baldelarose

[baldelarose]

When I saw the first warning, I was “don’t you say? 😏”

(I don’t know why that gif looks so bad, but let’s ignore that fact, because my reaction was the exact same, so... Priorities 🤷🏻‍♀️).

I noticed those changes ❤️🧡🌇. I have to admit I like the Miami version a little bit more than the NYC one. Although both are just too prettyyy! 🫶🏻

Can I say that I love a more “humanized” Ben? Even with his particular sense of humor, he can be fun to be around, and I very much enjoy that version of him. I’m not liking Víctor so far, and I haven’t decided about Gloria yet, but let’s hope she’s less criticizing and judgemental than her husband. Mamá Sofía is a menace, we can already tell. I already like her, but I’m also afraid she’s gonna embarrass us I front of Ben, which, in my opinion, it would be way worse than being a fugitive and an accomplice to Ben.

And just to wrap this up before I make it longer than needed, how’s possible that Reader, trying to save herself from a building that was falling apart, she was being a decent human being, and attempting to aid an injured man, which turned out to be Soldier Boy, she ended up in almost house arrest, having to feed that giant petulant and stubborn man-child, having to leave her home, go Miami last minute, and deal with his jackass dad?! And the cherry on top: She’s got Butcher and Homelander on her ass now.

UNRAVEL ME - Part 4

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Here we go! Another big step in their adventure...

Song Inspo: “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura (English lyrics)

Word Count: 8.8K

Tags/Warnings: Fake dating (lol), meet the family, some old-school machismo, Dominican food, bachata, “North Cuba” (Miami), angst, rom-com vibes

💜 Series Masterlist

❤️ YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 4: Food & Family

After driving through the loops of highway along I-95, Ben grows frustrated at the thirty or so signs of exits that lead to different parts of the city. One wrong turn, and it could send you miles away from where you were—even over the bridge to Miami Beach.

You consult the GPS on your iPad, since your new “burner” phone is just an old-style flip phone. 

You’re able to point him where to go to get to the airport. He finally takes the right exit, but he pulls off the highway split, off the main road, and heads into the alley of a side street.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer you, just pulls to a stop and shifts the car into park.

“It’s been fun, sweetheart, but I think it’s time we part ways here. I’ve got a couple errands to run before I get the fuck out of here,” he says.

You consider him shrewdly. “Errands? What the hell do you mean? How’re you gonna even get a plane ticket? You don’t have any money…”

And it dawns on you. You suck in a breath, then you glare at him.

“What’re you going to do, Ben?”

“That’s my fucking business, all right?”

“What’re you gonna do, knock over a bank? Kill a few people on your way out?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, sweetheart,” he says. He looks at the darkening alley ahead rather than at you. He’s keeping an eye out for anyone that might spot you two in the car, until you lean over and lay a hand on his forearm.

“Ben,” you say. “Look, I’ll pay for your ticket.”

His brows crunch together. “I don’t want your fucking money, all right?”

You hesitate. Now that’s a first. But you still take your hand back to start digging into your purse for your wallet. He reaches out and stops you with a big, warm hand over yours. Firm.

“You hear what I fucking said?” he snaps.

You just sigh. “Ben, breaking into a bank—”

“Doesn’t have to be a fucking bank.”

“All right, a store! Either way, that might raise a few alarms, don’t you think?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Ben says. His gaze cuts away from you and toward the city behind you both.

Suddenly, it hits you. This is it. No more of this asshole being a human crater exploding into your life. 

But it’s also kind of hard to imagine him getting on that plane alone, fucking off to obscurity again. You bite your lip while considering him. It feels like a waste.

“What if…what if you stay and fight?” you say. “Fight off Homelander. Expose him for the piece of shit he is.”

Ben’s steely expression just hardens further. “I’m done talking about that frosted hole. Whatever formula they mixed him with in that fucking lab, it didn’t come out of my ball sack.” 

You roll your eyes. God, he’s so gross. “Ben. For God’s sake. Don’t deflect—”

“You do realize I have the FBI, the CIA, and the whole rest of the alphabet soup on my ass, right?” he says. Finally, he looks at you. “They don’t want me here. They didn’t even try to find me when the fucking Commies… So no. Fuck ‘em. I’ll make new somewhere else.”

It’s truly incredible, considering how damn angry you were at him yesterday. Angry and afraid.

Now, you begin to feel a twinge of…concern. Yes, he’s arrogant and vulgar, selfish, and more than a bit of a dick at times. He’s killed people, whether on accident or on purpose, even if it was partially for your sake. But after last night, getting just a glimpse of what he went through, you wonder if he really deserves to be run out of the country. 

I may regret this, but…

“Listen,” you begin. “It’s getting late. Do you want to have dinner with me and my family? You’ll get some good food, one more night States’ side.”

Ben looks just as surprised by your offer as you are to suggest it. His lips begin to quirk upward, albeit incredulously.

“You offering to be my tour guide?” he asks.

You give him a knowing look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s just dinner. Nothing else.”

You raise a finger, gesturing at him to hold on a second, and you grab your phone to call your mom first. She’s easier to talk to than your father, who would probably bombard you with questions about the trip and why it was taking you so long to get home.

“Hello?” your mom answers.

“Hey, it’s me,” you reply.

“Why are you calling from this weird number? Did something happen to your phone? Is that why you haven’t been answering our calls?”

“Yeah, sorry, I lost my phone and had to get a replacement,” you lie on the fly. You’ve had to get good at it over the past week. “I made it to Miami though. I’m almost home.”

“Oh, that’s great! Meet at Mamá’s house though. We’re making dinner right now,” she says.

You smile. Looks like Ben is going to get to meet your grandma too. “Really? Oh, okay. We’ll meet you there then.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“Oh, I’m uh…bringing a friend,” you say, though your face begins to heat in a blush at the way Ben smirks at you.

“A friend, huh?” your mom asks, in a suspicious tone.

“Yeah, okay see you soon!” You hang up the phone before she can ask you any more questions. Sometimes she can be as bad as your dad. You shift your attention to Ben.

“Okay, let’s switch seats. I think it’ll be easier if I drive,” you say.

He raises a skeptical brow at you. “Where are we going?”

You offer him a smile. “Oh, just wait. You’re in for a good time.”

Homelander’s angry strides are heavy and unmistakable. Vought employees veer out of his way and give him a wide berth, keeping their heads down all the while. His heated steps bring him to the Surveillance team, where The Deep has been at the helm for the past couple of months.

And what the fuck does he have to show for it? He’s sipping a soda while flirting with one of the glorified interns trying to sort through the classified files on her screen. Deep perks up when he notices Homelander barging into the room.

“Oh! Hey, sir—”

“Where the fuck is my son?” Homelander snaps.

Ever since the incident last week, Ryan has been ducking out of his room more than usual. Despite him choosing the right side, Homelander’s side, Ryan hasn’t been working with the production team on his superhero image.

Nothing useful has come in about Soldier Boy, and now Butcher has disappeared from their sight as well. Though that one doesn’t matter so much. Homelander will be happy to see that bastard die of the cancer already eating his brain. There’s probably nothing Homelander could do that would be more fucking hilarious than that.

“Uhh, not sure, sir. But we do have something new on the Soldier Boy front,” Deep says. He cues a finger at the girl, Ashley or Annika or whatever the fuck her name is.

She presses a play button on her computer screen, and Homelander bends at the waist to scrutinize the footage. It captures an alleyway between the main building of Vought Tower and the garage.

“This is the day of the, um, the incident,” she adds.

Soldier Boy exits the building, stumbling out really. He eventually crosses paths with a young woman. To Homelander, she almost seems familiar.

Soldier Boy grabs her arm, says something to her that makes her eyes widen with fear, then drags her toward him so he can cover her mouth with his hand. They wait there against the wall for almost thirty seconds. Then, he pulls her into the garage with him.

“Who the fuck is that?” Homelander asks.

Allie chimes in. “Ah, she was a Vought employee, sir. She recently quit without prior notice.”

“See, we had Webweaver on this, but the police just found his body in Lake Marion, South Carolina,” Deep says. 

A slow smile spreads across Homelander’s face. “Fucking finally.”

“Uhh, what?” Deep says.

It’s a lead, Homelander thinks. A trail. One step closer to hunting down dear old Dad. 

Emphasis on fucking old.

Your grandmother lives south, west, and more west, almost right on the edge of the Everglades—a 1.5-million-acre wetlands protected by the state. When tourists and natives alike end up on the news for getting their limbs bit off by alligators or left half-dead by a cottonmouth snake, it’s usually because they were stupid enough to hike through the mangroves and jump into the swampy waters alone.

You pull up in front of your grandma’s house and park in the paved driveway. It’s a modest three-bedroom, Spanish-style home that your dad grew up in with his two brothers, your Uncle Felix and Uncle Luis. They re-painted the outer walls the color of a soft sunset in golden orange, the roof tiles a darker terracotta. A rod iron gate around the property meets at the front with a small arch Ben will later have to duck his head under.

You can already smell freshly cut grass as the sprinklers run in the front yard, but for the moment, you stay in the car to figure out the game plan.

“So,” Ben says, “what role am I playing for tonight, sweetheart? Your work friend, or your boyfriend? Both have their pros and cons, and potential benefits.”

His grin is far too cocksure not to irritate you on sight. You’re already regretting this lapse in your sanity that led you to try being nice to this asshole.

You also realize that you haven’t exactly thought this through. What if they recognize him from the news? 

…Well, your parents don’t like social media and your grandmother barely even knows how to text, let alone what Instagram is. 

“Let’s just play it by ear,” you say, resisting a sigh. “But for now…God, fine, you’re my boyfriend.”

“Okay,” he gamely nods. “How long’ve we been dating?”

“Long enough for me to bring you to see my parents, so let’s say a few months,” you say. Then, you grab his wrist. “Please, try to tone down the cursing and general pussy talk around my family. They’re Catholic and…conservative.”

Again, his lips twitch upward in a way you don’t really like.

“Sure,” he says, “I can turn on the charm.”

He turns his wrist under your grasp to bring your hand up to his lips. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can be very convincing.” 

A warm blush spreads across your cheeks, prickling down your neck.

Shit. You’re already regretting this. 

After slipping your hand from his grasp so you can look yourself over in the little car mirror, you get out of the car first. Ben follows your lead and walks up to the front door with you. 

You look over at him with a more critical eye, humming to yourself. You try to fix his wrinkled shirt, straighten his collar. Ben watches you do it with an amused gleam in his eyes. 

“My mom is the queen of snap judgments,” you explain. “One damn smudge or wrinkle and she’s gonna think you don’t bathe.”

You lean up and sort your fingers through his hair a little, sweeping the strands away from his brow. You have to ignore the way he’s watching you. 

When you turn and knock on the door, Ben settles a hand on the small of your back. You shoot him a raised brow. He winks at you. You don’t have time to comment or even push his hand away, because that’s when the door opens.

You greet your dad with a wide smile to cover up your nerves. Out of anyone that could’ve opened the door, why did it have to be him? He kisses your cheek when you lean in to hug him, but he eyes the man beside you with a note of appraisal. 

“Who’s this?” he asks. 

“Dad, this is Ben,” you say, choking out the second bit, “my boyfriend.” 

“Sir,” Ben greets. He offers the man a firm handshake. 

“Victor,” your dad replies, though he shoots you a look. “You didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.”

“Is that her?” your mom says. She comes out to greet you and Ben, taking in his tall, handsome form with a pleased scrutiny. “My goodness, this is your friend, huh?” She gives you a teasing wink. “I didn’t buy that one for a minute, but it has been a long time since you’ve brought a man home.”

Ben’s smile takes on an amused glint when he casts you some side-eye. 

“It’s kinda new,” you confess, trying to ignore the hot blush in your cheeks. Your mom is already having way too much fun with this, but she immediately levels up her own brand of Cuban Mom Charm, taking Ben into the house by his arm. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Gloria. This is my husband Victor,” she says, gesturing at your dad, who stands stoically behind her. Ben gives him another nod, then hits your mom with a kind of suavecito that would put James Bond to shame. 

“Now I know who to thank for giving my girl her beautiful smile. We’ve got Miss Florida herself right here,” Ben flirts, squeezing her hand on his arm.

Gloria twitters a laugh, making you bite your lip against a snort. 

She leads him further into your grandmother’s house, while you and Victor follow behind. Ben takes note of all the pictures on the walls and housed in various frames on virtually every shelf and accent table: your parents’ wedding, your father and your uncles when they were young, and you at various ages—kindergarten through your high school graduation, followed by your college graduation. 

There are pictures of you with your parents, your ten first cousins and thirty second cousins, your aunts and uncles, and you with your grandmother—the woman who’s currently cooking up something that smells delicious in the kitchen. Garlic and onions and olive oil; the smells mingle together with the red and green bell peppers being sautéed in a pan with some kind of red sauce. 

Your grandma Sofia takes in Ben from head to toe with wide-eyed, blinking surprise, even a bit of wonder. She glances at you, at Ben’s hand once again resting on the small of your back. Slowly, she brightens.

“Ay, Diosito mio, who’s this handsome man in my house?” she says.

Ben smiles, but you step in before he can flirt with her too. 

“Mamá, this is Ben. Uh, my boyfriend,” you tell her while giving her a big, warm hug. You try to blink past the tears stinging your eyes. You’ve probably missed your grandma the most. 

She squeezes you tight, but she also smacks you on the ass. 

“Hey!” you protest, laughing in embarrassment.

“Oye, you couldn’t call to tell us you finally got another man?” she chides. “How long has this one being going on?”

“Um, a few months—”

The old woman gasps, as if you told her that her recorded episodes of Caso Cerrado, the Latino version of Judge Judy, had been erased. Taking another look at a highly amused Ben, she crosses herself and delivers a kiss to the heavens. 

“Ay, Padre Santísimo. Finally, a man who doesn’t dress como un niño malcreado—like Justin Bieber.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. Your mother snickers, while Ben chuckles deeply. He doesn’t know who the fuck Justin Bieber is, but he knows about at least one of the pussy man-boys you’ve dated in the past. He slides you a knowing smirk.

“No, ma’am. She’s got a real man now,” he adds.

You blow out a subtle breath, trying with all your might not to glare at him. You do shoot him a tight smile, a warning in your eyes.

But he just trails a strong hand across the small of your back. The sensation makes tingles travel down your spine. 

You bite your lip and return your attention to your mom, who grabs some cheese and salami for you and Ben to snack on. You sit with him at the kitchen island and help your grandmother peel potatoes for the meal. By now Victor has claimed his usual spot on the couch, no doubt to catch up on one of the ten new baseball games he always has recorded. If there’s one thing your dad is obsessed with, it’s baseball. 

Ben lingers with you though, casually resting a hand on the back of your chair while he leans back in his seat at the island. 

“What’s on the menu?” Ben asks. 

“Carne guisada, white rice, and tostones. Eh, fried plantains,” Sofia replies. “Have you ever had Dominican food before?”

“No, but it smells delicious.”

“Ay, mija, have you not been feeding him?” your grandma reproaches, to your long-suffering sigh. 

If she only fucking knew.

Your mom watches in amusement while taking over stirring the stew. Meanwhile, Sofia rounds the kitchen island so she can tug you down by your arm.

“What have I taught you, huh?” she whispers. “A man well-fed will stay in your bed.” 

Mortification burns hot in your cheeks. Your hand comes up to half cover your face. 

“Ay, Mamá,” you hiss. Inside, you’re dying a thousand deaths. 

You glance at Ben over your shoulder. He sips at his beer, but by the way he’s smirking, of fucking course he heard her. 

“You call her ‘mom’ too?” he asks.

“Yes, they all call me that because I am everyone’s mother here,” Sofia says. She wipes her hand free of parsley bits and pats Ben’s hand where it rests on the counter. “But you, young man, can call me Sofia.”

“Mamá!”

Ben eats dinner with gusto. Your grandmother is satisfied and pleased by how much he’s clearly enjoying the braised beef stew. She even loads him up with his third serving. You watch him in amusement, even though you shake your head.

He’s stuffing his face as if he’s never eaten real food before. Though you wonder when the last time he had a real home-cooked meal was…before you met him, that is.

Ben and Victor talk about baseball and the classic players they admire (with Ben having actually met a few of them). While the men are distracted with their conversation at the far end of the table, you have to endure your mother and grandmother’s grilling. 

Where is he from?

What does he do? 

How old is he? 

Spring weddings are just beautiful in Miami, you know. Your cousin Julissa had a spring wedding by the beach. Wasn’t it nice?

Needless to say, you should be winning an Oscar for your own improv performance tonight.  

“Where are you guys staying tonight?” Gloria asks.

Your grandma looks affronted. “Well, here of course.”

You laugh a bit nervously. “Actually, Ben can’t stay. He, um…he has a plane to catch in the morning, for a business trip.”

“Oh, what kind of business? You said he works at Vought too,” Gloria asks.

You nod, though you have to think quickly to come up with something plausible. You glance over at Ben, who briefly meets your gaze. The look in his eyes tells you that he’s caught the edges of your conversation and wants to know what you’ll say as well.

“Uh, Ben is in Vought’s Sales Division,” you say. “Sometimes they have him travel overseas.” 

“Oh, wow. Where are you going, Ben?” Gloria asks him.

“Buenos Aires,” Ben replies. “Vought’s trying to develop another Voughtland down there. They’ve been trying for years, but the locals figure they’ve got enough entertainment, what with the tourist traps and the drug cartels and all. So they’ve brought me on to seal the deal. Think of me as a…well, as a closer. ‘S why they pay me the big bucks.” 

You resist the urge to shake your head, but you do squeeze his thigh in warning under the table. He gives you a smile and a raise of his brows. Eying him pointedly, you shift the conversation. 

“So he’s planning on staying at the airport tonight, since it’s such an early flight,” you say. 

Sofia shakes her head, as well as a finger in the air. 

“No, no. You are a guest in my home, so you will stay here tonight. I won’t take no for an answer,” she says. 

Ben gives you a self-satisfied smile, before he answers her.

“Well, who am I to say no?”

It seems strategic, the way your mom corners Ben in the kitchen to try and fish more information out of him. Meanwhile, your dad pulls you aside into the living room.

“So tell me. What’s going on with that job of yours?” he asks. His brows have that telltale furrow of concentrated Dad Worry. On Victor, it looks just shy of being angry.

You cross your arms, debating with yourself for a moment. You’ve been lying a lot tonight, but this is something you know you have to come clean about, even if you know it’s a victory for your father.

“I quit, okay,” you admit.

His shoulders loosen in relief. His gaze raises heavenward while his hands rest on his hips.

“Thank God,” he says. But then, he concentrates back on you. “This mean you’re finally moving back home?”

“I didn’t say that,” you snap. “I’m gonna stay here with Mamá for a little while until I figure out what I’m gonna do. But I’m going to find something in New York. I have time now. Maybe I can finally start my own graphic design business.”

For the past year that you hadn’t been able to find other work to leave Vought, you’d begun to spin the idea in your mind. You have friends in the Marketing department who could help you build a website, run some ads across socials. You know how to create your own content, do your own marketing, even reach out to potential clients. All you need at this point is some time and money. You have one, and you can use some of what you have in savings to invest in the idea—to build something of your own. Something honest.

Victor’s jaw clenches. He swipes a hand of frustration over his face, his gait shifting with the effort of keeping his anger contained in his mother’s house.

“Why do you always have to be so damn stubborn?” he grits out.

“Why’re you always trying to control my life?” you counter, just at hotly. “I’m not a little girl. I’ve been doing what I have to do on my own—”

“But that’s it. You don’t have to,” he says. “You wanna get blown up in one of those buildings? Or run through in the street by one of those fucking supes, like that girl two years ago? You’re smart, mija. Use that brain for something besides selfish little ideas that don’t go anywhere.”

Your mouth falls open, but nothing else escapes. Your heart is in your throat, a painful lump as tears cling to your lashes.

“You went to NYU because the schools here somehow weren’t good enough. Now you’re in debt,” he continues, raising his hand up to his brows. “Hasta los ojitos. ¿Verdad? You tried to make it in that city because you wanted to be an artist. And where did you end up? At a corrupt fucking company that worked you like a dog, and nearly got you buried under a pile of rubble like it was 9/11 all over again.”

His words cut into you like so many knives. A familiar well of acid had been churning in your stomach; now it reaches up into the base of your throat where you’re already choked by embarrassment, resentment, shame.

“Okay, dessert!” your mom calls from the kitchen, this time unaware of her husband. She brings out the large pan of flan she made last night and sets it on the table while Ben begrudgingly brings out the smaller plates and spoons. The smell of Café Bustelo reaches you as the cafetera begins to steam and boil on the stove. Sofia lifts the top of it and nods when she finds that the espresso is done percolating.

“Quién quiere café?” she asks.

Heaving a sigh through his nose, Victor raises a finger. Ben notices you, sees whatever he sees in your face, no matter how you try to bury it down. You can tell that he’s heard every word, just by that look on his face. Ben approaches you and your dad, once again sliding a hand across the small of your back, but you speak before he has a chance to say anything.

“You want coffee, right?”

Ben nods slightly, letting you leave him to escape into the kitchen. He shifts his attention to your father. The man is shorter than Ben, but still a presence that commands respect in the house.

