t stop—his hips stuttered, a choked groan slipping out as he kept going, both of you too far gone to quiet down.

“Oh fuck…” Hughie whispered against your skin, mortified, but his body betrayed him with another deep thrust that pulled a high, trembling whimper from your throat.

In the living room, the silence was deafening.

Frenchie’s smirk grew. “Well, well. Little Hughie is not so little after all.”

MM rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus Christ. They thought we were gone.”

Butcher chuckled darkly, voice carrying just enough. “Sounds like the kid’s finally getting some. About time.”

Your moan peaked—loud, broken, and completely unaware—right as Hughie’s rhythm turned frantic and uneven. His quiet, ragged groans mixed with your shaky cries until you both fell apart together: your high, trembling voice and his deeper, embarrassed moan echoing through the thin walls as the bed finally stilled.

The sudden silence was brutal.

You buried your burning face in Hughie’s chest, whispering a horrified “Oh my god…” while he looked ready to die on the spot, cheeks flaming red.

From the living room came Frenchie’s amused voice, loud and clear:

“Don’t stop on our account, mes amis! We can wait!”

Hughie groaned again—this time purely from embarrassment—and pulled the pillow over both your heads like it could hide you from the entire team.

You could still hear Butcher’s low laugh and MM muttering something about “kids these days” as your heart hammered with pure mortification.

Hughie peeked out from under the pillow, voice small and mortified. “…We are never living this down.”

Frenchie

The safehouse was supposed to be empty tonight — just you and Frenchie. The rest of the team had left for a lead that would supposedly keep them gone until morning. So when Frenchie pulled you into the dimly lit living room instead of his bedroom, you didn’t argue.

He had you bent over the back of the old couch before you could even catch your breath, skirt shoved up around your waist, his jeans barely pushed down his thighs. No slow buildup this time. He slid into you in one smooth thrust, deep and confident, pulling a surprised, breathy moan from your throat.

The couch creaked loudly under the force of that first thrust. You gripped the cushions tight, mouth falling open in a silent cry as he started moving — steady, rolling hips that quickly turned hungry. Soft, needy sounds spilled out of you with every push: little gasps turning into higher, trembling moans that you couldn’t hold back. Frenchie answered with low, raspy groans, the occasional whispered French curse slipping out like a prayer.

No real talking. Just the wet, filthy slap of skin, the rhythmic creak of the couch, and the way your voice kept climbing — broken and desperate every time he angled his hips just right and hit that spot that made your knees weak.

You were so lost in it that neither of you heard the van pull up outside.

The front door opened quietly. The team stepped in, expecting silence… and walked straight into the soundtrack of Frenchie fucking you over the couch.

Your moan rang out — high, raw, and unmistakable — right as he drove in harder. The couch was really moving now, scraping against the floor with every thrust. Frenchie’s breathing had turned rough and primal, deep grunts mixing with your whimpering cries, the wet sounds echoing obscenely in the open room.

Frenchie froze mid-thrust when he heard the footsteps, but his body betrayed him — hips giving one last involuntary roll that pulled a loud, shattered whimper from you.

Butcher stopped dead in the doorway, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, fuck. Didn’t expect a live show in the living room.”

MM turned his head away fast, muttering, “Jesus Christ, Frenchie…”

Hughie looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. “Oh god… that’s… they’re right there.”

Kimiko tilted her head, a small amused smile tugging at her lips as another desperate moan escaped you — your voice cracking beautifully as Frenchie couldn’t stop himself from giving one more deep thrust.

Frenchie’s face burned, but he stayed buried inside you, one hand still gripping your hip. He let out a breathless, embarrassed laugh against your back.

“Mon dieu… we thought you were gone until morning,” he called out, voice hoarse and thick with accent, trying to sound casual even while he was still pulsing inside you.

Your cheeks were on fire. You hid your face in the couch cushion, mortified, body still trembling around him.

Butcher chuckled low and dirty. “Clearly. Carry on, then. Don’t let us interrupt the romance.”

Frenchie groaned — half embarrassment, half lingering pleasure — and pressed his forehead to your shoulder. He whispered softly against your skin, only for you to hear, “I should have taken you to the roof, chérie…”

The team started awkwardly dispersing toward the kitchen, muttering and laughing under their breath, while you stayed bent over the couch, heart racing, Frenchie still buried deep and trying and failing to stay still.

The embarrassment was overwhelming… but the way he twitched inside you told you he wasn’t entirely sorry.

Homelander

The boys were out chasing another lead, leaving the safehouse quiet for once.

You knew you were making a terrible mistake. You were supposed to be helping them take him down — feeding them intel, staying on the inside. But somewhere along the way the lines had blurred completely. One secret meeting turned into stolen nights, and now here you were: heart racing as “John” slipped through the back door in civilian clothes, no cape, no suit, just that dangerously soft smile that made your stomach flip.

He didn’t waste time. The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both, his hands were on you — surprisingly gentle at first, then hungry. He had you on the bed in seconds, clothes pushed aside just enough. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, your head fell back with a shaky gasp, mouth forming a perfect O.

No loud talking. Just breathy, intimate sounds.

Your soft moans filled the small room as he moved — deep, rolling thrusts that made the bed creak steadily beneath you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound almost vulnerable, every time you clenched around him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as the rhythm slowly built.

You were so lost in him — in the way he felt, in the way he whispered your name like a secret — that neither of you noticed the front door opening.

The team had come back early.

They stepped inside quietly, expecting an empty safehouse… until your voice drifted down the hallway.

A soft, needy moan. Then another, higher, trembling.

MM froze. Hughie’s eyes went wide. Frenchie tilted his head, cigarette halfway to his lips. Butcher’s expression darkened instantly.

Then it came — clear, unmistakable, wrapped in a broken whimper:

“John…”

The entire room went ice-cold.

Butcher’s jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. “Did she just—?”

Another moan from you, louder this time, cracking beautifully as Homelander hit that perfect spot deep inside. The bedframe started slamming harder against the wall, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin growing filthier. Your voice kept slipping out — soft cries turning desperate, repeating that name like a prayer:

“John… John—”

Homelander answered with a low, possessive growl, hips snapping faster, the sounds turning primal and urgent. Just raw need as he fucked you deeper, your moans climbing higher and more wrecked with every thrust.