“You still work for Vought after everything that’s happened?” Victor asks him.

Ben’s brow turns wry. “Oh, I’ve got an exit strategy.”

Victor nods. That seems to mollify him a bit, even as he watches his daughter. Ruefulness enters his gaze, even if it’s still hard with his convictions. It just reminds Ben of his father’s blue-eyed stare—the kind that always pierced straight through his skin and saw every scrap of weakness underneath.

“She’d rather live in that fucking cesspool than listen to me,” Victor says. “Young, stubborn, thinks she knows it all.”

Ben’s lips tug at a smile. Yeah, that’s fucking you.

“She thinks she can handle it out there by herself, but take away all that attitude, and what?” Victor shakes his head. “She’s fucking soft.”

Ben glances over at him, then at the silver medals framed in glass on the wall. There’s a picture of a younger version of the man in front him, leaner, just as stoic, wearing an army green uniform and a captain’s insignia. If Victor looked to be in his mid-fifties now, that would’ve put him in his early 20s during the Vietnam War.

Other than a few photo ops after the Tet Offensive and a movie he did in the late ‘60s, Ben spent most of his time snorting coke and fucking the female cast of Bewitched. (Elizabeth Montgomery blamed her failed marriage on him, but that shit was wrecked long before he came into her picture. Literally.)

Ben’s gaze drifts away from the shiny wall of accomplishment, and back over to you across the room. You’re helping your mom set out the plates of flan after she cuts each slice. He sees how hard you try to bury everything you have boiling inside behind the task, swiping a stray curl out of your eyes as you go. He’s come to recognize that look, and the things you do to keep moving forward.

“She can be,” Ben nods at your father. “But maybe she’s stronger than you think.”

Victor’s brows furrow, but Ben doesn’t stick around for more. He joins you back at the dinner table and takes a small white espresso cup you offer him. Your fingers brush with his on the pass, but its his hand casually curling wily strands of your hair behind your ear that earns your attention, your slightly widening eyes.

He smirks down at you before taking a seat. Despite yourself, your lips tug at a smile, and you join him.

After dessert, your parents finally head back home. You finally allow yourself to confess to your grandmother that you quit your job. It’s easier to be honest with her than with your parents sometimes.

She’s sorry to hear the news, knowing you enjoyed your independence in New York. While you didn’t necessarily love your job, up until now it had allowed you to have the life you wanted.  

Since she has more room to spare in her house, she’s graciously agreed to have you stay with her for a little while. You know what you told your dad, but you wonder if you can even go back to New York after this. He might just win after all.

But of course, there’s also Ben.

“I still don’t know what the big fucking deal is,” he says, somewhat grumpily. 

You sigh and shove an extra blanket into his hands from the hallway closet. 

“Look, my grandma is fun, even a little mischievous, but she’s not actually going to let me share a bedroom with my ‘boyfriend’ under her roof. Conservative Catholics, remember?” 

You also hand him a towel to take a shower. “Besides, it’s not like I’d let you into my bed anyway. Can you please just remember our deal?” 

He nods, albeit reluctantly. “Don’t you fucking worry. I’ll be out in the morning before God and everyone wakes up.” 

You hesitate, leaning your back against the doorway to your room. Ben will be staying in the second guest room down the hall.

“Well, you can still knock on my door before you leave,” you say, with a slight smile. “You know, if you wanna say goodbye.”

Ben eyes you, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Might as well get that outta the way now,” he says.

Your smile fades in confusion, but before you can react, he slips an arm around your waist and guides you in close. After a beat to gauge the look on your face—surprised, but not angry, by the way your eyes roam his face—he bows his head to claim your lips.

It’s a thorough kiss, and a little demanding as his lips move over yours, but it makes a tendril of heat lick down your spine as your fingers curl around his biceps. 

You find yourself at a loss when he breaks away. His eyes open to meet yours, smiling when he finds you breathless.

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says.

And he lets you go, allowing your hair to slip through his fingers. 

You’re tempted to smack that self-satisfied look off his face, but you shake your head with a smile. You guess you can give him one for the road. 

Butcher, Hughie, and the rest of the boys are tearing apart Webweaver’s disgusting apartment. Considering the supe’s phone is dead, and he hasn’t been seen in over 24 hours, Butcher is willing to bet that Soldier Boy killed the little prick. 

Unfortunately for Butcher, Webweaver was feeding him information. 

“There’s nothing here,” M.M. says in disgust, wiping his hands of a sticky substance. He’d rather not know what it is.

“He had to know something in order to pick up the cunt’s trail,” Butcher says. He points to Webweaver’s laptop, where Hughie is trying to hack the password.

Butcher’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Fishing it out and peering at the ID, he smiles slightly at the text. 

I’m close to your apartment. Can we talk?

Ryan. Finally, the kid is coming around. Butcher types out a reply.

Give me half an hour. 

Butcher considers his next words carefully, and he adds…

There are things we needa talk about.

There was too much shit he hadn’t told the kid, for fear of pushing him away. (Already done.)

Or fearing the kid wouldn’t believe him. (Ain’t got nothing left to lose now.)

Butcher only half suppresses a wheezing cough.

Oh, yeah, he’s still fucking dying. But if there’s one thing he’s going to do, it’s find Soldier Boy, so he can make good on their deal on snuffing Homelander.

He knows he’ll have to be even more creative with how he gets the supe to agree, seeing as Butcher double-crossed him once before. But this time, he has M.M. and Annie actually on board with the plan. Homelander plans to get V24 in the military with Victoria Neuman’s help.

So all the fucking Spice Girls finally agree: right now, Homelander’s the bigger threat. Then, they’ll somehow deal with Soldier Boy.

Or better yet, the two will kill each other. 

“Got it!” Hughie fist pumps the air. He’s been able to crack into Webweaver’s laptop, even though he balks at having to sort through a tremendous amount of disturbing pornography.

He finally finds a file labeled: Parking Lot, June 3, 5:34 p.m.

He presses play. The first thing he sees is your scared face come into frame, followed by Soldier Boy. 

​​“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy?” He glances up at you through furrowed brows. He looks ragged and soot-stained, his breathing labored as he leans against the wall. He focuses on you. “Uh, a-are you okay?” you ask shakily, clutching your messenger bag.

“All right,” Butcher drawls. “Who the fuck is that?” 

In the morning, you wake to the sun in your eyes through the windows. You get up and check the room across the hall. The door is open, and the bed is made, clear of Ben’s things. You feel disappointed that he didn’t wake you up before he left.

I guess the one goodbye was good enough for him, you think, not willing to wonder why that kind of upsets you. 

Whatever. It’s for the best. Soldier Boy is finally out of your life, and you can focus on what you need to do to pick up the threads of your life.

With that decision made, you go about starting your day. You don’t bother to change out of your pajamas. You just fluff out your curls and venture out to the kitchen, where the smell of Cuban coffee once again wafts stronger in the air. Your grandma might be Dominican, but she’s embraced her daughter-in-law’s Cuban-centric community with the little things, like espresso and pastries in the morning.

There you find something unexpected. You find Ben sipping coffee, chatting with your grandmother at the kitchen island while she makes breakfast. Her favorite radio station plays on the counter and masks the contents of their conversation, but they’re smiling and laughing, having a good ol’ fucking time.

Until Ben notices you standing there with your mouth hanging open. He grins.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. Sofia smiles over at you too.

“Ben,” you say. Your voice strikes a higher pitch than usual. “What happened to your flight?”

“It got cancelled,” he claims, though he beckons you over. You remember then that this little play is still going on—meaning you force yourself to smile and go to him as if you’re so very happy to see him.

Why the hell did I ever think this was a good fucking idea?!

He takes full advantage of the boyfriend charade, laying a heavy hand on the small of your back. It travels around your waist and comes to rest on your hip. He brushes his thumb back and forth over the thin fabric of your pajama top, and even has the gall to eye you with a grin, likely noticing that you aren’t wearing a bra.

“I invited him to stay for a couple more days, get to know the family,” Sofia says while stirring some scrambled eggs. Bacon is also sizzling on another pan on the stove.

While her back is turned, you shoot Ben a knowing glare.

To think you were a little disappointed about being rid of him. Now, you’re just angry and irritated as good sense hits you upside the head. The longer he stays with you, the better chance of Homelander or the government finding him. 

You’re quiet throughout breakfast while Sofia asks Ben more questions about himself.

“Do you go to church?” she asks, with a raised brow.

You snort into your coffee, but Ben just rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’ll admit, I’ve skipped a few Sundays,” he says, somewhat dismissively.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. His skin would probably burn if he took one step inside of a sanctuary. 

“Well, what about kids. Do you like children?” Sofia asks.

Your eyes widen. “Mamá, seriously?”

“I always thought I’d have a few,” Ben replies. You turn to look at him, and the sincerity of his tone and the sudden thoughtful gleam in his eyes surprises you even more.

“Guess I’ve been waiting for the right time to settle down,” he says, glancing at you. It’s hard for you to read that look, but it makes you wonder what the fuck he’s thinking.

He goes back to eating.

After breakfast, you get up to help Sofia clear the table. While she’s putting the pastries away, you grab Ben’s arm and lead him closer to the living room. 

“You really need to go,” you whisper-hiss. “You promised me—”

He rolls his eyes. “All right, keep your fucking panties on. Just one more night of R&R and I’ll get gone.”

“You better be for real, because I can’t—”

“Ay, mi canción,” Sofia says. She comes over and tugs on your hand. “You remember this one, right?”

The song that plays on the radio is “Mi Muchachita” by Luis Segura, the song your mom would always wake you up with on Saturday mornings to get you up to help her clean the house. It was a tradition your grandma started when your dad and his brothers were kids. She later got your mom hooked on it when she came to stay with your family for a few years, shortly after you were born. Gloria had needed the help, and her parents had already passed away a few years back.

Now, Sofia leads you away from Ben so that you can dance with her. She pulls into the bachata—ironically, the dance that began in the bars and brothels of Santo Domingo. In the 1960s, it was the dance of the lower class, the degenerates, and the campesinos. Bolero rhythm was its heart, but the spirit of the common people was its soul.

You protest at first at being uprooted from your grumpy mood, but your grandma has a way of hooking you into almost anything. Eventually your tense shoulders relax, and you’re laughing and twirling under her hand while you let your body inhabit the song.

Ben watches the scene in amusement, becoming transfixed by the sway of your hips, to the quick and natural steps of your feet…until Sofia grabs his hand too. 

“Hey, no. I’m good,” he says. “I don’t dance…whatever this is.”

“So I teach you,” she insists, beckoning him closer. “Come, come! Watch me. Es fácil. Real easy.”

You step off to the side to give them room, and you giggle while watching Ben try to follow her instructions. Sofia is persistent though. She teaches him how to step in counts of two, how to lead her back and forth, then turn her around. She even sends you a cheeky look while she has the man’s hands trapped either in her hand, or on her waist.

You hide your laughter behind your espresso cup. Damn. She’s still got game.

After a few minutes, Sofia leads him over to join Ben’s hand with yours, claiming she needs a rest. She guides you into his arms, and you step in with a good-natured smile.

“This is a bit fucking much,” he mutters to you. “It’s too complicated.” 

“You’re actually doing well. Just feel it though. Don’t watch your feet,” you continue to instruct him, amused by his hesitance. 

He seems to be into this though, and he begins to gain some confidence the more he learns the flow of the steps. He holds your hand more assured as he moves from side to side in time with the beat. For a white boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he has some decent rhythm. 

Ben throws in a spin that’s not quite bachata-like. It feels more like the swing of the ‘40s, the stuff you’ve only seen in movies. Still, it thrills you when you end up even closer in his arms, his warm chest pressed to yours. He looks down on you with hooded eyes that slowly roam your face, stopping on your lips.

He begins to bow his head toward yours, but you clear your throat and smile, a little nervously. You place a hand on his chest and push him back subtly as the song comes to an end. 

“Oh! Before I forget,” Sofia says. 

You almost forgot she was there. Instinctively you freeze where you stand, still catching your breath all too close to Ben. 

“Can you pick up some things from the store for later? I’m making arroz con pollo,” she says. “But you know what, I’ll give you a list, ‘cause I’m out of some other things too.”

Glancing up at Ben once more, you take the excuse to step away from him. You agree to take your grandma’s list, and you head to your room to get changed. 

The man not only follows you to the car, but insists on “getting out of the house” and going with you to the local Cuban-owned grocery store and café. 

“Christ on a Cross, is this the price of steak nowadays?” he mutters, eying all the cuts behind the cold glass. “Used to be cheaper to order it at a fucking restaurant.”

You’ve stopped here to pick up a couple packages of ground beef. You shoot him a glance, wondering why he cares when he had enough money to buy the restaurant, once upon a time. Maybe it’s the principle of the matter with him.

“Welcome to the modern world,” you drawl. “It’s getting too expensive to live, and jobs don’t want to pay for shit.”

He raises a brow, but he follows you down the aisle.

Ben is kind of the worst to go shopping with. He sneaks things into the cart when he thinks you’re not looking. You tell him you’re not buying him three different cakes and a dirty magazine. Where the hell did he even find that? 

You stuff it all back on a shelf, behind some boxed novelty cakes imported from Mexico. Though you agree to buy him one dessert, after you throw in some peaches. 

“You may be a super soldier, but you should eat more fruits and veggies,” you quip. Stuffing himself full of takeout, booze, and weed all the time can’t be good for him.

Ben raises a wry brow at you. He sidles up close while you’re putting goods on the checkout counter. His hand molds to the curve of your waist as he speaks lowly in your ear.

“I’ve got all the peaches I need, sweetheart.”

You blush hotly and send him a wide-eyed look over your shoulder. His hand means to drift lower on your ass, but your lips purse, and you smack his hand away.

“Do you have no shame?” you whisper-hiss. Giving him one kiss was like feeding a stray dog. Now he thinks he can keep sniffing your ass for more. 

“Come on, Chiquita. Would it kill you to lighten the fuck up?” he teases. 

You roll your eyes heavenward, praying for strength. You manage to get through the rest of the transaction of the checkout line mostly in peace, and Ben does all the heavy lifting of putting the bags in the car. However, you’re giving him a bit of a cold shoulder as you get back into the car.  

“All right, what’s the matter now?” he asks. “For Christ’s sake, you don’t have to be so fucking frigid.”

“Why did you come anyway?” you ask, slamming the trunk closed. “Just to cop another feel? What, did you think I was gonna blow you in the alley behind the bodega?”

Ben hesitates with a frown. There’s a moment where you think he might give you an earnest answer, but ultimately, he just shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

You scoff, both incredulous and disgusted as you rip the driver’s side door open and get inside the car. You barely wait for Ben to do the same on the passenger side, before you’re turning the ignition and angrily shifting the car into reverse. 

You back out with more force than Ben would’ve recommended, but he flexes his fingers on his thigh. He doesn’t want to tell you that he hadn’t liked the idea of you going out alone. Not without a weapon, some protection.

But he also didn’t think you’d still be cockblocking him so much after last night. And this morning, he thought you were actually warming up to him…

Guess not, he thinks sardonically, with a roll of his eyes. Whatever. It’s not like he’ll be wanting for pussy when he gets to South America. Pretty soon, it’s going to be him fucking bitches on nude beaches, drowning himself in margaritas, blow, and pussy all day long. 

He doesn’t know what it is about you though. He knows you’re into him, even if you won’t admit it… 

It’s that challenge, that Latina fire that stokes his blood every time he looks at you. Gotta be.

He also knows that the moment he leaves, one of two things will happen. Either Vought finds you, or the CIA does. If it’s the latter, they’ll question you. Even if they don’t get the information they want, they could try to protect you and your family.

Regardless, Ben knows he can’t stay. That’ll just make things worse, for himself, and for you. All he can do is take advantage of the hours he has left here.

“Look, what’s your problem, huh?” he tries again. “Think I can’t show you a good time?”

You heave a sigh without looking at him. “It’s not about that, Ben.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“You’re leaving. You’re not going to stay and fight the deranged prick who’s on the verge of taking over the whole damn country,” you say sharply. “You’re gonna fuck off to who knows where, bury your head in the sand, and numb yourself for the rest of your life. So there’s no point in exploring you and me. I’m not gonna be some quick fuck and ‘Sayonara, sweetheart. Been a good time.’ No! None of that shit.”

That falls heavily between you two, even with the radio playing at a moderate volume.

Ben simmers in the near silence while you drive through the heavy traffic in Miami. You curse when you get stuck at an intersection. 

“This is taking fucking forever,” he grumbles.

You whip your head over at him again. “Okay, and? Should I part the Red Sea of Miami for you?”

“All right, Christ. Enough,” he says. He rubs at his forehead like you’re giving him a headache. 

Good, you think. The feeling’s mutual.

Ben crosses his arms in his seat and stares out ahead. Traffic is starting to easy up, allowing you to inch closer to the righthand turn. 

You blow out a sigh, contemplating the man riding shotgun. You’re not sure why he’s still here with you. Why he doesn’t want to just leave his old life behind and make new somewhere else. It’s obvious that he wants you, but does he care about you? 

There’s no point in exploring you and me.

You hadn’t meant to say that, but it left you with a sinking feeling in your chest afterward. You still feel its hold on you now, steely fingers gripping your heart.

It’s fucking crazy. You must be crazy…to want him to care.

But before you can let your mind devolve any further, Ben breaks you out of your thoughts when he points out a McDonald’s up ahead. 

“How about you pull over into the drive-thru there,” he says.

You raise a brow at him. “You’re hungry again? Already?”

He shrugs. You shake your head, but your lips begin to tug at a smile. This fucking bottomless pit.

“All right, I’ve got this.”

You take him to a hole-in-the-wall Cuban bakery. The sign is half-scratched off, but you know it from memory. This place has been here for over 50 years, since waves of Cubans fled the iron fist of Fidel Castro’s communism in anything that would float those 90 miles—from pristine sands, and the home of guava fruit, plantains, and pure sugar cane, to the rough shores of the Florida Keys.

Ben polishes off a Cuban sandwich and three guava and cheese pastries, washing it all down with three beers and a cigar he got by talking shop with the locals playing dominoes in the dining area. The men are old enough to remember him as Soldier Boy. Even though they watch the news all day long, they have a healthy mistrust of everything they see.

They're more inclined to trust the supe they watched and admired when they were young men, the supe that (they thought) represented the ideals of the American dream; the same dream they themselves had fought for when they arrived in this country.

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna out you to the press,” says the only one of them who speaks English. “I’ll just get to tell the wife that I shared a cigar with Soldier Boy. She don’t gotta know when.” 

The other men laugh, Ben included. You roll your eyes. 

They talk him into playing around of dominoes with them, offering to “teach” him how to play, as long as he bets $5 to start with. You lean over his shoulder and help him make the right moves. Your dad and your uncles taught you how to play when you were a kid.

With your help, he ends up winning $200 dollars off of the old men. They don't get mad about it, all too happy just to spend time with one of the only superheroes they respect. You realize then why Ben is getting along so well with these guys; the man himself is at least twenty years older than them. This is essentially a group of his peers.

And what does that make me? you wonder, not knowing whether to laugh or be icked out. The longer you stare at Ben's profile, the line of his jaw, the cut of his beard, the roguish sweep of his hair and the shape and broadness of his form all too casually sitting in a metal chair, the more that thought fades to the back of your mind.

You focus more on Ben, specifically the way he's all too smirky and cocky and proud of his winnings. You’re amused at the way he counts the bills to himself later in the car. You’d think he won the lotto at Atlantic City or something. 

“Hey,” he says, earning your attention. “Let me take you out before I go. Call it a thank you.”

You give him an incredulous look. “You haven’t tested fate enough today? You should be lying low. Me too for that matter.”

“Relax, Chiquita. Nobody fucking knows we’re here,” Ben says, continuing to count his bills. He glances over at you though. “Besides, you’ll be fine, long as you’re with me.”

You consider him with a tilt of your head. Long as you’re with me, huh?

He wants to actually do something for you. More than that, he wants to protect you.

You fight the small swell of butterflies in your stomach. Matter of fact, you hate those little shits. A small sigh escapes your lips.

This guy is fucking exhausting.

“How many goodbyes are we going to have, Ben?” you ask.

He quirks a smile. 

“Just humor me.”

AN: Did you like the little scene change? I had to give things a more tropical vibe for Miami. 😉 Plus, we got a bit of the fake dating trope sliding in there, meeting the parents, some disappointed father syndrome -- checking some rom-com boxes right? 😂

Next Time:

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

⋆˙⟡ Read Part 5 Now on Patreon!

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Soldier Boy Masterlist

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Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1):

@spnwoman @waynes-multiverse @luci-in-trenchcoats @rizlowwritessortof @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@midnightmadwoman @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

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@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2

[baldelarose]

So many emotions at once in this chapter 😵‍💫. When you thought everything was going smoothly, BAM, something happened and they had to improvise.

And I totally expected that Ben would be an awful copilot. What, someone didn’t?