Frenchie exhaled slowly, voice hushed. “Putain… she’s with him. She called him John.”

Hughie looked sick. “She’s supposed to be helping us… and she’s — oh god.”

MM rubbed his face, voice tight with betrayal. “We trusted her.”

Butcher’s eyes were murderous, but he didn’t move — just stood there listening as your high, trembling moan peaked, voice breaking on “John” one last time as you came hard around him. Homelander followed with a deep, satisfied groan, hips stuttering before the bed finally went still.

Silence crashed down.

Then Butcher’s voice cut through the wall, low and dangerous:

“Well, well. Looks like our little mole’s been playing both sides… and enjoying it.”

Inside the bedroom you froze, face buried in Homelander’s neck, horror flooding through you as reality slammed back in. He just smirked against your hair, voice soft and smug, barely above a whisper:

“They heard you moan my name, darling. My real name.”

Your heart hammered with panic and lingering pleasure. The boys were right outside — and they knew everything now.

I'm thinking of expanding the homelander story. She sees him behind their backs vibes.

The city felt dead that night, a heavy, airless sort of quiet that usually meant something had already happened. You noticed it halfway up the stairs to your apartment when your own boots sounded way too sharp against the concrete, echoing in the narrow stairwell like the building itself was holding its breath. You paused outside your door, keys gripped tight, listening to the absolute lack of noise from behind the neighbors' doors. Somehow, there were no noisy televisions or muffled arguments tonight, just a localized vacuum of sound. You pushed through it anyway because routine is a powerful sedative, even when your gut is telling you to run.

Inside, the kitchen light flickered with a dull hum, and that was when you saw the shadow. Unfortunately for you, it wasn't a trick of the streetlamps; it was a solid, unmoving blotch of darkness cutting across the linoleum. When you looked toward the window, your heart didn't jump so much as it just went cold.

Homelander was hovering just beyond the glass.

Up close, he looked like a wreck. There was no cinematic polish, no camera-ready smile, just a man suspended in the air by something unnatural. He was covered in gore—thick, dark smears soaked into the seams of his suit and dried in jagged streaks along his jaw. He looked like he’d just finished painting a room with the people inside it. You slowly walked over and unlatched the lock, the metallic click sounding like a gunshot. As the glass slid back, the smell hit you first; the heavy, copper sting of fresh blood mixed with the ozone of the night air. He didn't move or offer an explanation. He just stayed suspended there, searching your face for the scream or the worship he usually pulled from people like debt. You hadn't seen him since that one-off night a year ago, a brief mistake in a hotel bar that you’d spent months trying to bury.

“Are you coming in,” you said, your voice flat and sounding a lot steadier than you felt, “or are you planning to stay out there and attract a crowd?”

That seemed to be what finally grounded him. He drifted forward and landed on your floorboards with a dull thud, his boots leaving dark, wet prints on the wood. He didn't say a word, just stood there looking at his own hands like he’d never seen them before. You didn't wait. You just turned and walked toward the bathroom. “In here,” you called over your shoulder. “Before you ruin the rug.”

The bathroom was cramped and the light was dim, stripping away the hero image until he was just a man in a ruined suit. You turned the taps on and watched the water drum against the porcelain tub, waiting until he was standing in the doorway.

"Get out of it," you told him, nodding at the suit.

He didn't argue. He stripped with a clumsy haste, the heavy gold-and-blue fabric hitting the tile with a wet thud. When he stepped into the tub, his eyes fixed on you with a terrifying focus. He sank into the water, and it turned a murky, rusted pink almost immediately.

"Sit," you commanded, grabbing a washcloth.

You started at his shoulder. Pressed the cloth down, dragged it slowly across his skin, watching the blood smear and then lift. He just sat there– watching you work.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a minute.

You’re not exactly here for the conversation, John,” you replied, wringing the cloth out and moving to the other side of his neck. "Show up at my window like a stray after turning a facility into a butcher shop? You look pathetic like this."

He let out a low growl, a sound that would have paralyzed anyone else, but to you it just sounded like a whimper. He reached up, wet fingers curling around your wrist with an iron grip that felt like it was going to leave a mark. He didn't pull you away; he just held you there, anchored. "Say it again," he choked out, his voice cracking with an almost psychotic need. "Tell me I'm nothing."

"You're a disaster," you whispered, reaching up to grab a handful of his blonde hair with your free hand. You pulled his head back so he had to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and dark. "You're a goddamn wreck hiding in a bathroom because you can't stand yourself."

He let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, and before you could move, he reached out and hauled you over the edge of the tub. You hit the water fully clothed, the shock of the heat and the weight of him pressing you back against the porcelain making your head swim. He didn't care about the logistics. He grabbed the waistband of your jeans, the fabric groaning before he simply ripped them down, his strength barely restrained as he stripped the wet denim away from your legs.

He was frantic, his hands fumbling with your shirt while his mouth searched for yours with a sort of desperate clumsiness. He tasted like salt and iron, his tongue pushing into your mouth with an uncoordinated need that felt like he was trying to find something inside you he could keep.

"Make me stop," he gasped against your skin, his hands shaking as he pressed you into the tile. "Tell me I'm yours. Tell me I'm a good boy."

"Get on your knees," you breathed, the words probably coming out sharper than you originally intended.

The Great American Hero didn't hesitate. He shifted in the cramped space, the water splashing over the sides as he lowered himself, his hands gripping your thighs so hard it was going to leave bruises. He looked up at you from the other end of the tub, his face clean of blood but his expression utterly wrecked, a mix of need and worship that made the room feel like it was quickly running out of oxygen.

His head dropped between your legs, his tongue working with a desperate, slobbering intensity that had him moaning onto your cock. He was looking for friction, his hips rutting against the porcelain of the tub as he devoured you, his fingers digging into the backs of your knees. You grabbed a handful of his wet blonde hair, yanking his head back so he had to look at you while he worked. His blue eyes were practically black with arousal, fixed on your face with a terrifying adoration.

"Please," he slurred against your thigh, the water turning frothy as he moved. "Please, can I? Can I fuck you? I've been so good. I'm a good boy, right?"