Also, I felt so awkward in that brief conversation between Homelander and Reader. Even though she admitted she took the job, in part, for him, I swear I could feel how she had to swallow her pride (or at least a big part of it) to avoid unwanted attention. I’ll admit it was a good and quick move from her part, since she was able to making him to stop making her questions, but he was (and is) such a jackass. She half-genuinely complimented him (even if it was mostly to save Ben’s ass and her own), and he has the audacity to roll his eyes and mutter most likely on her face? I was like “BITCH, ARE YOU FOR REAL? If someone has the right to roll their eyes in someone else’s face, it’s certainly not you 😤” I wish Reader wouldn’t accepted the promotion and raise, and would have taken any other job, but I understand a good check would make you stay at a job, even if you’d like to resign on the spot.

I’m so excited and enthusiastic about Unravel Me, it’s like every chapter gets better and better 🔥.

✨ Alex, we don’t each other, but I feel a massive respect for you, your dedication, your devotion, your hard work, and your impressive talent ✨

I know I’m going to sound like a suck-up, but it’s the truth, and I say it with the purest intentions lol.

UNRAVEL ME - Part 3

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Here we go! Another big step in their adventure...

Song Inspo: “La Carcacha” by Selena (⬅️ Literally so perfect for later on in this chapter lol. Don’t believe me? Here are the lyrics in English.)

JVB Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Accidental Old Person Acquisition

Word Count: 8K

Tags/Warnings: Flirty bickering, angst, Homelander officially shows his face (along with a surprise supe), violence, death, references to torture and PTSD, hurt/comfort(ish)

💜 Series Masterlist

💙 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 3: Entering Funkytown

The next morning, Ben stomps after you from your bedroom to the front door of the apartment. He slaps a hand on the door before you can open it. You give him a narrowed look, lips pursed.

“You think I’m stupid or something?” he growls.

Again, he really, really doesn’t want you to answer that question honestly.

“I told you, I’m not going to give you up! If they find out I helped you, they’ll probably kill me anyway,” you whisper-hiss. You can’t be sure of who can overhear you two with these thin walls. “But I have to go back to work. It’ll look suspicious if I don’t. Homelander himself put out the mandate.”

And that’s besides the fact that you need to work in order to eat, let alone feed this giant stray dog you’ve been forced to let into your home. Though even if you make it through today, what then? Is he just going to become your new fugitive roommate? Can you start charging him rent? Or at the very least, he could start leaving the toilet seat down and doing his own goddamn dishes.

Ben scoffs. “That little pussy ain’t commanding shit. He might think he’s the king of his own fucking kingdom with Stan out of the picture, but pretty soon that’s all gonna crash and burn on top of him.”

“Look,” you sigh, adjusting your messenger bag. “I agree with you, but I need to keep up appearances somehow. It’ll even give me a chance to figure out what’s going on at Vought. In other words, it’s better for you if I go.”

It’d be even better if he left, but you don’t have the time or the patience to hash that out with him again.

“I realize you have issues with this, but can you trust me just like, one inch?” you ask, holding your fingers up to represent said inch.

As Ben stares down at you, his frown edges into the beginnings of a smirk.

“All right, Chiquita,” he replies, grasping your hand. “But if you really want, I can give you a hell of a lot more than an inch.”

“Uggghh, why do you have to do that?” You immediately take your hand back, glaring at him in annoyance as you swing the door open and leave. “Go catch up on Breaking Bad or something.”

His chuckle follows you into the hallway.

Dear God, he’s so fucking annoying. You’ll just never admit to the warmth in your cheeks, moving steadily down your neck…and between your legs.

You don’t know that Ben pokes his head out into the hall. He likes to watch that angry, sexy swing in your hips when you leave.

“You’re two minutes late,” Vince informs you, just when you manage to sit at your desk with your coffee in peace.

You look up at him and will your face to look civil. He tends to set you on edge with his micromanaging, not to mention the micro-aggressive way he invents new rules for your department. Like, “No hats or headscarves.”

"What about for religious reasons?"

"Are you religious?"

"Well, I was raised Catholic, but I meant—"

"So that doesn't really apply to you, does it? Please remove the scarf. Company policy."

Or: “God, what’s that smell?”

“Sancocho,” you'd replied. “It’s just a meat stew.”

“Okay well, from now on, please eat your, uh…lunch in the lounge, but not at your desk.”

Or your personal favorite: “I’m seeing another strand of hair on the floor. Let’s have all that hair tied up neatly, including braids. Thanks, guys.”

So, yeah. You’ve imagined channeling your mother’s inner Karen and throwing a fucking fit at least every day since you started working at Vought.

“Need you to send those email blasts, then check all the Instagram, Facebook, and X accounts,” he continues. “Update them with the approved messaging from Ashley, but, ya know, jazz ‘em up a bit. Like if it’s coming from The Deep, make sure it sounds like him.”

Again, this is shit you already know. It's shit you do every damn day, not just the week after the Tower nearly crumbled into rubble.

Make sure Fish Boy sounds as “dude bro” as possible while telling the world he’s working with Homelander to catch the supe terrorist known as Soldier Boy. Got it.

“Remember to moderate those comments,” Vince says, pointing at you and the rest of your team. “Make sure no Starlighter shit is getting through.”

Right. So delete the comments of anyone who’s against Homelander.

You open your mouth to give a very calculated, code-switching “work-voice” reply to your boss, when the elevator doors in the hall ding open. A new voice demands attention in the room of gray cubicles.

“All right, look alive, people,” Homelander says. He strides into the office space with his hands gathered behind his back underneath the billowing red cape, casting his arrogant gaze over every employee that tenses up in his presence.

Your spine locks up, and you suck in a breath. Even Vince is shocked that Homelander himself would deign to visit the 18th floor. Ashley Barrett walks at his side with quick steps in her heels to match his stride, holding an iPad and a stylus. You remember when that bitch was a lowly PR assistant. Now, somehow, she’d gotten the keys to Stan Edgar’s castle.

You wonder what that equates to in “number of dicks sucked,” and if that includes Homelander himself.

Okay, maybe that sounds un-feminist of you, but you also know (from Ashley, her assistant) that she’s fucking the lead anchor of Vought News, Cameron Coleman. And not just fucking, but nipple clams, leather whips, and a tub of whipped cream kind of fucking.

And all you could say in response was…

Go fucking Ashley.

“What fucking department is this?” Homelander asks her.

“Graphics, Social Media, and Content Communications on this floor,” she replies. “They’re basically all under Marketing, but we—”

“Okay, I don’t fucking care,” he interrupts. He begins to lock eyes with each of the 20 or so employees still getting their bearings this morning. Coffee makers have halted in their brewing, microwaved instant oatmeal going cold, computers half-booted up.

“Could everyone do me a favor and stand up?” he says, in a way that’s definitely not a request. “Come on, up, up.”

Everyone who’s sitting down slowly gets to their feet, you included, even though a tremble of alarm starts in your spine and rings up to your neck. He orders you all to stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder.

One by one, he asks a simple question.

By the time he gets to you, he’s started to get annoyed at every no he’s heard.

“Since the incident at the Tower a few days ago, have you caught any sight of Soldier Boy? Have you heard anything about his whereabouts? Anything at all?” he asks. His blue eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes your throat close up.

Sweat has already started to trickle down the small of your back, a sticky sheen on your clammy palms, which lay flat at your sides.

“No,” you reply, in a miraculously steady voice.

He raises a blonde, solidary brow. His lips twitch. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you nod. Your instinct is to keep your answers simple, uncomplicated.

“Then why is your heartbeat picking up faster?” he taunts, with a calculated wave of his gloved finger. “Just…ticking away, like a little drum.”

“Um…” you swallow nervously, attempting a shy smile. “I’m sorry. It’s because I’ve just always wanted to meet you in person. You, uh—you’re very handsome, sir.”

The half-lie is coated in a truth.

Irony of ironies: for a while, Homelander had actually been your favorite superhero. You would be ashamed to admit that he was the half the reason you applied to Vought. You’d been so excited at just the idea of getting to see him, maybe even get a picture with him. (You still haven’t.)

But that was before you actually started working in this cesspool. You began to pay attention to what you overheard in breakrooms—and that one time outside of Ashley Barrett’s office, right before they hired Supersonic, the Seven’s first Latino superhero. It only took one deranged rant of Homelander’s about refusing to hire a blind “crippled” supe to make you realize how ableist, elitist, racist, narcissistic, and most other “ists” America’s golden superhero was. Is.

Not to mention Supersonic’s death, just months later. The official police report stated it was a drug overdose, and that’s what you were forced to push on social media. It had never sat right with you, the way your gut always churns when you suspect a bullshit coverup. A coverup you’re expected to support.

And here you are now, still trying to cling to a job that makes you feel as filthy as the ones you judge in your mind.

You’re very handsome, sir.

Those words feel like bile on your tongue, even if they are true.

Homelander blinks owlishly. Then, his expression flattens into annoyance. He moves on from you with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.

“Fucking diversity hire,” he mutters. 

Your blood boils, your lips pursing, but you force yourself to keep your head down. Literally and figuratively. 

Those eight hours feel like a small eternity weighing on every cell of your psyche. When you get home and unlock the door to your apartment, Ben is right where you expect him to be, sitting in the middle of your couch with the rest of your whiskey and a giant box of pizza.

You expel a long and raging groan, throwing your messenger back to the far corner of the couch before you drop onto it next to him. Ben stares at you with a frown.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

Not, “How was your day?” Or, “Are you okay?”

You shoot him a glare, intending to snap something smart at him. But all that happens is your throat closes up on you again. Your anxiety and fear climb back up your throat, making tears spring to your eyes. Your lower lip wobbles, and you drop your head into your hands.

Ben pauses, staring at you in surprise. The harder you cry, the more his brows draw together. He reaches for the remote and mutes the TV. Finally, he grasps your arm.

“Hey,” he says. “What the fuck happened?”

You wipe under your eyes to try and save your mascara. Eventually you’re able to look over at him.

“Time for me to quit,” you say.

Ben listens while you tell what happened in your office today. After Homelander left, Vince started talking about giving everyone a Vought-issued smartwatch that they should have on them at all times, “for any important updates.”

Bullshit. You know that little accessory is one step shy of a microchip in your wrist. They want to watch you. They want to control you.

So you’re fucking done, even if this is the best-paying job you’ve ever had. Even though you have no backup plan, and your life is unraveling at your feet.

Ben is quiet while you explain…

But he does hear you, and it finally hits him in a way that matters.

He’s marked you: a young, sad little grunt in Vought’s machine. But, he does have to admit that you have nothing to do with his old vendetta, or the people who’ve wronged him. He’s marked you as a target along with him, and for once, he actually gives a shit about it. It’s that uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling he resists putting a name to.

Guilt.

“Looks like we both need to get outta dodge,” he says eventually.  

You nod, heaving a reluctant sigh. “What’s your plan, Ben? Really.” 

He meets your gaze, and finally, he levels you with the truth.

“It’s not gonna be easy. They’re probably watching JFK, LaGuardia, Newark—every airport from here to Connecticut,” he says.

It’s the reason he’s been bumming on your couch this long. He has no money, no connections, no transportation. Right now, all he’s got is you. A normal girl with no skills or training whatsoever. If he heads out alone, he’s probably fucked. If he stays here, sooner or later, you both are fucked.

“Getting out of New York unseen is the problem,” he says, rubbing his chin.

Wiping the rest of your tears dry, you lace your fingers together and press them to your lips in thought. You’ve always been a problem solver, a scrapper, and stubborn as hell. You’re not done living, so you’re not done thinking.

Eventually, an answer sparks in your mind. It’s not the best idea…but fuck it. Right now, it’s all you got.

That night, Ben helps you pack up your car with no less than five suitcases of various sizes, all yours, even though he grumbles at how much shit you’re taking. 

You reason that you don’t know what you’ll need. You don’t even know when you’ll be back, but your sketchpads, pencils, charcoals, and paint supplies are all packed, along with your laptop, your clothes, hair products, makeup, shoes, toiletries, snacks, water, and whatever else you can think of. 

You and Ben are bound for Miami, Florida, where most of your family lives. 

You’ve already called your mother (from a new burner phone), who’s ecstatic to have you coming home. Your plan is to drop Ben off at the Miami International Airport. From there, he can literally hitch a ride anywhere he wants to go. You just need to survive the 20-hour drive without him getting you killed.

He’ll go his way, and I’ll go mine, you think. 

You start up the car, but you give your apartment building one last look, letting go of a sigh. 

I’ll be back soon. You toss a silent prayer heavenward, hoping it’s not just an empty promise to yourself.

It’s fucking official. Ben is the worst copilot on a road trip.

He’s eating all of your snacks, keeps complaining about your music, and, oh yeah, he’s a backseat/front-seat driver. His chief complaint is that you’re the worst driver he’s ever seen…which might actually be true. You’re from Miami, after all. Streetlights and stop signs are more “suggestions” than law.

And after living in New York for so long, your skills are…rusty.

“Keep your eyes on the road!” he snaps. “Do you even look at the mirror when you change lanes?”

You utter a sound of pure frustration and tighten your hands on the wheel.

“Of course I do, Gramps! It’s called peripheral vision. Calm your tits, dude,” you wave at him dismissively.

He shoots you an irritated look. Dude? ...Dude?!

“All right, don’t fucking talk to me like one of your homies,” he grouses.

You gape at him. “Excuse me?! What did you just fucking say?” 

The car drifts into the middle lane on a curve down I-95, earning you a spirited honk from the Honda Accord you almost grazed.

“Eyes on the fucking road!” Ben shouts. You correct yourself quickly, still giving him a fierce glare.

“What do you care? You’re basically invulnerable!”

“Hey, if you wanna end up like a piece of roadkill, be my guest. I just want to get there without fucking incident.”

“Oh my God, Ben! Just get my iPad and watch something, before I lose my shit.”

You instruct him on how to navigate the Netflix app, and he keeps scrolling until he finds something he likes the look of. He ends up putting on a Richard Pryor standup comedy special.

You look over his arm as the man takes the stage in the video. “Who’s that?” 

“You haven’t heard of this guy?” Ben asks you in surprise. “Aw man. He was Eddie Murphy before Eddie Murphy. Godfather of fucking comedy.”

You’re intrigued by his enthusiasm. You shrug, willing to put up with anything as long as it shuts him up. 

As it turns out, you two end up laughing together for the next hour while listening to Live! On the Sunset Strip. 

When you’re too tired to keep driving, Ben takes over for the next few hours. You end up stopping at a motel in Florence, South Carolina, where you practically face plant on one of the queen-sized beds in exhaustion. 

You typically fly back home, the few times that you’ve done so. You haven’t made the trip in a while, having spent most of the past two years in New York. It’s not that you don’t love your family, because you do, more than anything. Your job was just too hectic. Your schedule and your life in the city felt too important to go home.

But you know what? After everything that’s happened in the past week, those valid reasons now feel like sorry excuses.

These thoughts create a maelstrom in your mind as you trudge through the threshold of a dingy motel room. You note the musty old carpets and the drab, mustard yellow walls with a grimace. The beds are neatly made, at least. You’re going to have to just close your eyes tonight and ignore any suspicious stains.

“Okay,” you heave a sigh after dropping your bag on the bed closest to the bathroom. “Mind if I take a shower first? I might actually be falling asleep with my eyes open as we speak.”

Ben nods begrudgingly after tossing his own duffel bag on the second queen-sized bed. He too had been surveying his surroundings with an unimpressed look on his face.

What a fucking dump.

At least there’s a TV on the far wall.

He eyes you though, noting your slow movements as you rifle through one of your bags for fresh clothes to change into. Then you whip out a huge toiletry bag full of bottles and creams and whatever the fuck else—in pockets upon pockets that fold out like a body bag.  

“What, you carrying a whole fucking salon in there?” he remarks.

You smirk over at him. “This is just skincare. Hair stuff is in my suitcase.”

Ben blinks his eyes wider. He’s dated actresses, supermodels, and musicians alike, but not even Farrah Fawcett had that much shit to slather on her face, or in her hair. That’s probably why you always look so dewy, your hair wild and perfect at the same time; why you always smell sweet, like cocoa butter and something floral. Light and enticing.   

He shakes his head. “What’s around here for food?”

“I think there’s a few different spots in this plaza,” you reply. “You mind grabbing something?”

Ben’s brows furrow in annoyance. “Do I look like the fucking maid?”

Your lips twitch. “No, but you do have some big manly muscles and two big, manly hands for carrying shit. I’d be down for Chinese, but I wouldn’t be mad at a bacon cheeseburger. Fries or onion rings, whatever they have.”

You pat his firm bicep and make your past him, into the bathroom. He watches you go with narrowed eyes.

He thinks you’ve got that swing in your step on purpose, trying to distract him with the curve of your ass in those jeans. But when the bathroom door clicks shut with the lock, he rolls his eyes. If he really wanted to get in there, a little lock wouldn’t do shit.

He shakes his head and grabs his motel key along with your wallet from your purse. He can hear you undressing, clothes sliding off your body and to the tile floor. The shower kicks on, rusty pipes creaking to life. He can imagine the spray from the showerhead hot and steaming, the water hitting smooth skin, the rich complexion glistening. Hot streams sliding down over each and every curve he can almost see behind his hooded eyelids, enough to make his cock twitch in his jeans.

Fuck.

 It’s been too damn long since he got laid. He’ll probably rub one out to that image of you in his head later, when he gets his turn in the shower. But for now, filling his stomach is the only craving he can satisfy.

He leaves the motel in search of the closest burger place, conscious of the click of the door lock behind him.

When he gets back twenty minutes later, arms laden with bags of greasy food, he steps up to the right door and fishes out his motel key from the pocket of his jeans. He pauses there for a second. Awareness prickles down his spine. Something feels…off.

He unlocks the door and steps inside. Immediately he’s assaulted by a musty smell, like mothballs inside old furniture, along with something damp and mildew. Disgusting.

Then he notices the cobwebs. Grayish webbing spans the back wall of the motel and strings down from the ceiling. A great big wad of the stuff creates a kind of cocoon where the middle nightstand and the lamp used to be, between the two beds.

What the fuck is this shit?

Frowning, Ben sets down the food on the TV stand and carefully steps further into the room.

He calls your name as he looks around, but he doesn’t find you. The bathroom door is open, the light still on, even though the room itself is empty. Your hairdryer (with that weird claw thing attached) rests still plugged in on the counter there, along with bottles of hair gel and oils and whatever the fuck else.

He hears it though, when he listens closely. One faint heartbeat straight ahead, and one normal one, his own. Tilting his head in confusion, he approaches the cocoon.

“The fuck?” he mutters. He reaches out a hand to touch the sticky substance. He bows his head closer. He hears that weak heartbeat flutter just a little. His eyes widen in realization.

His brows furrow harder as he begins to rip the cocoon open with his bare hands. The curly top of your head is freed first, along with your much paler face. You’re unconscious, and you look…dead. Fucking dead.

But you’re not. He hears your heartbeat, no matter how shallow, and he pressed a hand to your cheek to make sure. Not only does he feel your warmth under his palm, but your lashes flutter open. You whimper when he calls your name more urgently.

You look pallid and sick, on the verge of puking if you could move. Your mouth opens slightly, but you’re unable to speak.

The set of Ben’s face becomes darker, more determined as his jaw ticks.

“It’s all right. I’ve gotcha,” he says. “Who the fuck did this?”

When he begins to tear at the rest of the cocoon, a new sheen of webbing encases his palm and traps it against the wall.

He looks up in time to see a figure jump down at him from the ceiling. He lands on the ground with a spring in his step as he likely gears up to toss more disgusting webbing.

Fucking supes, Ben thinks. Gritting his teeth, he rips his hand from the wall and knocks the other supe’s hand away. He tries to throw another punch, but the intruder is slippery. His supe suit is all black, except for the dark yellow V that spans down his chest and sides. He’s extremely agile, making him difficult for Ben to pin down.

The supe uses the room to his advantage, leaping over Ben’s head and onto the closest bed. By the time Ben turns around, the spidery supe has already tossed more webbing at each of his hands—and a third one right over his eyes and mouth. Spider guy leaps over Ben again, grabs the threads of his webbing, and pulls, yanking Ben down to the floor.

“Fuck!” the curse is muffled through the webbing and against the dingy green carpet, but Ben’s anger fuels him.

Before Spider guy can get off another “shot,” Ben grabs the very threads that are holding him down and yanks even harder than his opponent. He hears a loud yelp—and the telltale crashing of a body to the ground. Ben rips off the webbing from his face so he can see the other supe a few feet in front of him. Ben drop kicks him into the far wall, not far from where you’re stuck.

It shakes you somewhat back into consciousness. You slowly find the strength to blink your eyes open.

…Ben?

When you’re able to clear the blur from your vision, you try to focus on Ben’s moving form. He’s finally got a grip on the supe who attacked you, with a big, firm hand wrapped around the other guy’s throat.

Ben rips off the supe’s mask to find a mop of curly brown hair, and a petrified, if drugged out-looking stoner.

“Heeeey,” he greets. He grabs onto Ben’s wrist, but there’s no dislodging his grip now that Ben’s got him pinned.

“Who the fuck are you?” he growls.

“Webweaver. Big fan, BT-dubs,” the supe replies weakly.

Ben couldn’t give less of a fuck. He begins to clamp down on Webweaver’s trachea.

“Wait, Wait!” Webweaver chokes out, holding up a placating hand. “Please, Homelander told me to find you. I was just following orders.”

Ben gives a dark chuckle.

“Should’a known that sniveling pussy would sick an even more pathetic asshole after me.”

Webweaver doesn’t bother to argue. “He really, really, really wants you dead, just so you know.”

Ben huffs humorlessly. “Yeah, well, he’s gonna have to get in fucking line. And come at me with more than a little laser light show and that limp dick wrist of his. How the fuck did you find me?”

Webweaver slowly turns his head to look over at you. Your eyes widen, despite how weak you are. You can barely wiggle your fingers to get out of this webbing. You finally recognize him though. Whatever he dosed you with, it must have temporarily paralyzed you. 

“I’ve looked into almost every Vought employee,” he says. “She was the only one who didn’t come back to work after the new security measures were announced.”

“You mean how you want to microchip us?” you interject, despite the weak, ill wobble of your voice. Ben shoots you a glance, his jaw clenching further.

Webweaver spares you a look too, but he focuses on the guy who’s threatening to snap his neck. “When I checked out her apartment, you guys already packed up everything and left, so…I tracked you down. Her credit cards leave a trail of motels and fast food. All I had to do was hijack every surveillance camera in between.”

If possible, Ben’s expression darkens. He tilts his head and considers Webweaver with a grim threat in his eyes.

“Anybody else know what you know?”

Webweaver swallows. He seems to be thinking through the haze of whatever drugs he’s on—heroine, by the smell of him. Then his eyes widen in realization. An oh, shit, I fucked up kind of look.

“Y-Yeah. I mean, totally! I already sent everything to Homelander.”

Ben pauses for a moment, then his lips hint at a smile. 

“You know how I know you’re lying?” he says.

He leans in to speak close to Webweaver’s ear. 

“I can hear your little two-bit heart pumping away, faster and faster, but that little hitch,” he whispers. “That. Right there. It never lies.”

Webweaver’s lower lip quivers. Sweat has created a fine sheen across his forehead, and a drop of it finally rolls down his cheek, almost like tears. His red-rimmed eyes shine with them too. 

“Please, Soldier Boy—”

“Ben,” you utter worriedly. You see darkness in his eyes that you’ve only seen once before, when he threatened you in your kitchen. But never like this. Not with the cold control of having a life literally in the palm of his hand, and knowing just how he’s going to break it. 

Ben shoots you a glance. 

“Might wanna look away, sweetheart.”

“Don’t!” you gasp.

You close your eyes just as the snap of Webweaver’s neck seems to reverb through the room.

You scream when the body drops to the ground. Shock claims your body for a few unforgiving seconds, before hot tears well up in your eyes, down your face and neck. Your eyes only widen with fear when Ben finishes surveying his handiwork. And he comes back to you.

He rips open the rest of the cocoon and frees you from the tacky, plaster-like web. He grasps your arms to steady you, but the feeling of his strong hand just makes your skin crawl and bile rise up in your throat. 

He opens his mouth, maybe to ask if you’re all right. But you stumble away from him before he can even get the words out. You hurry as fast as you can out of the motel room. 

You’re still weak though, moving slower and less coordinated than normal. You’ve barely reached your car when Ben inevitably catches up to you. He slams the car door shut and turns you around in his arms to subdue you. 

“Get the fuck away from me!” you yell in his face. Tears continue to overflow, trickling down your cheeks. 

Ben glares down at you as he holds you firmly by the arms, despite how you try to kick at his shins. He doesn’t necessarily want to hurt you, but at this point, you’re being hysterical. Even at a dingy motel off the highway, someone’s bound to notice and call the police. 

“Enough, damn it,” he gruffly demands.

“You—you just killed someone! I just—I saw—and I’m covered in shit.” Briefly you look down at where the webbing has clung to your clothes, your skin, under your nails, your neck, your hair. Your heartbeat is ticking faster and wilder, your breaths coming out shallow as you begin to hyperventilate. Ben’s grip firms as he stares down at you in frustration.

“Jesus Christ, would you relax? You’re fine!”

“Let me go!” you sob desperately.

“Not until you calm the fuck down,” Ben growls. “We’re grabbing our shit and getting the hell out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Tough shit, sweetheart. You think I’m that stupid?” he snaps. “You think I don’t know who you’re calling, soon as I let you skip the fuck off? Look, I’m getting my ass on an international flight, with or without your piece of shit car and your big fucking mouth. But I’m not letting go of any loose ends this time.”

You suck in a shaky breath at his thinly veiled threat.

“Now, if you hold up your end of the deal, then in a day or two, I’ll be out of your hair,” he says. “And we never have to fucking see each other again. Sound good?”

Tears still carve their hot paths down your face, your lips trembling, but you eventually offer a small, jerky nod. Ben eyes you carefully. After a moment, he releases you. You discreetly wipe at your face as you avoid his gaze. You shakily go back into the motel room to try and find your suitcases.

Ben just watches you go. Deep down, he feels that stupid fucking twinge again. Uncomfortable and goddamn irritating, like a gnat in his ear, or a buzz down his spine. An oyster knife behind his impenetrable ribcage.  

He firmly ignores it all, and strides back into the motel room to find his own duffel bag. 

Ben takes up the responsibility of driving for the next few hours. He figures you two can power through all the way to Miami in nine hours. In just half a day, he’ll be on a flight to Belize. Or better yet, Rio. He deserves to have some fucking fun. A nice little vacation after this shitty homecoming.

He glances over at you. The radio plays at a moderate volume. Normally you’d be blasting whatever bullshit music you like to play from your phone hooked up to this piece of shit car, but for the past few hours, you’ve been quiet—the quietest you’ve ever been in his presence, short of when you were actually sleeping. It looks like the episode with Webweaver took it out of you. You’re not just subdued, but shaken. 

Ben is pretty sure that was your first dead body. First time witnessing a kill. That same uncomfortable feeling prickles under his skin, knowing he’s the one who just popped that proverbial cherry for you. 

“Hey,” he says, eliciting your attention. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

You send him a glare. “Don’t pretend you actually care.”

“Hey, I’m the one who fucking saved you,” he retorts. “If it wasn’t for me, you would’ve been the stiff body in the trunk back there.” He jerks a sharp thumb over his shoulder. It’s a reminder that Webweaver’s dead body actually is in the trunk. Ben’s waiting to find a nice deep lake off the side of the highway to dump it in.

You bite the inside of your lip hard, and you shake your head. 

“Okay, fine,” you reply. “Maybe you did save me. But it’s the way you did it. You were toying with him. Like…like you enjoyed it.”

Ben glances over at you, just for you to avert your gaze and turn your face away from him. You go back to staring idly out the window. Anything to distract you from looking at the supe beside you. 

You remember the way he effortlessly snapped Webweaver’s neck. Fucking monster.

And then, seconds later, you remembered the way Ben reached out his hand to you, after ripping away the webbing from your body. 

There had been something gentler in the way he grasped your arms and led you out of your sticky cage. You could almost imagine the glint of concern in his battle-hardened face. Maybe it was just a trick of the buggy florescent light overhead. 

It’s just hard to reconcile what those same hands had done just moments before, with the way they tried to hold you after the fact. Protective, but not safe. 

You chance glancing over at him. Ben catches your gaze. After a second of hesitation, he opens his mouth. Whatever Ben might’ve said next, it gets cut off by the ominous, puttering sound of your car. His brows furrow. 

“What the fuck?” he barks. 

The gas tank is still halfway full. There’s no reason for the car to be slowing down. He bats the top of the dashboard a couple of times with an open hand, but it’s no use. Gray and white smoke is coiling up from the hood, blurring any visibility through the front windshield. Your car eventually stutters to a stop. 

Ben slowly turns to you with an angry look filled with vindication. It’s then you know that you’re about to have the world’s worst headache. You drop your head into your hands. 

“Goddamn it,” you mutter.

You can’t take a chance on calling a tow truck, or else run the risk of your call being traced—either by Vought or the government. So while you take the driver’s seat, Ben pushes the car an entire mile in Neutral to a gas station off the next exit.

Thankfully, the gas station attendant knows the number of a nearby mechanic, Joe, who not only tows the car, but gives you and Ben a ride to yet another craptastic motel. Ben orders a pizza while you shower, trying to avoid the weird grease stains on the walls. 

While you watch Ben devour a whole three-meat supreme pizza by himself during a rerun episode of House M.D., Joe later calls you with good news and bad news about your car. The bad news is, your car doesn’t just need its battery replaced, but a worn-out fuel pump as well. Luckily he has the parts handy, but the bad news is, it’s going to cost you a good dent in your savings.

Shaking your head and kissing your future Caribbean cruise goodbye, you pay the man over the phone. You hang up and throw the phone halfway across the dingy mattress and rub your eyes hard. 

Ben looks over at you while polishing off his last slice of pizza. “If I had access to my bank accounts, we’d be able to rent an actual car, instead of limping mile after mile on a piece of shit jalopy.”

“You know what, be grateful that I have a piece of shit car for you to abuse on this buddy road trip from hell!” you snap at him. “Tomorrow, I’ll call a fucking Uber, pick up my fucking car, and we’re going straight to the goddamn airport, even if I have to pay for your plane ticket myself. Wherever you wanna go. Buenos Aires, Norway, Madagascar, New Zealand—whatever your heart desires, my friend. I’ll be your fucking Sugar Mama for the next 663 miles, as long as we keep the conversating between you and me to a minimum.”

Ben stares back at you, those dark furrowing brows of his and the set of his jaw telling you that he has a thin grip on his temper with you. You currently can’t bring yourself to give a fuck.

“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s no wonder you’re alone,” he spits, throwing down his pizza crust back onto the plate. “I’ll bet your little pussy fucking boyfriend couldn’t wait for you to set him free, so he didn’t have to deal with your mouth, your crusty little apartment, and your ungrateful bitching fucking attitude.”

Your eyes widen. Your mouth falls open in shock, but a sound of pure and utter outrage is what comes out as your fists clench, until your nails bite harshly into your own skin. What would be easier at this point? Swallowing your pride and ignoring him, or yanking the motel door open and throwing yourself into oncoming traffic?

You want to ask him why he’s the one who’s alone—without any family or friends or anyone in the world who cared that he was gone for forty fucking years. But you know that would be too far, too hurtful, too injuring to his pride. He might’ve saved you today, but you know he doesn’t really need you anymore. If he wanted to, he could take your car and leave you here, or worse. He could snap your neck, just like Webweaver.

So do your best to reign in your anger, shoving it all down behind a fierce glower.

“God, you’re such a fucking asshole,” you seethe, even with cracks of emotion breaking through, making your voice shake. “Just leave me alone!”

You somehow stop yourself from throwing a pillow at his stupid bearded face. You turn off your bedside lamp, throw the sheets of the shitty motel bed on over yourself, and squeeze your eyes shut as if flames were about to start spouting out of them. Better that than tears.

Meanwhile, Ben huffs and shakes his head at you. What a fucking bitch. 

You hadn’t always been. There were moments in the past few days where he thought the two of you were starting to see eye to eye, but he guesses this is all just too much for you to handle. You’re soft, like that little cum-guzzler, Hughie. Like the rest of this fucking generation nowadays. 

Ben watches you for a moment longer, the gentle curve of your form under the covers. He hears you trying to control your breathing, maybe even holding back angry tears. The little shiv behind his ribcage twists, slowly, pointedly. His jaw locks in annoyance, but the acidity of your words ring through his head again. 

He knows you’re right. He is a fucking asshole.

You must really hate him.  

The thought stays with Ben even after he follows your lead, shutting off his bedside lamp and laying down on his likely cum-stained mattress; it swerves back in his head, annoyingly rolling through the reel behind his eyes while he tries to fall asleep.

That night, no matter how hard you try, you can’t fall asleep. Your companion is snoring like a hibernating grizzly in his bed, leading you to roll your eyes. Even in his sleep, he’s fucking irritating. 

You end up digging in your suitcase for your iPad. You bring it back to your bed and start scrolling through the news on social media, from Vought channels to CNN and Fox. You want to know what’s happening out there, how it’s all being spun. A headline catches your attention…

Homelander Sounds Red-Alert on Fallen Hero Soldier Boy’s Disappearance

There’s a short clip of Homelander lamenting the downfall of Soldier Boy. You put in your AirPods and listen in.

“His legacy speaks for itself. He was once a true pillar of this nation’s safety and security. The true tragedy is that for all these years, the Russians held him in captivity, brainwashing him, turning him into a mindless weapon that could explode at any moment,” Homelander postures to the camera. He stares it down, like he can see right through the lens and into your eyes.

A shudder runs down your spine.

That’s a bit of a stretch, you think. Yeah, Ben is definitely self-medicating with booze and drugs, whenever one or both are in supply, but he’s not a mindless powder keg. 

“That’s why it’s imperative that if anyone sees Soldier Boy, they should call it in to the authorities as soon as possible. I am personally working with the FBI, the CIA, and the police to bring Soldier Boy in and get him the treatment he needs, so that he’s no longer a danger to himself or to others.”

You shake your head at that load of bullshit, but it does reluctantly bring you back to curiosity about Ben…and sympathy. Forty years in captivity. My God.

You venture down the rabbit hole of YouTube. You watch old footage of him bossing PAs around on set and generally being an arrogant, entitled menace, even smacking his fellow actress on the ass after a “scene well done.” You shake your head in disgust.

But then, another video crops up. It says in the preview: 

**WATCH THIS BEFORE IT GETS DELETED.

The thumbnail is a grainy shot of Ben, fully naked except for a scraggly beard, and strapped to a metal table in what looks like…a laboratory. Wall-to-wall concrete. Men wearing pristine white lab coats and gloves, just like the fucking movies.

You play the video. Soon, you wish to God that you hadn’t. 

The scientists’ clinical examinations and sorting through various instruments and vials…they’re experimenting on him, you realize. You’re morbidly spellbound by Ben, his sounds of struggle as he grits his teeth, then the seething and growling through pain as it grows worse and worse. And if it’s strong enough to hurt him, it truly must be agonizing.

You don’t realize you’re crying until the droplets land on the iPad screen. You wipe them off with the corner of your blanket and stop the video. You can’t bear to finish. 

The sound of shifting mattress springs startles you into clutching your iPad to your chest. You look over, half-expecting Ben to be standing over you with one of those angry, surly frowns.

Instead, you find him still asleep, if getting agitated. You take off your AirPods and set aside your iPad. You begin to frown in concern when you hear a groan of distress pass his lips, his brows furrowing as he twists in the bed. The covers are already half strewn off of him, pooling down to the carpet. 

“Ben,” you hesitantly call to him. He doesn’t wake up. His groans turn to bursts of sound, muffled shouts, his eyes fluttering under his lids. 

You can no longer stay in bed. You feel compelled to get up and go to him, if in cautious steps. You know better than to wake a man who’s thrashing in his sleep, especially one as strong as him. You look around for something to help you, but there’s not a whole lot to work with here. You try various things, but what finally makes him wake up is poking his arm more insistently with one of the empty pizza boxes. 

He jolts with a shout, his eyes snapping open and scanning the room with a manic edge. He finds, and settles, on you. You jump back and trip over the carpet, landing hard on your ass. The pizza box is clutched in front of your chest like a shield, even though it doesn’t cover your pajama bottom-clad legs folded underneath you.

Ben quirks his head as he eyes you. Both of you are breathing hard, trying to make sense of the moment. 

“Are you okay?” you whisper. 

Ben seems to come back to himself, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows gruffly. 

“Fine,” he grunts. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, stopping there for a beat to release a breath. He shakes his head, but after a few beats of tense silence, he he extends a hand out to you. 

Slowly, you set down the pizza box and take him up on his offer. He helps you back onto your feet. 

“Sorry,” you say on reflex. “I didn’t know whether to wake you up or—”

“It’s fine,” he says, letting go of your hand. His voice is tired, but it cuts. It warns you that he doesn’t want to talk about what you saw, or more importantly, what he saw. 

“Go back to bed,” he adds. He glances up at you, and the tension across his face eases a little. “Need your beauty sleep, right?”

Your lips twitch upward. “Yeah well, so do you, Gramps.”

His expression flattens, making you smile for real. It’s amazing how little it takes to needle him. 

Ben watches you slip back into bed and raises a brow at your change in attitude. You’re so damn hot and cold. It’s like getting whiplash.

“Goodnight,” you say belatedly. 

Turning away from you under the covers, he allows himself to smile a little. 

“G’night, Chiquita.” 

In the morning, you and Ben Uber over to the mechanic’s shop to get your car. She ain’t pretty, but she’s functioning well enough for you to drive. Ben insists on taking the wheel, and you’re too tired to argue.

After a pit stop at Dunkin’ Donuts for an extra-large latte for you and a cold brew for Ben (you promised he’d like it), along with food for the road, your Bonnie and Clyde road trip recommences. 

You and Ben still argue about what music to play—him arguing for Sinatra, and you lobbying for some Bruno Mars—but there’s less biting tension and more normal bickering between you two. Like before you watched him kill a man.

The longest stretch of the drive is through Florida itself, from the miles and miles of wilderness on either side of I-95, to pockets of cities, and progressively shitter traffic the farther south Ben drives. He swears when the car rattles over deep cracks in the road, and he’s forced to swerve to avoid a pothole. The car shakes over brittle asphalt and chunks of uneven surface.

“Christ, feels like the bridge is about to fucking fall apart,” he grouses.

“Welcome to Miami,” you reply dryly. You know you’re getting close to the city when the water on either side of the highway glitters, and the roads get shittier. 

But you tap his arm when you point out at the water. “Look, it’s greener on this side.”

Ben’s follows the path of your gaze. Sure enough, where the sun hits the water it has a light blue-green shine, whereas the other side of the bridge churns darker blue waters, rich, beautiful. It’s been a long time since he’s been to Miami. 

He glances over at you, noticing when you take a deeper breath. The sun shines in your eyes, through your lashes, in your hair. Your mouth parts, then smiles, breaking new contrasts and shadows.

“I’m home.” 

AN: Okay, a lot of ground covered in this chapter, lots of friction and angstiness. But we're now on a new phase of this little getaway trip, all the way down to Florida to meet the reader's family! Get ready for more lies (the fun kind!), more food, and of course, more heat. 😉❤️‍🔥

Next Time:

“So,” Ben says, “what role am I playing for tonight, sweetheart? Your work friend, or your boyfriend? Both have their pros and cons, and potential benefits.”

His grin is far too cocksure not to irritate you on sight. You’re already regretting this lapse in your sanity that led you to try being nice to this asshole.

You also realize that you haven’t exactly thought this through. What if they recognize him from the news? 

…Well, your parents don’t like social media and your grandmother barely even knows how to text, let alone what Instagram is. 

“Let’s just play it by ear,” you say, resisting a sigh. “But for now…God, fine, you’re my boyfriend.”

“Okay,” he gamely nods. “How long’ve we been dating?”

“Long enough for me to bring you to see my parents, so let’s say a few months,” you say. Then, you grab his wrist. “Please, try to tone down the cursing and general pussy talk around my family. They’re Catholic and…conservative.”

Again, his lips twitch upward in a way you don’t really like.

“Sure,” he says, “I can turn on the charm.”

He turns his wrist under your grasp to bring your hand up to his lips. 

“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I can be very convincing.” 

A warm blush spreads across your cheeks, prickling down your neck.

Shit. You’re already regretting this. 

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Part 4

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[baldelarose]

Having my cooking skills humbled by a fic ✅

I’ll repeat it every chapter if I have to, but I can’t explain how happy it makes me that Reader won’t take shit from anyone and maintains her boundaries, I love that so much for her. Though I feel a little bad for her, I won’t lie. Yes, Ben is indeed a sight for sore eyes, but the annoying part of his personality, and Reader’s tiny apartment would be a little overwhelming for me 😂. It’s also safe to say that there’s tension between them, it’s there, they both can feel it, and it’s going to keep growing 👀

PS: I would also be very intrigued about Ben’s potential anecdotes or stories with stars from Old Hollywood (without the pornhub sweaty bits, ofc), because I’m kinda obsessed with that era 🤭

UNRAVEL ME - Part 2

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Ahhh here we are at Part 2! Thank you to everyone who shared their thoughts on Part 1 and wanted to see more. I really, truly appreciate it since I'm trying some new things with this series. 🥰💗

Song Inspo: “Come Fly with Me” by Frank Sinatra

JVB Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Accidental Old Person Acquisition

Word Count: 7.7K

Tags/Warnings: Some uncomfortable friction in this one, friends. 😬 But also more ethnic foodie adventures for Ben, some mini breakthroughs and bonding moments, angst, and more obnoxious flirting 🙄 (you know the drill). Chapter title inspired by a song in The Sound of Music: "Maria."

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Part 2: A Problem Like Chiquita

“What the fuck is this?” Ben says gruffly.

He examines the food you’ve ordered from the Colombian bakery like it’s college-level calculus, holding a fat, golden, crescent-shaped pastry pocket in his hand.

“Food,” you dryly reply. “That’s an empanada. It’s hella fucking good.”

You’re eating one as well. The meat grease comes off orange on your fingers, but that’s how you know it’s well-cooked and packed with flavor.

Colored grease = seasoning.