"You're a mess," you whispered, guiding him up. "But yeah. Get in here."

He wasted no time, sliding his cock into you with a slow, agonizing glide that had him gasping for air. He stayed still for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours, his body trembling as he waited for you to adjust to the stretch. Then the rhythm broke. The slow roll of his hips turned into a rough, pounding desperation, his skin slapping against yours in a wet, rhythmic cadence that filled the small room. He was practically begging, his body responding to every sharp command you leveled at him.

He babbled into your ear, promises of belonging and desperate "I love you"s that sounded more like threats than endearments. "You're so full, baby. I'm filling you up just like I promised. Tell me you're mine. Tell me I'm yours."

The water was splashing everywhere, the tub groaning under the weight of his movements. He sped up, his hips slamming into yours with a rough, uncoordinated force that threatened to break the tile. The sound of wet skin hitting skin echoed off the bathroom walls, a frantic, messy soundtrack to the way he was losing his mind inside of you. He reached down, his fingers clumsily looking for yours so he could pin your hands back, needing the physical reminder that you were trapped under his weight, even as he was the one serving you. He was rutting into you now, his heavy cock bottoming out with every desperate thrust, his eyes never leaving yours.

When he finally dumped his load into you, his balls constricting as rope after rope hit your insides, he let out a long, quiet chant of "Thank you" and "I love you" until the tension finally left his body. He collapsed against your chest, his softening cock still twitching inside you, the water in the tub still swirling around your waists as his heart hammered like a trapped bird against his ribs.

By the time the water had gone cold, the room felt heavier than it had when he was covered in blood. You leaned back against the tile, your breathing finally starting to level out while he sat there, tracing uncoordinated patterns on your leg with a wet finger.

“Did I do a good job?” he asked, his voice small and innocent, as if he hadn't just rearranged your guts in a bathtub.

“You were super, John," you muttered, the exhaustion finally pulling you under. "Good boy.”

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Being a supe wasn't as amazing as everyone thought it was. At least not for you. You were a regenerative supe, one that could regenerate faster then any other supe. Eventually Vought realised you were the perfect opportunity to breed supes. You couldn't die, age and you would heal straight after childbirth. You'd forgotten about escaping a long time ago and now you were treated quite well. You had a nice apartment, food, money and all the clothes and designer bags you could ask for. Maybe it didn't matter if you had to be constantly pregnant. You were about 7 months along in this pregnancy. You'd lost count how many babies you'd had, you didn't even see them as living beings anymore. It was easier that way. You'd began popping out babies around the 70s, even having a few of soldier boys children. The one you were carrying now was Homelanders. They often used his sperm considering he was the most powerful in the seven. Only thing you hated was that Homelander became possessive over you once he learned you would carry most of his children. You made your way down to the labs in the morning. They needed to check how the baby was going, you were used to it by now. You made it to the lab and saw Homelander waiting. You groaned and rubbed your head. 'You're absolutely glowing, my darling. Your breasts are looking...full,' he said as he licked his lips. You rolled your eyes and laid down on one of the beds.

'You don't need to be here for this,' you said. He chuckled and began to rub your stomach as you relaxed on the hospital bed.

'I'm not busy and I want to be there for you, mommy,' he said. You groaned and rubbed your face again.

'No! What did I say about that goddamn name?' you said as his hand stopped.

'Fine, fine. I won't use it,' he said. You rolled your eyes as the doctor entered.

'Looking glowing like usual, my dear,' she said as you closed your eyes and let her start the ultrasound. Homelander stood beside you and watched as the image of the baby showed up. 'Still a perfectly healthy little girl. She's going to be a big girl, too.'

'Definitely my kid then,' Homelander said with a smirk. You rolled your eyes again and looked at him.

'Don't you have that podcast thing to do today?' you asked.

'Yes, it's not for another hour,' he said. You wanted to face palm, another hour with him around wasn't ideal.

After the doctor told you the baby was still nice and healthy you wanted to go back to your apartment and enjoy a bath, but of course Homelander had other ideas. You were preparing to leave when he grabbed you from behind and buried his face in the crook of your neck. 'You're so big and swollen,' he whispered.

'Why do you make everything sound so gross?' you asked as he began kissing your neck. You pulled away and looked at him. 'What's the one rule?'

'Not to have sex. I'm not going to have sex, I just want to touch you. Is that a crime?' he asked.

'Sweetheart, this whole thing is just a business transaction. We won't even know the child, it'll get shipped off to God knows where like usual.'

'I know, but you're still carrying my child. That gives me the right to touch you,' he said as he moved closer.

'You do realise I've given birth to your siblings? And that I've fucked your father?' you asked. His jaw clenched a little before he smirked.

'I'm very aware. I wish you had given birth to me,' he said as he licked his lips again. You groaned and shoved past him.

'Nope! Not dealing with your gross shit today!' you shouted as you left him alone in the lab.

--

After some relaxing time alone you headed to the gym to do some light exercise, it usually helped when you felt uncomfortable because of the baby. You were walking on the treadmill when Firecracker entered. You groaned and continued walking. You couldn't stand her one bit and often had to stop yourself from throwing her out the window.

'The amazing mother to be! Shouldn't you be taking it easy, darling?' she said. You rolled your eyes like you did almost 100 times a day.

'Exercise is good for my body and also for the baby,' you said without looking at her.

'You and homelander spend a lot of time together.'

'Yes, well I would rather it be the opposite and he stop bothering me,' you said as she chuckled.

'You're quite hold, aren't you? I bet you wouldn't say that if he were here.'

'I would, and I have. He doesn't scare me, he actually listens to me,' you said. She stepped closer and stood beside the treadmill.

'Do you love him?' she asked. You looked at her in disgust.

'God, no. He's like a goddamn annoying puppy. Our relationship is just business.'

'And that's why he's always touching you? For business?' she asked.

'Homelander is possessive. Especially when I'm carrying his child. You know what he's like,' you said. Firecracker reached up and turned off the treadmill. You turned to her and smiled. 'Have you ever been slapped by an eighty year old pregnant woman?' you asked as she looked at you in confusion.

'You're eighty? I knew you didn't age, but that's quite the wisdom you must have.' You stepped off the treadmill and wiped some of the sweat off your forehead.

'What do you want? I'm not in the mood.'

'I just want to understand why homelander likes you so much.'

'And I told you, I'm carrying his baby. Plus, I knew him when he was a child. I met him a few times and being without a family he probably had a small obsession with the pregnant women,' you said. She crossed her arms and looked at you.

'You knew him as a child and now you're having his child? It's a little sick isn't it?'

'You're apart of vought and you're surprised they would do something like that? Open your eyes, sweetheart,' you said as you pushed past her. 'Don't bother me again.'

--

You made it back to your apartment and fell asleep on the couch. When you awoke again you felt groggy and like you’d been asleep for years. You groaned and opened your eyes to see you weren’t in your apartment anymore.

‘As beautiful as the day we met,’ a voice said as you glanced up to see Soldier boy. You groaned and collapsed back against the bed.

‘Why couldn’t you stay dead?’

‘That’s really what you want to say to me right now, huh? Did you even notice I was missing?’ He asked. You looked at him and rolled your eyes.

‘Yes, and I prayed every night your death was brutal,’ you said before he slapped you across the face. Just as he did so two other man walked in.

‘Woah! Let’s not hit the pregnant woman!’ The younger man said as he rushed forward. You looked at him and held your hands out.

‘Help me sit up,’ you said. He carefully pulled you into a sitting position and your hand rested on your pregnant stomach.

‘This is the slut I was talking about,’ Soldier Boy said as you rolled your eyes.

‘Alright, let’s not go shoutin’ slurs at the lady,’ the older man said as you looked at him. You took a moment before realisation dawned on you.

‘Butcher…’

‘So, you do know me, luv. I’m flattered,’ he said. You sighed and looked around trying to find something to tie your hair up with. You groaned and reached behind to tie your hair into a knot instead. ‘You seem quite casual for someone who’s been kidnapped.’

‘Yeah well, not much shocks me these days,’ you said. You looked at Ben and he looked like he wanted to slap you again. ‘What, Ben? You want me to run into your arms? Want me to cry and say thank god you’re alive?’

‘It would be nice. I didn’t realise I mattered to little to you,’ he grumbled.

‘Forgive me for not forming a connection with the man I was forced to spread my legs for every nine months,’ you said. Hughie’s face went red as he quickly looked away.

‘Heard your having my son’s baby now. That’s a bit sick, isn’t it?’ He said. You rolled your eyes and felt like punching him.

‘Well, thankfully now they just inseminate me instead of making me get fucked,’ you said. Soldier boy stepped forward and Hughie moved to your side just in case.

‘I bet you’d still love it, huh? You miss my cum between,’ you quickly cut him off by kicking him in the nuts. You looked at Billy.

‘British man, slap him for me.’

‘Well, I’m tryna get the bloke on my side,’ he said. You raised an eyebrow before Hughie helped you stand up.

‘Fine, I’ll do it.’ As Ben stood up you slapped him hard against the face. He went to grab you but Butcher quickly stepped in and used a tranquiliser on him. Ben fell to the ground as you sighed and placed your hands on your hips. ‘So, why have you kidnapped me?’

‘We’re aware you…breed supes for Vought. We need to put a stop to that. It was soldier boy who told us about you and wanted you out of Vought,’ Hughie said.

‘I bet he said I was this gorgeous babe with a great pair of tits?’ You said.

‘Along those lines, yes,’ Hughie muttered.

‘Yes, well I’m sure he didn’t bring up the part where he used to request I be sedated when he would have sex with me because he “didn’t enjoy my sounds of pain when he was too rough” or something,’ you said. Hughie stared at you in shock. Billy stepped forward and looked at you.

‘I’m gonna take one guess and say you haven’t had a say in any of these pregnancies?’ He asked.

‘You’re smarter than you look. No, none were my choice. I can’t even remember how many babies I’ve had by now. After the first four I stopped caring about the children so I wouldn’t get hurt,’ you said. Hughie looked at you sadly.

‘I’m guessing they take the children away from you?’

‘Yeah, but it’s not like I want them anyway. Not when they’re a product of…you know,’ you said. The two men nodded and were glad you weren’t as brainwashed as they thought you would be.

‘So, the one you’re carrying now is Homelander’s?’ Billy asked.

‘Yeah, this is the third one that’s his. I’m just glad I don’t have to have sex with the fucking creep,’ you said. Billy chuckled and led you out of the room where Ben still laid unconscious. You groaned and sat on the crappy couch as Hughie went to fetch you some water.

‘You hate the bastard, then?’

‘Yep, he’s always touching me and being weird around me. At least he actually listens to me,’ you said. Billy sat across from you.

‘He bloody listens to you?’

‘Yeah, he’s a fucking man child with mommy issues. I’m the closest thing to a mother figure he’s ever had,’ you said. Billy looked at you in disgust.

‘He sees you as a mother figure and still wants to touch you in that way?’

‘Yes, are you surprised?’ You asked as Billy scoffed.

‘No, I know he’s a deranged freak.’

Hughie returned with some water and you smiled. ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ you said as you noticed him blushing a little. Billy chuckled and looked at you again.

‘Are you this maternal with everyone?’

‘I’m well and truly old enough to be your mother, Billy.’

‘Bloody hell, when were you born?’ He asked.

‘1946, in September to be exact,’ you said as they stared at you in shock.

‘You’re bloody eighty!?’ Billy said as you laughed.

‘Hey, I’m seventy nine.’

Hughie chuckled and sat down next to Billy.

‘Well, you look bloody good for your age,’ Billy said. You smiled and took some small sips of water.

‘What’s the plan then, boys? Can’t exactly kill me,’ you said.

‘We’re gonna keep you away from Vought,’ Billy said.

‘And what about the baby?’

‘We plan to…use it to our advantage,’ Hughie said. You sat forward more and looked at them.

‘How do you plan on using a baby to your advantage?’

‘Well, the kid will have powers. Plus, it’ll be a good bargaining tool for Vought and Homelander,’ Billy said. You thought for a moment.

‘I don’t know… Do you really want a baby around?’