Ben's face strains with confusion, crows feet crinkling around his eyes, his mouth pulling at a frown.

"An empa-what?"

Restraining a sigh, you try to be patient.

"Em-pa-na-da," you repeat, articulating slowly.

He still looks skeptical as he eyes the thing in his hand, even if it does smell good, like paprika and cumin and other savory spices.

“What’s it made out of?” he asks.

“Ground beef? Pastry? Happiness?” You shrug. “My people make it better. But then again, I’m a bit biased.”

The man is hesitant, but he slowly takes a bite. He chews thoughtfully. After that first big swallow, it’s good enough for him to go back in for another bite, and then finish it off with a second and third one. He reaches for another empanada in the white takeout box. 

“Are they all the same?” he asks. 

You watch in amused satisfaction. “No, that one’s chicken. These on the left are beef.”

He makes a what do you know? kind of face, and he digs into the rest of the pastries. You smile slightly. The man can eat, that’s for sure. Your grandma would have fun feeding him.

“Sooo, when are you planning on hitting the road?” you ask. “Since, you know, Homelander and the government are looking for you.”

You checked the news while you were holed up in your room, waiting for the delivery you ordered through Doordash. According to every local news outlet, there’s now a full-on manhunt for Soldier Boy throughout the city. You find a clip on your phone and turned it toward him on the kitchen table to prove your point.

“Soldier Boy is armed and dangerous. The ‘see something, say something’ rule applies. If you would like to report a sighting of Soldier Boy, please call 1-800—”

Ben taps the screen and presses hard until the clip pauses. You take back your phone quickly before he can break it. He keeps eating, and you raise your brows at him. Your hands sweep upward in a what the fuck gesture. 

“Hello?” you prod. Is he going to answer you, or just keep stuffing his face?

“Could use a little more R&R before I head out,” he says. His expression remains stoic as he eats. You watch him incredulously, wondering when he’s going to have the balls to look up at your face. He never does.

The frustration that’s been building up inside you reaches critical mass. The dial pushes, pushes, pushes over until it cracks safety glass. You can almost hear the steam whistling in your ears, along with your drumming heartbeat.

You stand from the table, your chair scraping across the floor. You can tell the sound irritates his sharp ear as he glances up at you with a frown.

“You are a goddamn fugitive. You get that right?” you say, regarding him with an incredulous tilt of your head. “Now you’ve hooked me into this. I could get in serious shit because of you, and you don’t even seem to care! What…what kind of fucking superhero are you supposed to be?”

At the same time, you don’t know why this surprises you. Most of the supes you’ve met couldn’t care less about the average person. The entire purpose of Vought’s Legal Department springs to mind.

Still, you thought America’s first supe ever—the one who supposedly fought in WWII, pounded Nazis up the ass, and represented the ideals this country was supposed to be founded on—might actually give a shit. Yet again, it stings to be proven wrong.

Ben’s face had been verging on apathy, but now, he’s just as irritated and angry as you. He pushes back from the table and stands up to his full height. Even wearing your ex’s plain gray crew shirt and some threadbare sweatpants, the man’s frame is intimidating. He slowly steps closer until he’s looming over you.

There’s a warning gleam in his eyes as he grabs hold of your chin. His entire hand frames your jaw with iron strength, forcing a gasp out of you. You latch onto his wrist instinctively, even knowing it’s useless.

“You better watch your fucking mouth, sweetheart. Before that little attitude of yours gets you into trouble,” he says. Calm, controlled, or so he'd have you believe. The a spark underneath, an edge. A fragile fucking ego.

Your breathing shallows, but you refuse to bend. Not in your own home.

“Do it,” you snap. “Bat me around if it makes you feel like a man.” 

Ben’s gaze hardens, a shade incredulous too.

“You’re a little fucking crazy, huh? Not to mention a disrespectful brat.”

“Maybe,” you say. You know you’re taking your life into your hands. Your heart thuds a staccato beat inside your chest, but you meet his gaze unflinchingly.

You’re exhausted, stressed so bad that your hands wouldn’t stop shaking this morning while you were brushing your teeth. Your mind’s been spinning fractals of “what if” scenarios, wondering when the door of your apartment is going to get blown apart, with either laser beams or bullets flying in first, no questions asked later.

You’re at your fucking limit.

And when you look at Ben, you see the second skin of arrogance pulled on like the costume he wore as Soldier Boy. The kind that probably hides what he’s really feeling underneath, not wanting to deal with the reality of whatever choices led him here.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a selfish asshole. A fucking bully,” you add.

His hold tightens a fraction; his fingers press into your cheek, making you flinch and tremble inside. It doesn’t stop you from opening your mouth again. It just hardens your defiance, your glare of disgust while you’re forced to look up at his face.

“So far, I don’t see anything about you that’s worth respecting,” you say. “But I’m nobody, right? Not even a supe. Why should you fucking care what I think? Why should you care how I feel, or how easy it would be to hurt me?”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but the words carry the weight.

Darkened green eyes lock with yours, a silent battle of wills. You see the gears turning there, as if he’s weighing a decision in his mind.

Your cell phone rings. The sharpness, along with the insistent buzz, causes ripples through the Berlin Wall of tension. You glance over to where the phone lies on the dining table. The screen is lit up with the caller ID.

Dad calling…

You look up at Ben again. He watches you more impassively now.

You squeeze his wrist with both hands, hot tears finally welling up in your eyes. You’re not going to apologize or take back what you said, but you’re hoping there’s just one shred of humanity in him, however deep those layers go.

“Look, just...please,” you whisper. “Ben, please stop.”

The supe releases a heavy exhale through his nose.

His hand relaxes. He lets you go, like you’re not worth the effort of teaching you a lesson.

“Be careful, sweetheart. I might not let it go a second time,” he warns.

You stumble backward a couple of steps. You eye him while he walks away toward the living room. You make a cautious, sliding move to grab your phone with shaking hands.

You let out a subtle breath of relief before you answer the call, heading to your room all the while.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Oh, thank God. Gloria!” He calls to your mom in relief. “She’s okay! Christ, we saw what happened to Vought on the news. The explosion—”

“Yeah, they evacuated most of us in time,” you reassure him. Though you still hope he hasn’t seen the “hunt for Soldier Boy” yet. Nerves trill up your spine, making you toss in a joke to deflect. “I thought you didn’t like Vought News. Too biased.”

“Every channel in the world is showing that goddamn building on fire! I want you to come home. Now,” he says.

You heave a deep sigh and drop down into a seat on the edge of your bed. You touch your jaw, still feeling the phantom grip. It hadn’t been painful, exactly, but still tight enough to make you feel the asshole’s tempered strength.

“I…I can’t right now,” you reply. You mentally scramble for an explanation your dad will believe. He’s a stubborn, highly opinionated, very protective and traditional Dominican man. He’s never liked the idea of you, a young woman, being in New York by yourself, and this whole thing is exactly the kind of validation he’ll use to try and control your life…but that’s all beside the fact that you have much bigger problems right now.

“The whole Tower didn’t go down, which means my job is still here,” you say.

A heavy sigh of frustration reaches you on the line.

“Now you’re being stubborn just to be stubborn,” he says gruffly. “I’ll never understand why you had to go all the way to the most dangerous city in the country just to draw. Living in that piece of shit apartment you can barely breathe in.”

Your anger sparks. It’s a well-worn argument that you don’t feel like hashing out right now.

“Dad, I’m a graphic artist,” you remind him. “But I’m more than that now. I’m the Second Assistant Content Manager in Social Media.”

Part of you withers inside anyway.

Vince, your boss, has you on a five- to eight-year track for promotion to Senior Second Assistant Content Manager—which sounds even more pathetic in your head.

“Yeah, well, you could’ve been an ‘artist’ with no money here,” your dad insists, even as your mom reproaches him in the background.

You sigh. “Look, I’m fine. So you don’t have to worry about me, okay? I’ll check in soon.”

You hang up with him shortly after, feeling that familiar weight that tries to suffocate you after most conversations with your dad. You know he’s worried about you. That’s understandable. But why is nothing you do good enough? Why doesn’t he ever believe in you?

You toss your cell phone on the bed and rub at the ache beginning to pulse at your temples.

You don’t even know when you’ll be able to go back to work. You have a fugitive cooling off his little temper tantrum on your couch, and no idea what how you’re going to get through the next 24 hours in one piece.

You let out a long, slow breath. Okay.

When these narrow walls feel like they’re about to swallow you whole, one of your go-to cures is the record player sitting on the right-hand corner of your desk. It barely fits between your bed and the closet, but it’s the best you can make of a little home art studio.

You grab a record from your modest collection, Selena’s Dreaming of You album from 1995, and you get it going. Your favorite song is the very first one, “I Could Fall in Love.”

It's whimsical and romantic, a little bittersweet and angsty, but still beautiful, just like Selena’s voice. It washes over you as you lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling.

What the hell are you going to do? If you call the police, you’ll be dead before they even reach your door…

You could text one of your coworkers, your ex, or maybe your boss. They could get a message to Ashley Barrett, or even Homelander himself.

Though you have a sick feeling you know how that would go.

“How long have you been hiding Soldier Boy? You helped him escape, didn’t you?”

“I mean, yeah, but no! He forced me—”

Hot laser beams and blood and your body hitting the ground, with steam coming off your corpse.

“Fuuuuck,” you groan, covering your face with both hands. You take in a shuddering breath, but you can’t control the flood of tears that burn in your eyes, or the way your body shakes with quiet sobs. 

You don’t realize that a broad, shadowed frame lingers behind your door. He leans his shoulder on the wall while he sips a beer.

After a beat, he shakes his head and continues on to the bathroom to take a leak.

Eventually, you have to escape your room for something to eat. You cook something simple for dinner: sautéed chicken and onions, rice, and a can of black beans. Your mom would smack your ass with a wooden spoon if she knew you ate canned beans, but sometimes you just don’t have time to prep your pressure cooker and make them from scratch.

Your “guest” eats two whole piled-on servings, as if he hadn't polished off the rest of the empanadas from this morning. You watch from your seat across from him at the dining table, bemused, resting your cheek in your hand.

Part of you feels a little flattered that he seems to like your food. Your ex-boyfriend had been a white boy too, but while he was always polite about eating whatever you cooked for him, you could tell that he hadn’t really enjoyed the “kick” of the flavors. (Even though you promised you hadn’t added any spicy peppers, apparently he considered black pepper and paprika to be “spicy.”)

“Had a feeling you could cook,” Ben says, around a half-masticated mouthful of chicken and rice. 

“Mhmm,” you intone. “Again, when are you checking out of my little Airbnb?”

“I fucking told you. When I’m good and ready,” he says. He eyes you in annoyance, and even gets fed up enough to drop his fork-wielding hand to clatter against his plate. “You know what, I fucking fought for my country. I fought for this fucking dumpster fire, and what did I get for it?” 

You pause, your eyes widening when you look up from your meal. You finally see that he’s not as stoic and nonchalant about being in his situation as you thought. There’s a deep well of anger there behind his eyes. Anger and frustration, maybe even confusion.

“You know what, that’s it,” he snaps. “Consider me fucking done. Retired. Everybody else did.”

He goes back to shoveling food into his mouth. You tilt your head at him with a reluctant spark of sympathy. You realize that you don’t know much about him.

You know what he’s famous for. You saw the Vought-produced documentary about his life—his humble beginnings in a rags-to-heroism story, then his apparent “death” in 1984. But that was back when Vought had the world convinced that supes were born, not made.

Oh yeah, the truth of Compound V hitting the news had shocked you last year, so much that you wondered what else Stan Edgar and the rest of the board was lying about. You started sending your applications to other companies, trying to get yourself out of the cesspool, but that’s when your boss distracted you with a promotion, a new title, more money to keep you on board.

“You’re vital to the department. You can help us remind the world what Vought really stands for: equality, diversity, the American dream, and the way our hardworking heroes protect that dream every day.”

Not that you buy into that bullshit manifesto anymore, but it was hard to walk away from a ten-thousand-dollar raise. (One that only got you out of relying on your credit cards, and not much else.)

Now you realize they were buying your silence as well as their damage control. Nothing is more influential for modern PR than social media, and if you're good at something, you think it's your fucking job.

Come to think of it, the company must be really shaken up your boss hasn't reached out to have you put anything out for damage control. From what you saw on the news, half of Vought Tower is in a shambles.

Only the first few floors are safely operable, according to the email updates you keep getting on your phone, assuring you that everything's under control. You hold in a snort. Maybe Ashley's having Vince do all the PR shit himself, keeping a tighter leash on things until you all go back in to work.

You tap a nail on the rim of your beer as you watch Ben practically inhale another slice of bread drizzled in olive oil and crushed garlic.   

Considering the fact that this man is very much not dead, and he’s nowhere near as charming and chivalrous as his movies led you to believe, you also think it’s fair to assume that all the stuff you’ve ever read or watched about him is bullshit too.

Though if you’re ever going to get out of this situation, you’re going to have to at least try to understand him.

Consider me fucking retired. Everybody else did.

The words were bitter, angry, resentful…and lost? You still remember the way he looked last night on your couch, exhausted, like a weight on his broad shoulders was finally making him crack, and sink into the ground.

“Everyone thought you were dead,” you say, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Forty years, I mean…what happened to you? Where were you all that time?”

Ben glances at you, but doesn’t offer a reply. Instead, he continues to brood as he eats, with dark furrowed brows shadowing his eyes, shuttering his thoughts away tightly. You have a feeling that wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing up until now…it wasn’t good.

For the moment, you let go of your own frustrations with a sigh. 

“Look, I get that you’re in deep shit right now, but you know you can’t hide here forever,” you try to reason with him more calmly. “We’re in the middle of the city. They’re gonna find you, and then what’re they going to do to me for helping you?” 

Anxiety and fear climb up in your chest again, high enough to choke you. Tears well up in your eyes, though you try to beat it all down. The last thing you want to do is let him see you break.

“Do you really not even care?” you ask. 

Ben finally gives you a long look.

His gaze roams your face, and for once, you can hope that he’s considering how his actions are affecting you.

“Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart,” he says. He picks up his fork again and scoops another bite of rice and beans. “Whatever might come, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

You bite the inside of your lip, breathing in deep to reign in your tears. Somehow, you don’t believe him.

On the fourth day, you finally concede that Ben needs more clothes. He’s already stopped wearing underwear, since he claimed the borrowed boxer briefs from your ex was cutting off the circulation to his dick. 

Not wanting to hear his vulgar mouth anymore—or catch sight of him free-balling his sweatpants—you agreed to buy him a couple of things. He’s made you a list.

A fucking list.

You scoff at the brand names he got weirdly specific on. Tom Ford. Hugo Boss. The fuck? What does he think, you’ve got a side hustle selling crack? Do you have a mini money mint in your tiny closet? Have you got dollar bills growing out of your ass? 

He’ll have to be content with whatever you can find in his “super soldier” sizes at Target. You even pay extra for same-day delivery.

He allows you to leave the apartment just to go downstairs to accept the delivery. The building doesn’t have an elevator, so you have to lug several Target bags back up to the third floor. You struggle getting back in, having to basically throw yourself against the shitty door to get it to budge.

You make it through the threshold, just to find Ben snooping through your stuff. Every drawer and shelf in the living room is pulled open and messily rifled through inside. 

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask incredulously. 

“You mean to tell me you’ve got a gallon jug of tequila behind your TV, but you don’t have one ounce of reefer?” Ben remarks. 

You give him a weirded out look. First of all, no one says "reefer" anymore.

“I’m not a fucking pothead!” you actually say. You're already irritated and on edge as you set down the bags on the couch. 

“Bullshit. You’re some kind of artist, aren’t you? You creative types always know how to let loose.” He attempts some flattery as he smirks over at you. “Looks like you’re not such a prude after all. Huh, Chiquita?”

You open your mouth to reply, but you notice then that he has an old picture of you and your ex-boyfriend, in a…compromising position. 

Your eyes widen. “What—give me that!”

You snatch the picture out of his hand, along with the whole black velvet box of random stuff under Ben’s arm. You haven’t opened that box in a few months, but even though you’re over your ex, you’re a sentimental person at heart.

You glance down at the old-school polaroid, your cheeks warming in a blush. It was last year’s Halloween party at his apartment, and you two had gone dressed as Woody and Jessie from Toy Story. For shits and giggles, you bought a miniature version of Woody’s hat and…well, you laughed harder than him when you found out it was a perfect fit for “Little Woody.” You even got him to let you draw a face on the head of his cock. What you were too drunk to realize at the time was that you accidentally used a permanent marker.

“What’s cowboy’s name?” Ben asks. His sinful smirk makes your blush flare hotter.

“August,” you reply, stuffing the picture back in the box and shutting it tightly.

Ben chortles, his brows raising as high as his hairline. “August? Jesus Christ. I’ll bet he liked it up the ass too, didn’t he? Am I gonna find a strap-on in that little treasure trunk?”

Your glare snaps up to meet his amusement.

“All right, enough. It’s none of your goddamn business.” You gesture wildly at the Target bags on the couch. “There, I got you some clothes. See if they fit.”

You turn with the box firmly in hand, aiming to hide it better in your room. You’ve been subjected to his presence all of five minutes today, and already you need a break from him. Ben says something that makes you pause, however.

“Thanks,” he says.

It’s so unexpected that you stop, turning to look back at him over your shoulder. Your mouth parts in surprise, but he’s already focused on rifling through the bags. He examines the pack of five boxer-briefs you got him, nodding at the size and the stretchiness of the waistband.

Smiling slightly, you continue heading to your room. After choosing a better hiding place for your keepsake box (in your nightstand, under your silk bonnet), you decide you need to decompress. You settle at your desk to draw, grabbing one of your large, half-used sketchpads.

Meanwhile, Ben has helped himself to your fridge and made himself a sandwich.

He’s bored out of his fucking mind.

He’s tired of the unfunny bullshit sitcoms on TV, and watching the news just keeps making him angry, because usually it’s about him, and the lies Vought keeps spinning about him. Ben’s also tired of seeing that sniveling, blonde fucking science experiment—and his brat son—on commercials and guest spots on late night shows.

So Ben shuts off the TV and wanders into the only other room in this place. Your room. The door is cracked open, allowing him to peer in and spy on what you’re working on. You glance over at him, your gaze catching on one of the new shirts you bought him. It may not be Tom Ford, but it’s comfortable, he supposes.

“She’s hot,” he says, nodding at the Dreaming of You vinyl record album you have propped up on your desk. A young woman’s face is framed in a red, smokey border. It seems to be your reference while your pencil moves across the blank page in precise, sweeping lines. The girl on the album has delicate features, a natural pout to her lips, an olive complexion, and rich brown hair. 

“Selena Quintanilla. She was beautiful,” you agree. “Her story was so tragic though.”

“What, she died?” Ben asks. 

You nod in confirmation, sadly. “Shot by one of her obsessed fans. It came out that the woman embezzled like, 60 grand from Selena while being the president of her fan club. Selena was going to fire her, and the bitch just couldn’t handle it.”

Ben hums in acknowledgement. She must not have been a supe. 

“I guess you never had that kind of problem,” you say.

“A crazy fucking fan? No,” he scoffed. Vindictive ex-girlfriend and a bunch of cocksucking, yellow-bellied shit stains for “teammates,” maybe. He shakes his head and watches your deft hand draw the delicate lines of the girl’s mouth. It reminds him of your pretty lips. Right now, you have the lower one pulled between your teeth in concentration. A strand of hair falls into your line of vision, brushing the page. His hand itches to tug it back behind your ear.

“You’re, uh…you’re not bad though,” Ben says, nodding at the sketch.

You give him a brief smile. It’s the first time he’s seen a glimpse of it.

“Thanks,” you say.

Ben takes a seat on the edge of your bed, not even noticing that he’s getting sandwich crumbs on the royal blue duvet. 

“That's not what you do for Vought, is it?” he asks.

You snort. “Sort of. I used to be just a graphic designer for Social Media. I started dabbling in content, giving them ideas for what to write to go with it. But after the whole Stormfront fiasco, I got a promotion."

You shake your head. "Now I wonder if the only reason they gave it to me was because I looked the part for their DEI phase. AKA: Homelander fucking a literal Nazi. Oh, yeah. He had to do a whole apology tour of damage control press for a whole damn year."

Ben frowns at that. Nazis? Fucking Nazis are back? Who the fuck is Stormfront?

"I help maintain the social media accounts of every member of the Seven," you explain. "I create the graphics, edit images, write bullshit captions like ‘That’s lit,’ when Starlight punches out the bank robber they literally placed in front of her face. I spin their messes and moderate whatever fuckery they might spew out while they're drunk, or high, or just plain fucking stupid, so they don't fucking cancel themselves..."

You sigh. "Basically, I help cultivate the messaging that Vought uses to convince the public that you guys actually care about them.”

You look up and meet Ben’s gaze. He could get annoyed with your accusation, but he can’t even muster up the energy to give a shit. Even if it proves you right.

“Marketing sells,” you say ruefully. “Reality doesn’t.”

You gesture at the small door next to your bed. “I’ve got a closet full of paintings that never sold on Etsy. I also have fifty grand in student loans from NYU, and a damn-near useless double major in Art and Communications. That’s right, fucking useless. Because all I’ve learned to do with my ‘art’ is sell people bullshit… So maybe my dad is fucking right.”

Ben remembers that conversation you had with your dad; he’d been pretending to watch TV, but his sharp ear caught every word. He heard an all-too familiar message.

A fucking disappointment.

“Daddy issues, huh?” Ben says. He feigns nonchalance while swallowing down the rest of his sandwich. “Why am I not fucking surprised?”

You shoot him an annoyed look, especially when you catch him brushing crumbs off his chest.

“Hey, would you stop eating on my bed?!”

For once, Ben actually gets you talking. You’re not so tense anymore, relaxing when he gives you your space in the room. 

An hour later, and he still hasn’t left your bed for any good reason. Your weird, one-sided heart-to-heart drawing session has turned into showing him your modest vinyl collection. He gets you to put on some Frank Sinatra while he pulls out the last two beers from your fridge.

“I have to go back to work soon, you know that, right?” you say. “I just got an email this morning. Apparently Homelander himself has requested all employees return to work tomorrow.”

You cover your face with both hands and heave a sigh. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to quit for months, but this is the best money I’ve been able to make since I got out of college.”

“Yeah, well, fuck ‘em,” Ben says. “Bunch of corporate fucking idiots.”

You glance up at him with a surprised blink, but his gaze moves beyond you. 

“You didn’t like working for Vought?” you ask. 

“They’re the fucking reason I got shipped to the Russians in the first place,” he says. His expression holds a darker edge.

Your eyes widen. “The Russians? Wait, what?”

Ben hesitates. He realizes that you might work at Vought, but there’s a lot you don’t know. It just reminds him of everything that company’s done to bury him, like he’s become their dirty little secret.

So he tells you. The real fucking story. The full story.

Well…all right, maybe not the full story. His instinct is to emphasize how Crimson Countess, Black Noir, and the rest of his team betrayed him, just to get him out of their lives. (Maybe he glosses over the reasons why.)

He explains how Stan Edgar conspired with them to replace him with Homelander, a shiny new toy that they could control, literally from conception.

“You seriously didn’t ask them what they were collecting your sperm for?” you ask incredulously.

“Hey, it was the ‘80s,” Ben says, crossing his arms in defense. “It was a different time. Back then, there was always weird shit going on.”

And maybe you were too high to care, let alone pay all that much attention. The thought coils through his mind. He stamps it down with a shake of his head.

“Whatever. It fucking happened,” he says with a growl. The longer he allows himself to think about it, the more the words spill out of him, even if his instinct is to shove it all back down. It’s a bit easier with you somehow, a normal nobody girl, who can’t really use this against him. All it might do is change the way you look at him. Maybe as less of a monster.

“So far, I don’t see anything about you that’s worth respecting,” you said. “But I’m nobody, right? Not even a supe. Why should you fucking care what I think? Why should you care how I feel, or how easy it would be to hurt me?”

What you said to him a few days ago—those words might’ve sunk into him deeper than he’d like to admit.

“Those fucking Commies had me down there so long, I forgot what a normal day felt like,” he says. “I lost track of hours, minutes, days…and in all that time, no one ever fucking even looked for me.”

It feels like a confession, the first real thing he’s told you.

And it works.

You finally begin to look at him with some sympathy. Seeing it in your eyes hits him with some satisfaction. Maybe if he keeps softening you up, you’ll treat him with that pretty mouth of yours.

“Wow, I’m…I’m sorry,” you say at last.

He pauses. You seem genuine. Even though it’s what he wanted, your pity still grates on his pride.

“What about your family?” you ask. “Do you have anyone you want to call? Anyone you—”

“No,” he says, glancing away. He rolls his shoulders, as if shrugging off your words. “I’ve been around a while, sweetheart. Anyone worth knowing is long dead.”

“Well…shit,” you say. He can tell you don’t want to say sorry again, but it’s bubbling up in your eyes. For all that fire you’ve got inside you, you’re soft too. Fragile.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Sinatra croons his final note, but the record keeps spinning until you get up to turn it off. A strange kind of silence reigns. He can still hear the rumble of your water heater, an argument downstairs between an old man and the young couple whose bedroom door faces his front door, distant traffic, and police sirens blocks away. If he allows himself to, he can hear it all. It’s too fucking much sometimes.

“All right,” he says after a while, sick of it all. “I’ve got an idea.”

He leaves your room, and you’re curious enough to follow him out. He opens one of your top cabinets in the kitchen and grabs the gallon of tequila he found this morning while you were sleeping. He rests it on the kitchen counter, shooting you a wink and a smile.

“Oh, no. Keep out of my booze,” you warn him.

“Look, we both need to relax,” he argues. Already he’s grabbing a couple of glasses from the cabinet and giving each a generous pour of lukewarm Patrón.

You grimace. You give him a narrowed, annoyed look. It reminds him that he’s the one who keeps setting you on edge.

Still, you sigh. “Wait. I’ve got limes in the fridge.”

A few hours later, you’re getting drunk with this man and eating Chinese food on your couch. You dig out a collection of DVDs from the coffee table functioning as the TV stand, and you pick out at least twenty movies you claim he needs to catch up on—like The Matrix and Gladiator, Iron Man, and The Princess Bride. 

That last one takes a fair bit of your doe-eyed pouting and pleading for him to agree to. Surprisingly, he’s starting to soften up to you the “nicer” you are to him. It did help that you lowered the neckline of your pajama top a little, using a bit of cleavage to close the deal.

By the time the credits roll on The Princess Bride, you’re sighing and happy at the most romantic ending to ever be put on screen. Ben is leaned back deep in the couch with his arms crossed, looking all grumbly and taciturn, like you forced him to put on a dress or something.

“Oh, come on. You liked it,” you tease, bumping his arm. Ben eyes you in begrudging amusement.

“At least he’s a fucking man.” He gestures Westley, the farm boy turned pirate. “Though he did take that bitch back, even after she was gonna marry Humpertwat.”

You can’t help but snort loudly at his embellishment. It’s probably all the tequila that makes you laugh instead of wanting to smack him, but the more you replay it in your mind, the better it is to you. You end up folding over with a wheeze, tears of laughter forming in your eyes. You wipe them away, one after the other.

Ben stares at you in bewilderment. But after a while, his lips twitch upward. Your laugh is infectious. It’s also the first time he’s gotten to hear it.

“Aw, don’t rag on my girl Buttercup,” you say, still giggling as you prop yourself upright on the back of the couch. “God, I don’t think I’ve seen this movie since August…”

You cut yourself off, your mirth fading a bit. This used to be one of your favorite movies to watch together with your ex-boyfriend. He knew all the words too, so it would usually end up being a commentary of quoting every single line rather than actually watching the movie.

“What, the pussy liked this movie too?” Ben snorts. “Not surprising.”

“Hey, stop it. He wasn’t a pussy!” you argue, crossing your arms.

“Then why’d you break up with him?” Ben asks, with an irritating smile.

Your brows furrow. “Why do you think I broke up with him?”

He’s assumed right, but you still want to know why.

“Because unless he’s fucking touched in the head, he’s not letting go of a hot tamale like you,” he replies. His smirk evens out into something more suave. Or at least, he attempts it.

Again, you inwardly twitch in annoyance at hot tamale, but you won’t admit that his ridiculous version of flirting is kind of starting to work on you. His green eyes roaming your face and cleavage leaves little of his thoughts to the imagination. You clear your throat, fighting a blush.

“Look, August is…a nice guy. A decent guy. We’re still friends,” you say. He works at Vought too, in the Social Media department. He even texted you to make sure you were okay after Vought almost crumbled.

Though if he really cared, he would’ve fucking called. Or came to see me, you think wryly. It’s better that he hadn’t shown up to your place though. It would’ve been impossible to hide Ben, and you don’t want to know what the supe would’ve done to him to keep him quiet.

“But?” Ben says knowingly.

You sigh, tossing your hands up before you turn toward him on the couch. Your knees are bent underneath you. You’re a little too drunk to realize your knee is touching his thigh. You only somewhat notice that he shifts toward you too, with his arm draped across the back of the couch. His hand is close enough to touch your shoulder if he wanted to.

“It was always…nice,” you admit, gesturing vaguely with your hands. You tend to do that a lot. It’s one of the few Latina stereotypes you know you fit under. “But there’s was no real spark, no…”

Ben leans in, a suggestive smirk playing on his lips. 

“Passion?” he supplies. He raises his brows as eyes capture yours. “I get the feeling he didn’t do jack shit for you, Chiquita.”

And just like that, any kind of blushing arousal dies—swiftly falling into annoyance. You don’t like nicknames that remind you of bananas, melons, or any other tropical fruit.

There were kids in middle school who used to tease you, asking you if your parents worked in a mango factory. (Ignoring the obvious that you don't get mangos from factories. Dumb fucks.)

Your parents were just wealthy enough to put you in private school with a bunch of trust fund babies, and maybe a handful of foreign exchange students. Even though there were at least four other Latinos in the class, you were the only one with darker skin. You were the only one who had to take an aptitude test to get into the school—the only one who was there on a scholarship, not your parents’ connections and yearly donations to the school.

Being black and brown might be cool in social media nowadays, but not so much back when you were in school, where diversity was just an administrative quota to be filled. Not so much where you lived, where the rich snowbirds went on vacation, and looked at people like you like exotic fruit.

Ben senses your shift. His smile loses its flirtatious edge as it fades.

“Look,” you say sharply. “You think you’re being charming with that Chiquita thing or whatever, but I don’t appreciate—”

“Maria Felix,” he cuts in. 

“What?”

Ben cards a hand through his hair, sweeping it back. You’ve noticed the way it gets in his eyes sometimes, falling across his brow.

“Maria Felix. She was an actress in the ‘40s,” he says, his eyes turning slightly wistful at the memory. He even chuckles. “One of the hottest Latin women I ever met, with more ass than the Chiquita banana lady. That was my little nickname for her.” 

Your annoyance melts into a blinking deadpan. This man did not just—

“And Christ, she had a voice on her. Like butter and molasses.” He adopts an even more nostalgic smile, “Matter of fact, what she could do with that mouth. Could suck the nails right out of a board, if you know what I mean. A real fucking talent.”

“All right, all right! Enough,” you hold up a hand with a grimace…and yet, you’re curious. 

You grab your phone from the coffee table to look her up, and sure enough, María Félix actually was a Mexican starlet. In fact, she was one of the most successful actresses in Latin American movies in the 1940s and ‘50s. You realize then that this man truly is a walking time capsule. 

“What was she like?” you ask curiously. But again, you raise a hand. “Without the Pornhub sweaty bits.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but he does tell you how he met María at an awards show in 1947.

“She was beautiful, elegant, with those soulful brown eyes,” he reminisces. His lips slip into a smile. “Until she got a couple of tequilas in her. Then she had a way with her hands that wasn’t so fucking ladylike—”

“All right. Pause,” you say, holding up a finger. A blush warms your cheeks. “Again, I don’t need the gushy details.”

He just smirks. “All right, fine. So what is it you do want to know?”

You sigh, but your curiosity does get the better of you. You want to know more about the people’s he’s met, the places he’s been, and you can’t help the way he’s hooked you, giving you a window into who he is. You know it can’t be everything though. He’s giving you the sepia tones, the highlights of his glory days.

You know there has to be a reason his whole team turned on him, and why every single member of Payback has been pronounced dead in the news over the past week. You know that this man is possibly the most dangerous supe in the world…

Well, second-most dangerous.

He’s threatened you, forced his way into your life, been the most obnoxious flirt imaginable, and has serious boundary issues…but he hasn’t hurt you. He’s never forced himself on you either, despite having the strength and every opportunity to do it.

So you listen.

He tells you about being friends with Frank Sinatra and partying with the rest of the Brat Pack. He makes you laugh with his stories about getting fucked up during the Woodstock years, his first experience with psychedelics at a Beatles concert, and how he used to have a guitar signed by John Lennon, even though he never learned to play it. 

“Crimson Countess used to complain about all the fucking ‘clutter’ in my apartment,” Ben huffs. “Look, if you can’t appreciate a bona fide John Hancock from a Beatle, there’s something fucking wrong with you.”

You actually agree. You know it’s the sentimental artist in you, but collecting things that mean something to you is awesome. You’d just about die if you even got to touch a guitar that John Lennon had played, let alone signed.

“How long were you with Crimson Countess?” you ask.

Ben’s mood begins to sour at the question. He takes another heavy swig from the whiskey he found in your kitchen. “Too fucking long.”

You watch him in curiosity, waiting to see if he’ll keep talking. After a while, he does.

“She fucking betrayed me,” he says.

You’d more than learned that earlier, back when he told you his team had sold him out to the Russians. Just like it isn't a stretch to think he killed her, along with the rest of his team. Despite how uneasy the thought makes you, even churning your stomach, you could understand why he did it. Forty fucking years...

Still, you’re a bit confused.

“Why though? All the movies you guys did together, all the interviews, and everything I ever read about you two, you seemed to be ride or die for each other,” you say.

Ben gives you a wry look. “Don’t believe everything you fucking see on TV.”

Your lips twitch humorlessly. You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t seem to want to dig deeper into that one. You can’t really blame him.

“Well, um…as lame as it sounds, I’m sorry,” you offer.

“Like I said, you don’t have to feel fucking sorry for me,” he says. His voice is sharper, deeper. He begins to turn away from you, getting up from the couch. You surprise yourself by following his lead, reaching out to gently grasp his arm.

“Come on. Don’t take it that way—”

You get up too fast in your tequila-ridden state, making your brain feel like slush moving from one side of your head to the other. “Whoa, shit…”

With a grunt, Ben grabs you steady by your waist. He pulls you into him so you won’t fall sideways onto the empty glasses on the floor. You gasp and latch onto his arms on instinct. There you feel every firm ridge of flexing muscle under your palms and fingers. You feel the strength of his hands molding to the curve of your waist, the heat of his skin.

You tip your face up slowly, and your heavy breaths mingle with his as he looks down at you. A second more, and you think he might start bowing his head to meet you.

But just because you have sympathy for him, doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten why he’s here. You haven’t forgotten that he’s using you.

You clear your throat and drop your hands, stepping away from him. You’re a little surprised that he actually lets you put some space between you.

You take it for the opportunity it is.

“Uh, goodnight,” you offer. 

He stops you from leaving for a moment, closing his hand over yours. He smirks down at you and presses a kiss to the back of your hand, no doubt listening in while your heart taps syncopated beats.

“G’night, Chiquita.”

AN: Whew! 😮‍💨 Okay, a lot of back and forth in this chapter. A lot of Ben being a dick, of course, but how'd you like their little bonding sessions? In the next chapter, Homelander finally shows his assface...

Next Time:

“Since the incident at the Tower a few days ago, have you caught any sight of Soldier Boy? Have you heard anything about his whereabouts? Anything at all?” he asks. His blue eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes your throat close up.

Sweat has already started to trickle down the small of your back and on your clammy palms, which lay flat at your sides.

“No,” you reply, in a miraculously steady voice.

He raises a blonde, solitary brow. His lips twitch. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you nod. Your instinct is to keep your answers simple, uncomplicated.

“Then why is your heartbeat picking up faster?” he taunts, with a calculated wave of his gloved finger. “Just…ticking away, like a little drum.”

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Part 3

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[baldelarose]

I’m already loving Unravel Me, like, a lot. And I love reader so fucking much. I think she’s one of the very few that actually stands up to Ben (in Soldier Boy fics), and it’s soooo satisfying. I mean, we all get he’s hot and charming af, but we all also have our own limits. It had to be said 🤷🏻‍♀️. I stan this queen!

UNRAVEL ME - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Finallyyyyy lol. I know I've been talking about this series for months now, but it was genuinely challenging for me to write this prequel for Lost in Translation (which was requested by various Tumblr friends and anons who wanted to see Soldier Boy matched with a woman of color). I think maybe it's because this is now my third Soldier Boy series, and getting this guy to show character growth is hard to do three different times. 🤣 But let's see how it goes with another post-season 3 misadventure! 💜💙 This series also fulfills a hilarious prompt for @jacklesversebingo!

Song Inspo: “Unravel Me” by Sabrina Claudio

JVB Prompt: Accidental Old Person Acquisition

Word Count: 6K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, threats, SB being his typical asshole self, obnoxious flirting, racial elements, Ben drinks Cuban coffee, among other ethnic mini adventures in the future. The reader is a mixed-race Afro-Latina with textured hair. 

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Part 1: Hot Tamale

Vought Tower is falling.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like: the ground trembling like a Magnitude 7 earthquake, overhead lights flickering, a line of rubble falling on your head as you finally manage to squeeze out of the stairwell and into the main floor's reception area. You take in a large gulp of air, breathing past the oppressive clog of warm bodies, sweat, fear, and a hint of piss.

The walls quake along with the tile floor; you spill onto it hard, hitting your knees, though you curl your fingers fast when a woman from Legal almost steps on them in her dagger heels. Fuck!

Fear and adrenaline compel you to scramble onto your feet and claw your way through the gift shop. Maybe you'll be able to cut through the aisles of overpriced Starlight plushies and Special Edition Black Noir Funko Pops to get to one of the east exits.

It's Vought’s very own 9/11. You were told to evacuate over the intercom, and now you're about to find out why.

It’s taken over an hour to try and escape. You’re still trapped in the building, obviously, caught up in the lobby. It's backed up by the clusterfuck of people squeezing themselves through the narrow exit doorways to the garage, like rats clamoring over one another to avoid extermination. Somehow they've broken through the glass to override the security protocols that had first tried to lock you all in.

Just when you make it past the display of red, white, and blue Homelander mugs, a blinding light catches your eye through the tall windows and the growing darkness of the evening. The light falls and falls, what looks like a tangled ball of red and orange and green.

It explodes into the ground, shaking the very foundations of New York City. You cling to the display table and manage to dive underneath it.

You hide there until the shaking stops.

Tears sting in your eyes as the unsteady screams of your coworkers ring out in the lobby, even though you don’t recognize most of them. You suddenly remember your boss; you lost sight of him on the way down the first five flights of stairs. You morbidly wonder if he was one of the ones who got trampled along the way, or blown off the side of the building in the crash.

When the outside world is quiet again, you crawl out from underneath the table. Everyone who still can is slowly getting to their feet, picking themselves up, some of them helping the people closest to them. You don’t know what the hell is happening, but you have a strong feeling Homelander is involved. He’s been playing at CEO for weeks, now that Stan Edgar has been deposed.

Instead of leaving out the front, you continue your plan of going through one of the east side exits. There’s a narrow alley that leads to the garage farther down. You step out into the evening light, made darker in the alley behind what’s left of the Tower. You know the metal door to the garage isn’t too far away, but before you can get to it, you see a man stumbling right toward you.

It's too dark to see him clearly, and even though you back up a couple of steps, the green of his uniform captures your attention.

“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy?”

He glances up at you through furrowed brows. The state of him, ragged and soot-stained, his labored breaths, and the way he’s leaning against the wall—it all tells you that he’s been through some major shit.

“Uh, a-are you okay?” you ask shakily, clutching your messenger bag.

“I’m fine,” he says, though his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes your spine prickle with unease.

In record time, your brain collects what little you know about the ancient relic of a supe that’s mere steps away from invading your personal space. Homelander has been calling him a rogue in the press, but even though your role at Vought barely makes you a blip on anyone’s radar, you know enough about what really holds the company together…which means you know better than to believe even one iota of what that star-spangled prick told the public. 

Your gaze flits over Soldier Boy, now with some concern despite your wariness.

“Are you hurt?” you ask.

“I said I’m fucking fine. Do I look fucking hurt?” he growls tiredly. When he tries to stand a bit straighter, he almost stumbles against the wall.

Part of you twinges with sympathy, but still, your lips purse at his attitude.

“Dude, you don’t want me to tell you what you look like,” you say.

His eyebrow twitches. He opens his mouth to retort, but that’s when a man’s voice can be heard nearby. You turn your head at the sound.

While you’re distracted, Soldier Boy grabs you with more strength than you anticipated and drags you along with him against the wall. You gasp, but he holds a dirty half-gloved hand over your mouth.

Voices begin to echo from down the other end of the alley, closer to the main road. The supe has already turned his head in that direction, but your gaze flicks there next, your eyes wide and fearful.

“I don’t need a fuckin’ doctor,” says a man. His accent is thick as hell, like a Mary Poppins chimney sweep. Cockney? He’s tall, wearing a long black coat to match his black hair. He’s also arguing with a black man and a skinny white guy. A couple of ambulances zoom by, for a moment overtaking their voices and casting their bodies in the red glow of the siren alarms.

“Considering you coughed up blood on my fucking shoes, I’m dumping you off at the nearest hospital within a mile, and then you lose my number for good. Got that, motherfucker?” says the black man. He’s just as intimidating as the other guy, if not more so, considering the way the Brit's leaning against the wall like he might keel over right there.

The skinny guy breaks the tension between them. “Look, we should go. Annie’s got Maeve, and Homelander could be circling the sky looking for us right now.”

Queen Maeve? What happened to her? She was supposed to be in rehab. Who's Annie? Oh shit. Annie January. Starlight broke Maeve out? No. I should've known that rehab story was bullshit too. Who fucking knows what actually happened there. More importantly, what's happening here?!