‘Well, we’re going to set up a hide out. Somewhere Vought won’t find you. Somewhere you can take care of the child,’ Hughie said.

‘And I’m guessing I don’t get a say in this?’ You asked.

‘We could try abortion, luv. But considering the baby is a supe we don’t know what would happen,’ Billy said. You sighed and nodded, knowing he was right. You placed your hand on your stomach.

‘I don’t want to get my hopes up,’ you whispered.

‘What do you mean?’ Hughie asked.

‘I don’t want to be excited about finally getting to keep my own baby just for someone to take her from me,’ you whispered. Hughie sat beside you and offered you a smile.

‘We’re going to do everything we can to protect you and the baby. We won’t even let soldier boy know the location. He’s useful, but we won’t let him near you,’ Hughie said. You smiled and took his hand.

‘You’re a good kid… Thank you. I guess it’s worth a shot. I’ve been nothing but a damn breeding machine since the 80s, may as well risk whatever I have left,’ you said. Hughie smiled and you felt the baby start to kick, you guided Hughie’s hand to your stomach so he could feel it. He chuckled when he felt the movement against his hand.

‘So, it’s a girl?’ He asked.

‘Yeah, she’s healthy. The doctor says she’s gonna be a damn big baby too,’ you said. Billy looked at you with a fond smile. He knew he couldn’t protect Becca when she was pregnant, so he was going to do everything he could to protect you. You heard a noise coming from the room and Billy groaned and stood up.

You hadn’t planned on working that evening. For once, you were off duty, wandering the city with a coffee that had already gone lukewarm, when the ground shook hard enough to send a car alarm blaring two blocks over.

People screamed. Glass shattered. The sky lit up with a pulse of energy, and for a heartbeat you thought it was a terrorist attack. You ducked into an alley, hands over your ears, waiting for the blast wave to finish rolling through the street.

When you came out, smoke hung in the air, and the crowd had scattered. That’s when you saw him.

A man, hunched forward, stumbling like he’d just taken a bullet to the gut. His clothes were scorched and ridiculous. Sweatpants and some kind of ratty jacket like he’d escaped from a gym in the 80s. His face was streaked with soot, jaw clenched as if even staying upright was an act of will.

You recognized the look instantly: post-blast disorientation, the kind you saw in trauma wards. He was going down.

“Hey!”, you called, moving toward him before you could think better of it. “Don’t—”.

Too late. He crumpled against the hood of a parked car, one hand leaving a smear of ash across the paint.

You rushed over, scanning him for visible wounds, though something about the sheer heat radiating off his skin made your stomach flip. He wasn’t bleeding. He wasn’t burned. But the air around him shimmered like asphalt in July.

His head turned, and for the first time you got a good look at his eyes. Sharp, green and so unfocused.

“Who the hell… are you?”, he rasped, his voice deep and raw. He smelled like smoke and man, and for some reason you felt your pulse quicken. Not out of fear, not entirely, though fear was in there, too.

“Doesn’t matter”, you said, pressing your hand lightly to his chest to keep him from trying to get up too fast. “You need to stay down. You just got hit with something”.

He pushed off the hood of the car, ignoring your hand, and staggered upright. For a second, it almost looked convincing, his shoulders squared, chest out, like some guy who’d just walked out of a bar fight and won.

Then his knees buckled.

You caught his arm before he face-planted, the weight of him nearly dragging you down with him. Jesus, he was solid. Muscles coiled under your grip like steel cables, but his balance was shot.

“’M fine”, he muttered, trying to shrug you off. The word slurred at the edges, betraying him. “Always fine”.

“Yeah? That why you’re swaying like a drunk at last call?”, you shot back, tightening your hold. “You’re not fine. Sit down before you fall”.

That earned you a sharp look — pride and irritation sparking in those green eyes — but he didn’t fight you. Not really. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue, but the effort it took just to keep standing was betraying him.

“Can’t… sit down. Not safe here”, he grumbled, eyes scanning the street like he expected something to come after him.

You followed his gaze. Nothing but smoke, sirens in the distance, a few gawkers filming on their phones. If anything, the attention was the bigger danger. A man like him collapsing in public? He’d be on the internet before you could blink.

“Alright”, you said, firm, slipping your shoulder under his arm. “Then we move. My place is three blocks over. You can crash there before the cops or an ambulance show up”.

He gave a humorless chuckle, even as he leaned more of his weight against you. “What, you take every half-dead guy home?”.

“Only the ones who look like they’re about to faceplant in the middle of the street”. You adjusted your grip, huffing. “Congratulations. You made the cut”.

For a man who claimed to be fine, he was sweating bullets, every step heavier than the last. You could feel the heat radiating off him through his clothes, unnatural and almost feverish. He wasn’t just drunk or concussed, there was something different about him.

Still, he kept moving, leaning on you but refusing to let himself collapse. Pride. Pure stubborn pride.

By the time you reached the side door of your apartment building, his breathing had gone ragged, each inhale like sandpaper.

You fumbled with your keys, glancing up at him. “Still think you’re fine?”.

His lips curled in the faintest smirk, though his eyes were glassy. “Damn right”.

You half-dragged, half-steered him up the narrow stairwell, your muscles screaming by the second flight. He was dead weight one moment, then suddenly pushing forward like he didn’t need you at all. Until his body betrayed him again, swaying hard enough that you had to slam your back into the wall to keep both of you upright.

“Fine, huh?”, you muttered between breaths. “You’re so fine you’re about to take us both down the stairs”.

He gave a grunt, something between a laugh and a cough, but didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched, stubborn, eyes glassy with that soldier’s refusal to admit defeat. You’d seen it before in patients, the kind who’d rather bleed out than let anyone think they were weak.

Finally, your door. You got it open, wrestled him inside, and aimed him straight toward the bedroom. His boots scuffed against the hardwood, every step heavier than the last, until you gave up trying to steer and just let his momentum carry him forward.

He collapsed onto the mattress like a felled tree, the bedsprings groaning under the sudden weight. You reached to steady him, but he was already gone, sprawled on his back, chest heaving, eyes shut tight.

Unconscious.

You hovered at the edge of the bed, breathing hard, your heart hammering louder than it should’ve. The man was a furnace; the heat rolling off him practically seeped into your skin.

You should’ve checked his vitals, should’ve grabbed your kit from the closet. But… there was no blood. No visible injuries. His pulse thundered steady when you pressed your fingers against his wrist, strong enough to make you doubt he was even human.

Who the hell was he?

Your gaze lingered on his face, smudged with soot, beard rough along his jaw, expression softer now that unconsciousness had stolen the sharpness from it. For just a second, he looked less like a walking disaster and more like a man who’d been fighting for far too long.

You let out a slow breath, tugged the blanket over him, and sat down in the chair across the room, watching him like you expected him to wake up swinging.

Because someone like him? You doubted he ever stayed down for long.

-

The first thing you noticed was the silence.

For two days, the man didn’t stir. No tossing, no muttering in his sleep, not even shifting on the mattress. Just steady, thunderous breathing that sounded too powerful to belong to anyone human.

It should’ve unnerved you — hell, it did — but not in the way you expected. You’d dealt with patients clinging to life before, hooked to machines that did their breathing for them. This wasn’t that. His chest rose and fell like clockwork, each inhale steady and sure, as if his body had decided sleep was simply another form of maintenance.

A supe. Of course he was. That explained the heat, the unnatural weight, the way the air around him had shimmered after the blast. You didn’t know his name, but you knew enough. Regular people didn’t glow like a furnace and apparently drop buildings like toothpicks.

So you let him be.

You took the couch, shoving an extra blanket under your head for a pillow, and tried to go about your life. Coffee in the morning. Quick walks around the block to avoid climbing the walls. Even caught up on some reading you’d been putting off.

But it was impossible to forget he was there.

Every time you passed the bedroom door, you half-expected him to be gone. Or worse, awake and tearing your apartment apart. But no… there he lay, sprawled across your bed like some mythic relic unearthed from another era, sweatpants and all.

The first night, you tiptoed in to check his vitals, more out of habit than need. Still strong. Still steady. You pulled the blanket higher over him before you realized what you were doing, then backed out quickly, muttering to yourself like an idiot.

The second night, you didn’t even bother. You just sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the ceiling in the dark, and wondered what the hell you’d gotten yourself into.

Because sooner or later, he was going to wake up. And you had no idea what kind of man would be opening his eyes in your bed.

-

You had your legs tucked under the blanket, phone pressed to your ear, half-listening as Lila rattled off the night’s drama from the ER.

“—and guess who rolled in, drunk off his ass with a split lip and two busted knuckles?”, she said, her voice laced with amusement.

You didn’t need to guess. “Don’t tell me”.

“Oh, I’m telling you”. You could practically hear her smirk. “Your ex. Jackass tried to break a beer bottle over somebody’s head. Missed. Ended up eating the counter instead”.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “God. Typical”.

“Mm-hm. Still thinks he’s ten feet tall and bulletproof”.

“He’s barely five-ten and a moron”, you muttered, leaning back into the cushions.

Lila laughed, but softened. “Anyway, figured you’d get a kick out of it. You doing okay on your days off? Haven’t heard much from you”.

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the closed bedroom door, your pulse quickening. You hesitated before answering, biting your lip.

“Yeah. Just… catching up on sleep. Reading. You know”.

“Uh-huh”. Lila’s tone carried the suspicion of someone who knew you too well. “No late-night Netflix binges with questionable takeout?”.

You forced a laugh. “Nope. Just me, the couch, and peace and quiet”.

She hummed. “Well, good. You deserve it. Just don’t get too comfortable with that couch. I’ll drag you back into twelve-hour shifts soon enough”.

“Looking forward to it”, you said dryly.

You hung up after the usual goodnights, shoved the phone aside, grabbed the remote, and pushed play. The tinny intro music filled the apartment, a welcome distraction, and you popped a handful of popcorn into your mouth. For a moment, it almost felt normal again. The couch, the quiet, the glow of the TV.

Then the air shifted.

You didn’t hear a footstep, didn’t get a warning creak of the floorboards. Just skin. A muscular arm hooked around your throat, cutting your breath off before you could even gasp.

The bowl of popcorn went flying as you clawed at the forearm pinning you back against the couch. Solid. Steel under skin.

Your brain scrambled, panic spiking, until you caught a glimpse of soot-streaked knuckles and a flash of that same ratty shirt from two nights ago.

The man from your bed. Awake.

He said nothing, his grip unyielding, dragging you back tight against his chest as the TV flickered blue light across the room. His breathing was ragged, harsh against your ear.

You choked out a sound, words half-formed. “W-wait—!”.

The arm didn’t loosen.

You kicked against the coffee table, heart hammering, fingers digging at his skin. The heat rolling off him was even more intense now, like being pinned under a furnace.

Finally, his voice came, low, gravel dragged over glass.

“Where the hell am I? Who the fuck are you?”.

His grip tightened, cutting the air in your lungs down to a thread. Your vision spotted at the edges, and panic surged hard in your chest.

“Answer me”, he growled, hot breath against your ear. “Or I snap your neck right here”.

You tried to speak but only managed a strangled sound. Your nails dug into his arm, desperate, but it was like trying to pry apart a steel bar. His strength was unreal, monstrous, and he wasn’t even straining.

Your chest burned, fire licking up your throat. Instinct made you twist just enough to rasp out a broken word.

“—nurse—”.

His grip held. Your legs kicked against the carpet.

“Bullshit”, he spat. “Where’s Vought? Huh? You one of their handlers? Their little rats?”.

You shook your head frantically, clawing at his wrist. Tears pricked your eyes as black edged in on your vision.

“Saved… you…”. The words scraped out, barely audible, torn through your crushed windpipe.

That gave him pause. For the first time since he’d appeared behind you, the crushing hold loosened by a fraction. You dragged in a ragged, whistling breath, coughing hard enough your ribs hurt.

But his arm stayed locked around you, trembling faintly now with tension instead of pure force.

“What’d you say?”. His voice had dropped, but it was no less dangerous.

You coughed again, fighting for words. “You—collapsed… street… I brought you here. Off-duty. I’m not Vought”.