Your thoughts tumble into one another while your heartbeat pounds in your ears. Your breathing comes out shallower through your nose, considering the big meaty hand covering your mouth.

If Homelander's looking for these guys, then none of this little scene is good. It makes you a fucking witness. Shit...

Soldier Boy tightens his hold on your arm. Slow and quiet, he opens the door to the parking garage with his elbow, since his other hand is still locked over your mouth. He guides you in. 

“Don’t scream, or I’ll start squeezing,” he warns. At least he releases his hand from your mouth, instead, grabbing the back of your neck. “Where’s your car?” 

“Wait, come on,” you plead, your voice shaking. “Whatever you did, I don’t want to know, but I didn’t sign up to be your getaway driver.” 

Ben’s grip tightens a fraction. “All I need is a fucking ride. That isn’t too much to ask, now is it, sweetheart?”

“Depends on where you’re trying to go,” you say. But you decide that not getting snapped in half is good enough reason to lead him to your car. You rarely have cause to drive it, so it mostly just stays parked here in the garage. For once, you’re grateful that you shell out a portion of your monthly paycheck to reserve this space. 

You fish your keys out of your car and unlock the door with shaky hands. Soldier Boy watches you press the button on the small key remote with furrowed brows, but he takes it from you after forcing you in the driver’s seat, so he can enter the car on the passenger side.

The second your tiny blue Kia rumbles pitifully to life, your music blares loud enough to feel the bass in the floor. Soldier Boy smacks the radio buttons roughly until it stops.

You give him a thin smile. 

“Not a fan of Bad Bunny?” you ask.

Irritated, he grabs a hold of the small plushie swinging from your rearview mirror. He yanks it off despite your protest, nearly breaking the mirror, and stares in gruff bewilderment at the white fluffy heart. It has a Dominican flag embroidered on the front and a Cuban flag on the back—custom made on Etsy.

The supe raises a brow, but he dismissively tosses it somewhere in the back seat. When you look at his grumpy face, he just reminds you of Oscar the Grouch. He reaches down and shifts the seat back, but he barely has any leg room for those thunder thighs and combat boots.

“Just fucking drive,” he says, his voice like sharp gravel.

Again, your annoyance sparks at his rudeness. Are all supes assholes, or is it just the ones you’re forced to interact with?

“Okay, but where the hell do you want me to take you?” you ask. “The subway? The airport? The Hudson River? What?”

He thinks about it, drumming his fingers against his leg. His uniform is a bit poppier than military green, yet more classic than Homelander’s with the stretch of that silver-plated eagle across the chest. 

“Too many eyes at the airport. I need to lie low for a while before I get outta dodge,” Soldier Boy admits. Then he sits back in your passenger seat, adjusting the recline until his broad frame is below the view of the window. You think it’s both for his own comfort and so he’s less likely to be seen. 

“Your place should be all right,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Your mouth falls open in shock. “Are you for real?” 

He just gives you a stern look. He’s not fucking kidding.

“Look, you may be a superhero and all, but I don’t fucking know you! And…” Just then, clarity strikes you as you remember what’s been going on in the news for the past week. “Didn’t, uh, didn’t you…blow up a building in Midtown?”

He doesn’t seem to want to answer at first, leveling you with that stoic, bearded face. His gaze eventually drifts away from yours. 

“That was an accident.” 

Your breath gets caught in your throat. “That’s a pretty big accident.”

Again, Soldier Boy doesn’t answer you. You try to focus on the road, but it’s pretty impossible when you have a supe that’s supposedly risen from the dead in your passenger seat, who also exploded 19 people on accident, who tried and failed to kill Homelander.

Speaking of, Homelander himself is looking for this guy…which means you’re helping a fugitive escape. What’s worse, he wants to crash on your goddamn couch.

One of your hands leaves the steering wheel to cover your mouth. You press your hand there until the mix-match of gold and silver rings start to bite into the sensitive flesh of your lower lip. 

“Coño su madre,” you mutter the curse under your breath. I’m so fucking screwed.  

You unlock the door to your third-floor apartment with a heavy sigh. As usual, it gets stuck the first time you try to swing it open. You throw a little more strength in your arm the second time, and the door finally budges. 

You flick the lights on inside and unveil the shoebox that is your home. It’s barely a one-bedroom. The open kitchen lies to the right with a small two-seater table nestled against the wall, while the “living room” lies to the left. There you managed to fit a faded violet loveseat couch from your college days, a bookshelf from Goodwill, and your TV perched on what’s supposed to be a coffee table.

Straight ahead is a narrow hall that leads to your bedroom door on the right side and the one and only bathroom on the other. 

Well, this is gonna be fun. Slumber party with America’s Most Wanted, you think, with no small amount of Jesus fucking Christ weighing your steps.

Soldier Boy’s broad shoulders barely clear the open doorway. He shuts and locks the door behind him and takes stock of your apartment with a slow turn of his head. He doesn’t seem impressed, except for the paintings, funky ‘60s style shelves, and other canvases decorating the walls.

“You some kind of artist?” he asks, giving a cursory glance to each one.

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” you nod. “But most of these aren’t mine.”

On every wall, there’s a cluster of art, from canvases to pottery, glass, burnished clay, and brass. There are replicas of paintings by Salvador Dalí and Frida Kahlo, Picasso and Basquiat, Monet and Amelia Peláez, even a sculpture of a woman that you tried to replicate from Ana Mendieta. It’s meant to represent the suffering of women. Hell if today doesn’t qualify.

You toss your messenger bag onto the couch and throw up your arms at your sides.

“Well, since the police, Homelander, and probably the rest of the government are looking for you, you should do the whole ‘get outta dodge’ thing in the morning,” you say. You clasp your hands together in the facsimile of a prayer and politeness all in one. “But if you really wanna spend a night on my couch, then that’s okay.”

We’ll get through this. Just one night of insanity and then this’ll all be over. 

“That bed looks big enough for two,” the supe says. He nods at your open bedroom door and smiles suggestively, his gaze roaming over your form.

You get that shiver down your spine again, even as you blush. You take a pointed step away from him.

“Uh, how about fucking no,” you snap. “That door will be locked, and I have a taser that I’m not afraid to use on any tender bits.”

He raises a brow at you, but he snorts. He steps toward you, his gait slow and arrogant. You cross your arms while he closes the distance, his hair falling forward across his forehead as he stares down at you with a hint of a sneer. His chin and forehead are still stained with grime, just as his red gloves are scuffed and half burnt from whatever happened in that blast.

Your heart trips up faster. A tremble of fear runs through you, but you refuse to move.

“You do realize that that’s tantamount to flicking me with a rubber band,” he says. His half-lidded gaze runs over you with a note of interest. The corner of his mouth raises in a smirk. “Besides, whatever we might get up to, I can guarantee you’ll enjoy it. Just ask Loni Anderson. Farrah Fawcett. Hell, Molly Ringwald. Love me a fuckin’ redhead once in a while.”

You give him a look that could (proverbially) crumble Empire State.

“Don’t fucking bet on it,” you say.

Yes, your voice is quiet. Yes, you have to work past a swallow. But you don’t ever drop your gaze. You meet him head-on with every bit of stubborn fire you have left inside you.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream," you say, a wary trembling in your chest. "Even if you kill me, they’ll find you that much quicker.”

His smirk falls away. His gaze roams over you again, this time in a different way. Maybe he sees the way your entire body is tense, locked up tight, prepared to recoil and scream if he tries to grab at you. He relents.

“Christ, relax. It’s your fucking loss anyway, sweetheart.” His eyes roll dismissively as he turns away from you. “I need a shower.”

He strides down the hall in search of it. You move quickly to get ahead of him. The last thing you need is him rifling through your bedroom drawers.

“Ah, wait! I’ll get you a towel,” you say. It irritates you to have to treat him like a “guest,” but you don’t know what else to do. The man can literally snap your neck. Even for that big ass bluff you just pulled, you really, really don’t want to die.

You could try calling the police while he’s in the shower, but you don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out. And who’s gonna be quicker on the draw—the human police force, or the literal super soldier?

No, it’ll be more painless to just wait this guy out and see him off in the morning. For now, he doesn’t seem inclined to hurt you. He even took a rejection of you “sleeping” with him pretty well, for a supe. They tend to think they're God’s gifts to humanity. Working at Vought, you’ve been propositioned more than enough times. Though God forbid you say no for a ride on their magical dick. You’d rather not jump on that potential steel trap. You know a guy in Marketing who had his happy place literally frozen and chipped off.

After finding a fresh towel for Soldier Boy, he shuts himself in the lone bathroom across from your room. Soon, the old pipes roar to life. You retreat into your room for a long, slow breath. It’s less steadying than you’d hoped.

You also shut and lock the bedroom door behind you, for whatever good that might do you. 

Not much, you realize warily. 

You sink your fingers into your hair and blow out a sigh of frustration. What even is my fucking life right now?

Tugging on the knotted curls, you loosen them from the bun you wrapped tightly this morning. For all Vought claimed to care about diversity, your boss once commented on your “wild” hair shedding on the tile floor. 

Taking in a few deep, yoga-style breaths before you lose your shit, you dig into the recesses of your closet and dresser drawers. Your most recent ex had left at least one shirt, maybe a pair of boxers. Soldier Boy will have to make do with your favorite sweatpants. They’re stretched out enough from years of wear and washes that they’ll probably fit him. 

Juuuuust great. You're really contemplating this asshole wearing your clothes.

By the time you gather your bearings, shove your soul back into your body and leave your room, Soldier Boy is exiting the bathroom, the fluffy purple towel slung low around his hips. 

“Jesus!” You jolt and instinctively step back. There’s nowhere far to go in the hallway, so your ass ends up bumping against the hollow wall. 

Once again, he wears a smug sort of smile as he stares down at you in amusement. 

“Like what you see, huh, baby doll?”

“Put your tits away, please,” you snap, handing him the bundle of clothing while trying not to look at him directly. You can’t help glancing at his muscular frame out of the corner of your eye. 

Good lord, it’s like he was chiseled from marble. Make that marble with a golden tan, and a patch of hair across his chest that you could run your nails through.

His lips curve with a cockier smile. You quickly look away.

Great. He caught you ogling for one tiny second. And with that moment of human weakness, all that strong talk you accomplished earlier had probably just withered away into nothing. Is he going to take that as an invitation to slide into bed with you tonight while you’re trying to sleep?

Yeeeah. Who the hell are you kidding? You’re going to tape your own eyes open if you have to, but you’re not dropping your guard around this guy. He doesn’t seem to actually want to hurt you. He wants to use you for convenience’s sake. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s dangerous, hunted, arrogant as fuck, and weirdly horny for a guy who just threw himself off a building.

Subtly clearing your throat, you move past him to the living room. There you set up the couch for him to sleep on. He ventures back into the bathroom to get dressed, which gives you a small break. You’re mentally counting the seconds. 

He comes back somewhat fully dressed. The shirt is a bit small for him, as are the boxer shorts. 

“Christ, who did this belong to, a fucking eunuch?” Soldier Boy asks. “Tell me you’ve got a brother. Because if this was your boyfriend’s, then he wasn’t doing shit for you, sweetheart.”

You begin to blush on reflex, shooting him a steely glare. Those clothes did belong to your ex, but that’s none of his damn business. 

“As promised, here’s the couch,” you gesture to the neatly fitted sheets, blankets, and even a fluffy(ish) pillow you so generously laid out for him. “Again, I will be locking my bedroom door, and if you make even a step in that direction, prepare to get tased in the dick. It’s already set on the max setting.”

Soldier Boy smirks. You fail to see how what you’ve said is in any way funny. You’re definitely not laughing, but you do blink in surprise when he takes your hand and brings the back of it to his lips for a kiss. His beard briefly rasps against your skin. He looks down at you, meeting your eyes with his own. The green in them makes you falter. 

“Believe it or not, I appreciate the help,” he says, turning on the charm. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Your lips purse. Does he really think hitting you with that Brad Pitt tone of voice is going to work on you? He fucking kidnapped you, and not to mention, is currently holding you on house arrest.

“Oh, now you want to know my name? After conning me into being your Uber driver and your Airbnb in one?” You try to slip your hand out of his, but his grip tightens. He’s still smiling, amused by your struggle. 

“Come on, what’s your name?” he cajoles.

You sigh. Despite your better judgment, you give it to him begrudgingly.

"What's yours?" you ask, mostly drenched in sarcasm. Though a small part of you is...curious.

He stares back at you for a moment, something almost like surprise flicking through his gaze. His lips twitch at the corners, wry and humorless.

"Ben," he says, finally letting go of your hand.

“Okay, cool. So nice to meet you, uh, Ben," you reply, gesturing at his overall form. You still can't believe he's standing here like an iron lamppost in your living room. Are you about to step into the portal to Narnia now and continue this fever dream, or fall straight down to hell?

"All right, mind if I go now?" you say, crossing your arms as the snark escapes its cage. "I’ve had a bitch of a day and I need my beauty sleep."

Ben raises a brow.

Shit. You bite your lip.

Okay, you know you’re being a bit too hostile to a man who can all too easily snap you in half, but he’s got this way of pushing every single one of your buttons at once. Not in a good way. In the wish I could fucking scratch your eyes out kind of a way.

You're frankly lucky that Soldier Boy just seems amused by your attitude. Silly woman with her silly fits of belligerence.

His green-eyed gaze slides from the curve of your jean-clad thighs to your hips, over your breasts concealed by a red blouse, and finally up to your chin, your lips, your eyes. You can’t help the way your skin tingles at his scrutiny, even as you frown.

“From where I’m standing, sleep isn’t what you need,” he says. He somehow manages to sound both flattering and suggestive. 

Your face flares hotter, and your lips press tightly together.

“Sweet dreams, Soldier Boy,” you say, somewhat sarcastically as you head back to your room. You intend to grab your pajamas and take them with you into the bathroom. You’re going to have to bring your taser and lock yourself in there for a shower, even with the obvious safety hazard. What-fucking-ever at this point, as long as it keeps out Hungry Like the Wolf out there. But his reply makes you pause. 

He snorts. “Good night, sweetheart.” 

You turn to look at him over your shoulder. He spares you one final look, less arrogant and more taciturn, before he turns away and lowers himself down onto the couch.

You sigh, but you can’t help peeking around the corner at the supe sitting in your living room. His broad frame takes up the entire center of the little couch. You’re not all that sure he’s going to be comfortable there, since his long legs are definitely not going to fit across the loveseat, but he’s going to have to deal with it until tomorrow. 

You watch him rest his elbows above his knees and blow out a long, tired breath. He raises a hand to rub between his furrowed brows. For a long beat, he just stares vacantly at the floor between his knees. 

Then he leans back against the couch, crosses his arms, and closes his eyes. He seems…lost. Exhausted.

You wonder if he has anyone in his life worth getting back to. Anyone at all.

Shaking your head, you quietly make your way back to your room.

Ben finds himself watching you the next morning. He sits at the two-seater table while you putter about in the kitchen.

You’re cute, he has to admit, all sleepy and barely awake as you slide around in your fuzzy red slippers. A large Knicks shirt hangs off your body, exposing one smooth shoulder. Your sweatpants are overlarge as well, which only makes him think about the generous curves you’ve got hiding underneath. He took notice yesterday. You had a lot to work with under that little blouse, jeans, and chunky heels.   

Yesterday you were put together, even though you’d clearly had a rough time escaping the Tower. Today you've slunk out of your room with baggy pajamas, your hair a mess of curls running down your back. 

“Want a cafecito?” you ask.

Ben raises a brow. “If you mean coffee, then that’d be good. Something hot to eat would be even better.”

“First of all, this isn’t a bed and breakfast,” you say, turning to him with an edge to your voice. “Look, I’m exhausted. There’s a bakery down the street. I can pick something up.” 

As a matter of fact, your favorite Colombian bakery is right around the corner. You start thinking about all the pastries you’re going to treat yourself with, even though it does make you miss the Cuban bakeries back home. You would absolutely kill for an empanada with guava and cheese right now. 

Instead of cold-blooded murder, you set the tiny espresso cup of coffee in front of Ben. His face shifts to confusion and bewilderment. 

“I asked for a cup of coffee, black, not this baby doll tea set cup of coffee,” he says. 

“It’s a Cuban espresso,” you inform him. “And believe me, you don’t want it any bigger than that.”

Unless he just wants to spend the rest of the day on the toilet. Maybe he needs to clean out his system. 

“Just try it,” you encourage. “I think you’ll like it.” 

He eyes you with skepticism, but he takes a sip.

It’s sweet, but the rich, robust taste hits him between the eyes. His brows raise high.

“Okay,” he says with a growing smile. “I see what you mean.”

“See? Now you don’t gotta doubt me again,” you nod. He watches you pour one for yourself, stirring in a frankly alarming spoonful of sugar. 

“Where are you from, exactly?” he asks. 

You glance over at him, taking issue with the way he asks the question. 

“New York,” you respond tartly. You're really from Miami, but he doesn't need to know that.

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. What are you, Mexican or something?”

You raise a brow, your lips pursing when he begins to smirk.  

“I do like me a juicy taco,” he says. 

His slutty grin is too much for you. Your hand tightens around your coffee cup.

“Okay, a lot to unpack there, Romeo, but no. Not all of us are Mexican!” 

“All right. Calm down, Chiquita. You should take it as a fucking compliment,” he says. He raises a brow at you. “You’re a real spicy one, aren’t you?”

You gape incredulously. “Excuse me?” 

Chiquita?! What the hell is that? Is he saying you look like a goddamn banana, or does he actually know a few words in Spanish? Is he actually calling you a little girl? And for the cherry on top, did he really just call you spicy?!

Either way, he’s about to get slapped across his pig-man mouth. 

“I’ve gotten with a few Latinas in my time,” he says as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as his thighs splay out a little wider in the sweatpants you let him borrow. “Always with that fuckin’ feisty little temper. But you know what, I got no problem with a hot tamale.” 

“Oooh.” The sound is pure and unadulterated FED UP. You down your espresso like a shot. You’re already contemplating another dose, because you don’t have the energy for this.

But you’re also reminded then, that this man came to fame in the 1940s. He was born, what, before the damn Dust Bowl and the Great Depression? He’s literally an ancient relic, a walking black and white billboard of tóxico, and he acts like one too. 

You fairly slam your ceramic cup on the dining table as you slide into the seat across from him. 

“Just so we don’t have any more conversations like this in the future, here it goes,” you say with a sharp sigh. “My mom is Cuban. My dad is black and Dominican. I’m as mixed as it gets, but I’m in no way spicy. If you’ve got me mad fucking tight right now, it’s because you clearly have no idea what decade you’re in.”

Your insult strikes a nerve, making his eyebrow twitch. Soon, however, his lips curve. 

“I’ve got you tight, huh?” he says, cocking his head. A lock of his hair falls roguishly across his brow. “Gotta say, wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had that effect on a woman.” 

You freeze, another hot blush burning in your cheeks. You can feel it making its way down your neck. “That’s…that’s not what you think it means.”

His lazy, arrogant, salacious smirk really makes you want to slap him, but you have a feeling that it’ll hurt you way more than it would hurt him. You get up from the table and ignore the loud scrape of the chair on tile.

“You know what? Forget it! I’m hungry. Don’t follow me.”

You go back to your room and lock the door behind you. You come back out a few minutes later dressed in what he thinks is your way of teasing him—in some ass-hugging jeans and a shirt that clings to your form. Ben watches you cross the room, smiling at the way you give him some narrowed side-eye while twisting your hair up into a wild ponytail. It’s a simple thing women do that’s always attracted him for some reason.

He also likes the shade of red you painted on your lips. 

“You are a feisty little thing,” he remarks, sipping his espresso. “Can’t say I mind.”

“Good. Stay here,” you hotly retort. Or better yet, get the FUCK out of my apartment.

You don’t say that last bit out loud, but he can read it loud and clear in your eyes, filled with that Latina fire. He remembers it all too well.

He grabs your wrist before you slip by him though. He hears the way your breath hitches, your gaze snapping down to meet his. You manage to hide most of your fear.

Maybe it makes some part of him twinge, deep down. You don’t know that he mostly finds you amusing. That he’d rather not hurt you, considering you don’t pose even one fraction of a threat to him. That like it or not, he needs to stay in your rathole apartment until he can figure out how to get out of the city unseen, let alone out of the country.

“You think I’m fucking stupid?” he asks.

You say nothing, but the look on your face tells him what you want to say. His eyes narrow.

“You’re not leaving,” he says.

“Well, I’m not cooking,” you counter. “There’s nothing to cook—”

“Order a damn delivery.”

“You know how expensive that is? Between delivery fee and tipping nowadays, Doordash charges a whole other meal on top of the meal! UberEats isn’t much better. Plus, none of the good places around here deliver like that. Not for breakfast at least. And anyway, I really need to go grocery shopping. What do you expect me to do, open a can of tuna and a jar of olives for breakfast?”

Ben’s not going to pretend he knows what the fuck you’re talking about, but his patience is running out.

“All right, enough. Give me your uh, your phone,” he demands. His tone gains an edge, a warning.