He didn’t release you, not yet. The weight of him pressed against your back, every muscle rigid, every breath sharp. You could feel the war inside him — suspicion, paranoia, instinct screaming to kill — but also the sliver of hesitation your words had carved out.

Seconds stretched, agonizing, until finally his arm slackened enough for you to gasp in real air.

“Why the hell would you do that?”, he muttered, suspicion still sharp.

You coughed again, clutching your throat. “Because… you were dying out there”.

The silence that followed was thick, humming with danger.

Then, slow and reluctant, his arm slid away completely. You collapsed forward onto the couch, wheezing, your pulse racing so hard it hurt.

A jagged laugh cut through the room, low and rasping like rusted metal.

“Can’t die, sweetheart”. His voice was thick, mocking. “Tried plenty. Didn’t take”.

You hunched forward on the couch, clutching your throat, dragging in greedy gulps of air that scorched on the way down. Every breath wheezed, your lungs fighting to even out.

Behind you, the floor creaked as he shifted his weight. Pacing. The kind of restless steps that screamed he was looking for threats.

“Where the fuck am I?”. His words cracked like a gunshot, sharp and demanding. “This ain’t the safehouse. And you—”, a pause, another heavy step, “—you don’t look like Agency”.

You coughed again, voice rasping. “You’re… in my apartment”.

“Apartment”, he repeated, dripping with disdain. “Looks like a goddamn shoebox”.

You forced yourself to sit straighter, though your throat burned raw. “You collapsed. On the street. People were staring. I dragged your ass three blocks here before you got yourself arrested or worse”.

He gave another rough laugh, this one darker, humorless. “Dragged me, huh? You? Don’t flatter yourself, doll. If I’d wanted to stay down, I’d be six feet under”.

“Two days”, you snapped, your voice breaking but fierce despite it. “You were out cold for two fucking days. I thought you were in a coma”.

That shut him up for a beat.

You turned finally, lifting your chin despite the raw ache in your neck. He loomed behind the couch, broad shoulders blocking the lamplight, face half in shadow. His hair was a mess, his beard darker and full. His eyes though, sharp, too sharp, locked on you like you were the one out of place.

“Two days?”, he repeated, disbelief grating in his voice. “No. No, I don’t… I don’t sleep that long since… ”. His gaze flickered, jaw working, before snapping back to you. “What year is it?”.

You blinked, thrown. “It’s—what?“. You watched him for a second. Your voice cracked when you finally got it out. “It’s… twenty-twenty-two”.

The room went silent, heavy enough that you swore you could hear the hum of the refrigerator over your ragged breathing.

He just stared at you, eyes narrowing, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Then he barked out a laugh, short and sharp, like he was daring you to keep lying. But you didn’t flinch, and after a long beat, the sound died in his throat.

That was how the flood started.

You found out who he is.

You explained—halting, cautious, your throat still raw from where he’d squeezed it—that he’d been gone for decades. The Cold War ended, the Wall came down. The U.S. had fought wars in deserts now, not jungles. Vought? They weren’t just a shady military contractor anymore—they owned everything. The biggest superhero team in the world. Movies. Merch. Hell, you told him they ran ads during the Super Bowl.

Every word came out hoarse, each sentence costing you another layer of energy you didn’t have.

Across from you, he’d taken the armchair, sprawled into it like a king dumped off his throne and shoved into a stranger’s castle. Arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched, he listened with a scowl carved deep into his face. He didn’t interrupt often—just the occasional sharp, disbelieving snort, or a bitter mutter when you described something too absurd to believe.

Forty years. Gone.

By the time you’d scratched the surface, barely enough for him to understand that his world was dead and buried, your eyelids felt like sandbags. The lamp light blurred in your vision, your voice frayed to threads.

You pressed your hand to your throat and leaned back into the couch. “That’s… that’s the gist. The world… it’s not the one you left”.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just sat there, staring through you, the kind of stare that didn’t see the room at all.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, slow and rough. “Forty goddamn years”. His mouth twisted. “And the world’s gone to shit without me”.

You let out a tired laugh, more breath than sound. “Pretty sure it was already there”.

His eyes flicked to you, sharp again, but he didn’t bite back. Not this time.

Silence hung. He looked like a bomb waiting to go off, but your body couldn’t keep up anymore. Your throat throbbed with every swallow, your chest ached, your voice was shredded. Your head lolled against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. The clock on the wall ticked past three in the morning, every second like a hammer behind your eyes.

“Look”, you rasped, rubbing at your throat, “I… I can tell you more tomorrow. Right now I can’t… I can’t keep this up”.

Across from you, he sat forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, eyes cutting into you like he expected you to break apart under the weight of his stare.

“You’re tellin’ me I’ve been iced for forty fuckin’ years”, he said, voice low, rough. “You don’t just drop somethin’ like that and go take a nap, sweetheart”.

You let out a weak laugh that scraped your throat raw. “It’s not a nap. It’s survival. My throat feels like I swallowed glass—thanks to you, by the way—and I’ve been talking nonstop since you woke up”.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more a grimace. “Yeah, well. Name’s Ben. Guess I owe you that much”.

You blinked, barely registering it through the fog of exhaustion. “Ben”. You nodded once, slow. “Great. Good to know the name of the guy who nearly crushed my windpipe”.

That earned a rough chuckle out of him, deep and unkind. But he didn’t argue.

You pushed yourself to your feet, swaying slightly, and gestured toward the bedroom door. “You want answers? Fine. I’ll give you more tomorrow. But right now? I need sleep. You’ve got the bed. Don’t wreck it. I’ll take the couch”.

He frowned, arms crossing over his chest again. “You’re just gonna… leave me here? After all that? No restraints, no lock on the door?”.

You leveled him a flat, exhausted look. “You’re Soldier Boy. If you wanted me dead, I’d already be a stain on the wall. So yeah—I’m leaving you here. And praying you don’t snore louder than you already breathe”.

For a moment, he just stared, like he couldn’t quite process the lack of fear. Then he leaned back into the armchair, still scowling, still bristling, but silent.

You pulled the blanket over your shoulders, and let your body sink into the cushions.

The last thing you heard before sleep swallowed you was his muttered voice, low and bitter in the dark.

“World’s gone to shit. And I wake up in a shoebox with some mouthy nurse”.

But there was no heat behind it. Not anymore.

And then you were out cold.

-

Sunlight hit your face before the sound did. A scrape, a clink, something metallic rattling faintly in the kitchen.

You groaned, rolling onto your back on the couch, every muscle stiff from sleeping half-curled. The blanket had slipped halfway down, and the cool morning air licked at your skin. You rubbed your eyes, throat still sore, and for a blissful second you almost forgot there was a walking nuclear bomb in your apartment.

Then you smelled the aftershave. Sharp. Old-fashioned. The kind your granddad used to keep in a glass bottle. Exactly like your granddad´s one.

You sat up slowly, eyes narrowing toward the kitchen.

There he was. Ben. Soldier Boy. Not collapsed, not half-dead, not looming in shadows, just… there. Shirtless, standing broad and solid in the morning light, rifling through your cupboards like he owned the place. His hair was shorter, trimmed down with a jagged hand, beard shaved to a rough scruff. Your scissors and razor lay abandoned on the counter, flecked with dark hair.

You blinked. “You used my—”.

“—Your bathroom’s a goddamn shoebox”, he cut in, gruff and distracted, tugging open another cupboard. “Half your shit’s from the dollar store. Didn’t even find any eggs”.

Your mouth worked for a moment, caught between outrage and disbelief. “You used my granddad´s aftershave, shaved with my stuff and now you’re rummaging through my kitchen?”.

He turned, arms crossed, hair shorter but still unruly, jaw freshly cut with stubble that only made him look sharper. “Yeah. And? Forty years, sweetheart. I’m due for a trim. You’re welcome”.

“Welcome?”, you sputtered.

“Yeah”. His mouth twisted in something like a smirk. “Most women would pay to have Soldier Boy standing in their kitchen looking this good”.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, groaning. “God give me strength”.

He ignored that, stepping closer, voice shifting back into the sharp edge you’d heard last night. “Alright. Fun’s over. Start talking again. I want everything—Vought, the war, who’s running the show now, all of it. And breakfast”.

You gaped at him. “Breakfast?”.

He gestured at the cupboards. “You got popcorn and stale cereal. That ain’t breakfast. You dragged me back from the dead, doll—you can manage some bacon and eggs”.

Your laugh came out harsh, ragged. “You nearly choked me to death last night, and now you’re demanding a hot meal?”.

His grin widened, all teeth and arrogance. “That’s how it works. You wanted me alive, didn’t you?”.

You stared at him, deadpan. “No, I just didn’t want a stranger exploding in front of me on the street”.

His grin faltered just enough to show it stung. But only for a heartbeat. Then his eyes narrowed again, hard and soldier-sharp.

“World’s moved on without me. Fine. But I’m still here. And you—”, he pointed a finger at you, blunt and commanding— “you’re gonna get me up to speed”.

You sighed, dragging yourself off the couch, muttering under your breath. “I should’ve just called an ambulance”.

Behind you, his laugh rolled low and amused. “Too late for regrets, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me now”.

You shuffled into the kitchen, dragging your blanket around your shoulders like a war-torn cape. Your feet were bare, your throat still sore, and you looked like death warmed over.

Ben didn’t care. He was already poking through your drawers like he expected to find a surveillance mic under your forks.

“You really think Vought’s watching me?”, you muttered, grabbing a pan and tossing it on the stove.

He didn’t answer. He was too busy pulling the batteries out of your smoke detector.

“Jesus”, you muttered, grabbing eggs from the fridge. “I’m making breakfast. You want to be paranoid? At least let me scramble in peace”.

“Paranoia’s what kept me alive”, he shot back. “You think they just forgot about me? If I’m still breathin’, they’re watching”. He held up your old coffee machine like it owed him answers. “You sure this isn’t bugged?”.

You glared at him over your shoulder. “It’s a ten-dollar coffeemaker. If Vought’s tapping through that, we’re all doomed”.

He grunted, clearly unconvinced, and started tapping your walls. With his knuckles. Every few feet. Like he was listening for a hollow sound or a hidden panel. The metal-on-drywall thunk echoed through the apartment.

“You’re gonna put a hole in something”, you warned, cracking eggs into the pan. “I rent this place”.

He turned and looked at you like you were the one acting insane. “You should’ve moved already. You’ve been compromised since the second I woke up”.

“‘Compromised’”, you echoed flatly. “Right. Not like you exploded in a city street and then passed out on my bed for two days or anything”.

That got a smirk out of him. “You sound bitter”.

“I sound tired”, you snapped, stirring the eggs with more aggression than necessary. “And I still have a bruise on my goddamn throat”.

He stepped closer, hovering at the edge of the counter like he owned the place. His eyes flicked over your face—just briefly—but there was a split-second there where his expression shifted. Like he saw it. The mark his chokehold left.

“Didn’t know where I was”, he muttered, not quite apologizing, not quite not.

You side-eyed him. “You always wake up strangling strangers?”.

His voice was rough. “Only the ones I don’t trust”.

“Well, lucky me”, you deadpanned.

He leaned in, elbows on the counter. “You got a name?”.

You blinked. “You choked me half to death, shaved with my razor, demanded breakfast, and now you’re asking my name?”.

He raised a brow. “Pretty sure I gave you mine. Fair’s fair”.

You sighed. “It’s Y/N”.

“Y/N”, he repeated, slow like he was testing it out. Then: “Huh. Doesn’t sound like a spy name”.

You gave him a tired look. “Glad I passed the test”.

The eggs sizzled behind you. You turned back to the stove, flipping the burner off and grabbing two plates.

“Sit”, you ordered, setting the food down on the tiny table between you.

Ben didn’t sit immediately. He looked at the food, then at you, still suspicious, like maybe you poisoned it. Then he finally dropped into the chair, watching you with a wary, unblinking gaze.

“So”, he said around a mouthful of eggs, “after breakfast, you’re gonna tell me who the hell this ‘Homelander’ asshole is. And what happened to my team”.

You met his eyes, fork halfway to your mouth.

“Yeah”, you said softly. “But you’re not gonna like it”.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 2

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