You expel an irritated huff, but you reach into your purse and all but slam it on the kitchen table. He takes it and examines it with some curiosity, but mostly, he retains his stoicism.

“I know for a fact you can get basically whatever you want on this fucking thing within half an hour,” he says. “Do what you need to do to get some grub over here, but you’re not leaving this fucking apartment until I say so."

He raises his brows and meets your eyes in a not so subtle warning.

"Just so you know, I've got a sharper ear than you think," he adds. "If you get stupid and try making a call for help, it's gonna be the last thing you fucking do. You understand me?”

Your teeth grind together, but ultimately, your sense of self-preservation reminds you not to poke the bear anymore. You force your anger and fear to dim to embers beneath your skin, and you nod in agreement. You then lower your gaze, waiting for him to let you go.

When he does, you slip away from him as soon as possible, taking your phone as you go.

For what it’s worth, you lock the bedroom door behind you. 

AN: Aaaand we're off! lol Did you expect him to basically force her into house arrest? 😅 We're gonna have some fun on this one, but there's also going to be a fair bit of action and slow-burn moments.~

Next Time:

You suddenly stand from the table, your chair scraping across the floor. You can tell the sound irritates his sharp ear as he glances up at you with a frown.

“You are a goddamn fugitive. You get that right?” you say, regarding him with an incredulous tilt of your head. “Now you’ve hooked me into this. I could get into serious shit because of you, and you don’t even seem to care! What…what kind of fucking superhero are you supposed to be?”

At the same time, you don’t know why this surprises you. Most of the supes you’ve met couldn't care less about the average person. The entire purpose of Vought’s Legal Department springs to mind.

Still, you thought America’s first supe ever—the one who supposedly fought in WWII, pounded Nazis up the ass, and represented the ideals this country was supposed to be founded on—might actually give a shit. Yet again, it stings to be proven wrong.

Ben’s expression had been verging on apathy, but now, he’s irritated and angry. He pushes back from the table and stands up to his full height. Even wearing your ex’s plain gray crew shirt and some threadbare sweatpants, the man’s frame is intimidating. He makes slow steps closer until he’s looming over you.

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Part 2

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Soldier Boy Masterlist

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Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1)

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@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2

[baldelarose]

I know I’m very late, but better than never? 😅

Also, from the first time I read this, I knew Reader is better than I am. I don’t think my patience level is Soldier Boy approved. Although I completely understand why she calls in sick. I mean, who are we to judge her? 😂

Lost in Translation

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Female POC!Reader

Summary: Living with this man isn’t easy, and you’ve absolutely had it with him. Supe or not, you’re one step shy of kicking him out. Will he try to make it up to you? 

AN: So after getting requests for a Soldier Boy x POC!Reader, I’ve had a short series in development called Unravel Me. I’m a bit stalled on the outline right now, so I thought this could be a fun way to introduce their relationship and see if you guys think I should continue with the prequel, kind of like how I did with Checkerboard and the Break Me Down-verse.

This story would take place after Unravel Me, after a fair bit of character development lol. It also fulfills a bingo square for @jacklesversebingo!

Prompt: “Whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is No!”

Song Inspo: “Damage” by H.E.R.

Word Count: 3.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, bit of dirty talk, fingering, edging, some angst, fluff and feels. The reader is a mixed race POC (Afro-Latina), with textured hair. 

The apartment was quiet, but not peaceful.

You were in the kitchen washing the Mt. Everest of dishes piled in the sink, partly because someone hadn’t rinsed off his own plate of carne guisada.

Ben had asked for beef for dinner yesterday, and you’d graciously delivered with your grandmother’s recipe for the stew. It was filled with chunks of tender, fall-off-your-fork beef, garlic, onions, carrots, and more—all marinated to perfection, if you said so yourself. You even added in some little yellow potatoes, both for taste and texture.

Apparently, he couldn’t be bothered to put those meaty man muscles to good use, aside from shoveling three helpings into his mouth.

A bottomless pit and a freakin’ man-child, I swear to God, you inwardly groused as you scrubbed the ceramic a bit too hard with the rough side of the sponge. No matter how many times you asked, nicely, it seemed your boyfriend couldn’t manage to pull his weight around here.

Okay, you knew his job could be demanding, but so was yours.

What the hell is this, Maid in Manhattan? Newsflash: I’ve got shit to do too! 

“And I cooked!” you muttered in indignation. That reminder propelled you to scrub a bit harder. The least he could do was clean the kitchen. Or take out the trash. Or toss the laundry into the washing machine once in a while. Like you really wanted to handle his dirty boxers all the damn time.

Did he have no shame? Couldn’t he do anything for you without you having to ask him three million times?

Es que él es bruto, mija, as your Dominican grandma would say about your grandpa, often while swiping a tired hand over her long braids. Es como un animal con ropa.

Just then, you heard his heavy steps creaking on the wood floors in your bedroom. Today was his day off, so he was probably taking his sweet time rolling his ass out of bed.

Meanwhile, you were hustling to get the place at least decently clean before you got yourself together for work. The thought made you simmer as you continued to place dishes on the counter rack. Each one clacking to rest was satisfying, but it also ticked up your internal dial to a fine boil. 

You heard him bang the bathroom door open and cringed internally, your teeth grinding. You’d reminded him three times already about the neighbors and the noise.

Sabes que, supe or not, I’m about to— 

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Ben’s voice washed over you, deep and still a little rough with sleep as he stepped into the kitchen. His old man loafers slid against the floor with every step when he approached you from behind, and his heavy hands found a familiar resting place on the curve of your waist.

He swiped your slightly wild curls to the side and pressed a tantalizing kiss into your neck. His voice, his touch, the brief scrape of his beard; it all caused a small shiver of delight up your spine.

“Hmm, you smell good. Good enough to eat.” And he teased you with the graze of his teeth, biting gently enough where your neck met your shoulder. You flinched with half a huff, trying not to smile. 

Just like that, it took the edge off your irritation…a little. You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could…

“Hey,” he said, “since you’re already up and about in here, how about some breakf—”

Your spine tightened once again.

“Whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is No!” you snapped. You moved out of his arms to grab a hand towel to dry your hands with. They were all pruny from washing dishes.

“I’m already running late. Why? Because this place is a fucking mess, and the only one who seems to care is me!” you exclaimed. First, you gestured to the dishes now drying on the rack. “Hmm?”

You then opened up the lid to the full-to-bursting trashcan. “What do you call that, huh? You said you’d take this out last night. After I asked you twice. What, was I not speaking English? Did something get lost in translation, or are you already losing your hearing? Just let me know, ‘cause I can sure as hell crank up the volume for you!”

Ben raised a brow. You read his thoughts in his surly frown. You have some fucking audacity, talking to him like that, but it’s still early. He hasn’t even had his coffee, for Christ’s sake.

If he was more awake, no doubt he’d be barking back at you. Instead, he heaved a sigh, drew closer to you and shut the trashcan lid. At least there was one lid he knew how to close.

“All right, it’s just a little mess. No need to get fucking hysterical,” he said, trying to grasp your arm to placate you. You shrugged out of his hold and crossed your arms in anger.

“Ben, it’s not just a little mess. And what is this, 1945? I’m not hysterical!”

His lips twitched at a smirk, making you even angrier. But he’d caught enough smoke from you in the past to know he didn’t want it at 8:00 in the morning. He grasped your arms and rubbed them up and down, trying to sooth you.

“Okay, okay. It’s a little early for all this Latina temper, don’tcha think?” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your gaze snapped up at him with a glare.

Oooh, this man. He knew how to get you mad fucking tight.

Not in a good way.

Instead of exploding like Mount Fuji, you kept it all under your skin. You turned away from him and aimed to continue getting ready for work, but first, you took out a Greek yogurt from the fridge and wholly ignored him taking up space in the kitchen. You wouldn’t answer him when he called your name. In fact, you were going to give him the most frigid of cold shoulders—so cold he’d get hyperthermia through that invulnerable skin.

He waylaid your plans when he grabbed your hand, swinging you back into his arms. You gasped at the suddenness of it, looking up into his cocky, charming smile. You couldn’t stare too long at his green eyes, or the rest of his handsome, bearded face. Not when he knew exactly how to use it against you.

“Don’t think that’s gonna get you out of this,” you warned him. You set your yogurt on the kitchen counter and pushed at his chest, but it was no more effective than pushing at a mountain and expecting it to move.

His hands spanned your waist, his fingers beginning to press into your soft sides. He bowed his head, brushing his lips against your neck and the shell of your ear when he said, “Out of what, baby doll? Looks to me like we can still have a good morning.”

His voice once against trilled heat and tingles through your body, but you managed to lean back, holding the pads of your fingers to his lips.

“Hey, I’m not playing around here. If we’re gonna do this,” you pointed between him and yourself, “then let me make one thing really clear. I’m not la sirvienta around here, okay? I’m not your fucking maid. I’m your girl. Your partner. And since you live here now, I’m gonna need you to do your part.”

Ben almost rolled his eyes, but you grasped his chin. He frowned at you with furrowed brows. There was a time where he would've been inclined to grab your wrist and try to intimidate you with his temper. You saw it lying in wait behind his pursed lips and irritated stare, but you weren't afraid of him. Not anymore.

“Listen to me. I get that you haven’t lived like us commoners for most of your life, but this stuff is important,” you said. You took a deep breath, and you counted to three. You met him with a calmer gaze. “Ben, I love you.”

You let go of his chin and lowered your hand, letting it splay over his chest. He softened, ever so slightly, even though his frown remained.

“I love you,” you repeated, “but I don’t need a man-child.”

"Excuse me?" he did snap this time, his hold loosening from around your waist. "The fuck did you just say?"

You narrowed your eyes right back at him.

"You heard me," you said. "I want a man. A man who's going to be my rock when I need him. Can you do that for me, like I do for you? Are you gonna be my man, or do I need to claim you as a dependent on my taxes?"

His expression sharpened again at your thinly veiled accusation…but the longer he looked into your eyes, no longer angry, but earnest and imploring, the more he actually listened to what you were saying. His jaw worked for a moment in annoyance. You subtly softened him with your hands soothing up and down his arms, a slow back and forth over solid, warm muscle.

Eventually, he was able to curb his instinct to bark a callous reply. He nodded, expelling a breath through his nose.

“Fine,” he said.

Your brows rose. “Fine?”

“Yeah,” he said flatly.

You knew it was the closest you were going to get to an agreement, as well as an apology. You were still working on that last one, but dating this man was a work in progress, for both of you. With a sigh, you patted his arms that were slowly wrapping back around you.

“Okay, I’m really running late now,” you said.

“You should probably get a move on then,” Ben said.

Still, he didn’t release you. He stared down at you with an amused smile while you struggled against his hold. You uttered a laugh.

“Babe, I need to get to work.” You leaned over and spied the oven clock. “Oh, shit! it’s almost 8:30! If I’m not there by 9:00—”

“You sure you want to go now? Tense, body all tight,” he said, his voice deep with sensuous suggestion.

His lips neared yours, but he didn’t kiss you. Not yet. His lips veered away to brush against your cheek. He inhaled deeply as he moved, taking in the floral scent of your soap, mixed with the army of products you styled your hair with, and the faint imprint of your perfume from the night before. He skimmed down your neck and along the shell of your ear.

“Wouldn’t you rather I fuck all that tension right out of you?” he offered. “Leave you nice and warm and satisfied, have that pretty pussy coming hard on my cock.”

You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes as his filthy mouth and the timbre of his voice struck a chord through your body, tinging warm arousal between your legs. Your fingers tightened on his strong arms, digging into the fabric of his loose robe. Ben took that as a wordless confirmation. He bent at the knees and grabbed you up by your plush thighs. You wrapped your arms around his neck on instinct, with a small gasp.

But you recovered quickly. Taking his face into your hands, you met his lips roughly with yours in a devouring kiss. He set you down on the kitchen counter hard enough to make the clean dishes rattle. His hands were just as claiming as his mouth, squeezing your hips and thighs as he spread them open to make more room for himself.

While your tongue dueled with his, you shoved the robe off his shoulders, followed by his sleep shirt pooling to the floor. His hand slid under your top as well, and almost ripped it at the hem in his haste to get it up and over your head.

“Ow, ah-ow!” You giggled when the collar got caught on your hair. Ben’s breathy chuckle reached your ears. He was gentler in how he helped get the shirt off the rest of the way. Your mane of hair fell into your face, and you huffed.

Ben did you the favor of brushing the thick curls away from your eyes, tugging several strands behind your ears, even though most of them didn’t obey him. He framed your face with his big hands, and his thumbs swept along your skin, the rich complexion shining in the morning light filtering through the kitchen window.

There was more care in his touch now, his strength tempered just for you. Fond amusement colored his features. For as much shit as you gave him, you still gave him more of yourself; more of your trust, your patience...and all the rest of it. You gave him more than anyone that had come before you, and deep inside, he doubted anyone that might come after you.

You smiled up at him, a little wryly. You leaned up and met him for a gentler kiss. Your eyes fell closed at the feeling of him, and the spicy hint of his aftershave. It was a scent that often clung to his pillows. When he was gone on a mission for days on end, you wouldn’t admit to clinging to one of them to help you sleep, and make you feel safe. 

“Mmm, you smell good,” you whispered. And it was true. He smelled like mint and spicy aftershave. You plied his lips with deeper kisses, licking into his mouth with a sensuous tongue, before you stole his words. “Good enough to eat.”

He uttered a groan deep in his throat. It satisfied you, enhancing the warm flood between your legs.  

Fuck it. You were calling in sick today.

You drew him back into the pull of you, winding your arms around his neck and your fingers in his hair. It was getting long again, but you liked it. You liked something to hold onto, just as much as he did. Your nails brushed against his scalp, down the back of his neck, earning a hum of pleasure from him. You wound your legs tightly around his hips and invited the press of his hard cock against your throbbing core, even through your panties and pajama pants. A faltering groan caught in his chest.

“Needier that I thought this morning,” he remarked. His warm hands drifted down to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over dark, pebbled nipples. You sighed into his mouth in response.

You heard the cocky grin in his voice, but for once, you didn’t care. You did need him. You wanted him to fuck the stress and chaos out of you.

…Well, he’d caused most of it, but still. He was gonna damn well fix it.

And he aimed to do just that, with his hands sliding farther down your body with purpose, grabbing the waistband of your pajama pants and roughly sliding them down, along with your panties. Your bare ass felt cold against the tile counter, but you didn’t have too much time to think about it with Ben’s thick fingers probing between the wet, glistening folds of your pussy. He soon found what he was searching for, circling firmly over your clit.

Your hips raised off the counter as you whimpered against his lips and ground yourself against his hand. You broke from his kiss to bury your face in his neck. Ben’s free hand grasped your hip and pulled you right to the edge of the counter.

There he held you down, his brows furrowing in concentration. His fingers sought your entrance and slipped inside you with ease. By now, he knew what angles would have you squirming, writhing, your body arching into him, while your inner walls clenched around his hand.

“Fuck. That’s right, baby doll. I’ve gotcha,” he said roughly, continuing to fuck your pussy with his fingers. His thumb rubbed against your clit between strokes.

The coil in your lower belly began to tighten, the delicious throbbing deep inside beginning to make your thighs shake. But just as you felt yourself tipping over the edge, Ben withdrew his fingers from your sopping channel.

You struggled to catch your breath in shock. Your head raised from Ben’s shoulder to glare at him. When your mouth opened to deliver an indignant protest, he silenced you with his mouth claiming yours. Your nails bit into his shoulder in retaliation, even though you knew it wouldn’t hurt him in the slightest. In fact, it only curved his lips into a smirk against yours.

You slapped him on the shoulder, immensely frustrated, but also laughing. “You’re such an assh—”

Before you could even finish cursing him, he gathered you up again and lifted you off the counter. He walked you over to the couch in the living room. He would’ve loved nothing better than to lay you out across the two-seater table in the kitchen, but he thought the shitty old wood might just give out under the strain of him fucking you. So the living room was a close second, and in this tiny-ass apartment, it was barely a few feet more to walk.

He laid you out underneath him on couch, and it groaned and squeaked under both of your weight. You squeaked too, if for a different reason. It had Ben smirking down at you. He freed himself from the confines of his pajama pants and coated his rock-hard arousal with the leftover wetness coating his hand.

“I approve of the scene change,” you said breathlessly, once again stroking his arms. Your fingers slipped over every dip and plain of muscle.  

“Didn’t think you wanted to be fucked on some cold tile,” he said, even if the sentiment behind his words warmed you. You were pretty sure he didn’t used to care about that. At least, before he met you.

He grabbed your hips, lined himself up to your entrance, and his cock breached you smoothly, pushing into you until his hips fit snugly against yours.

“Oh, fuck,” you choked out, your thighs squeezing around his frame.

“Feel good, sweetheart? All fuckin' filled up,” Ben teased, a bit breathless himself. You were a tight fucking fit. He slid out of you experimentally, drawing a moan from your lips. You nodded.

“Yeah, baby. So good,” you freely admitted, panting all the while.

Ben’s hot gaze drew over you as he continued moving hard and fast inside you. He took in your every bare curve, the way hot breaths and sexy moans fell from your lips with every thrust, the way your hair fanned out underneath you and hung off the side of the sofa cushion, the way your hands still explored him and touched him, demanding, but still loving.

For that, it was all the more tantalizing against his skin, warming even the darkest places he tried not to show you.

And every drag of his cock inside you stretched your inner walls in the most delicious of ways. It wasn’t just that he was able to fill you to the fucking brim. He also just knew his way around a woman’s body. He knew you, and he knew exactly how to make you come undone. Even quick and dirty on your couch, he made you feel brand new. 

He was right, damn him.

The coil deep inside you snapped. Pleasure crested through you and made your inner walls squeeze him tight, fluttering and pulsing with warmth. You came hard on his cock, hard enough to milk his release shortly after for all he was worth.

His forearms fell to the cushion on either side of your head. You were basically being smothered, but for the moment you didn’t mind. You just held his sweat-slick body against yours while you both caught your breath, each of your heartbeats falling back into a steady rhythm.

He was always so damn warm. It was nice, considering how cold it was this winter, but the thought always made you a bit sad. It reminded you of the power housed in his chest, and every memory he caged there as well.

You laid a gentle kiss on his shoulder. In return, his lips found the side of your head and hesitated there.

“You’re not going to work,” he said. It was more an observation than anything else.

You laughed breathlessly and shook your head. “Nope.”

He nodded. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”

You could get behind that. Your kitchen was finally clean, which meant your kitchen was closed until further notice.

“Shower first,” you stipulated.

You felt Ben’s smile grow against your dewy skin. “All right.”

You sighed, and he guided you to your feet along with him. You had a feeling “breakfast” was going to be lunch by the time you and Ben finally escaped this apartment.      

AN: Lol hope you had fun with this one! Let me know if you'd like to see more of these two! 💚💚

Spanish Translations:

Es que él es bruto, mija. Es como un animal con ropa.

It’s that he’s stupid, my daughter. He's like an animal with clothes.

However, “bruto” can also mean brutish, crude, and/or like a beast, so it fits in more than one way. 😂

Sabes que, …

You know what, …

La sirvienta

The servant (or maid) (female)

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[baldelarose]

I assumed it was a safe bet to say that Ben would be at least one of the least favorite 😂.

For me it’s a tie between Beau and Dean. I think they would be pretty cool people to have as neighbors, and the ones that less trouble would give you, at least the majority of the time.

Of The Big Four—Dean, Beau, Ben, and Russell—which of these guys would you prefer to have as a neighbor? I know this is very random, and it can a personal and private response for you, but I’m nosy as hell, sorry, but this nosiness has been in my family for generations 🤷🏻‍♀️😂

Oooh good question! lol Let's go by process of elimination...

Unfortunately, it can't be Russell Shaw or Soldier Boy (Ben). 😂

Russ would never be there - always working on some clandestine job he can't (or won't) talk about. Though I'd definitely be sneaking any glimpses I could of him and any excuse at small talk lol.

But this little foodie would probably develop a 6th sense for when I'm cooking. He'd be at my door like a stray dog, offering to mow my lawn if he could have a taste of whatever I've got going on in there. 😜

Ugh. Ben. I feel like he'd be the worst neighbor ever. 😂 Loud music, women coming in and out at weird hours of the day (or night), pulling his car in and out of the driveway like a maniac, obnoxious flirting any time we run into each other (that I'd probably hate, but also have to hide my blush lmao 🤭).

Dean Winchester could be an interesting neighbor - only because wtf does this man do for a living? 😂

He's gone for days at a time, comes back sporting black eyes and lacerations half the time. But based on that black beauty he drives, he's 100% the one I'd go to if my car is acting up, or if something breaks in my place. We all know the man is good with his hands. 😏

(And if he wants to put his hands on more than just my leaky sink while he's in there, that's more than ok by me. 🤭)

But I think realistically, Beau Arlen would make for the best neighbor. It would make me feel safe knowing the county sheriff is literally next door. It'd also be nice to see him out on his porch, sitting by the fire on chilly nights. I'd bring over some cookies, he'd probably supply the drinks, alcoholic or otherwise, and we'd vibe and talk and have those conversations that make you wonder how it got so deep, so fast, all under the stars. ✨

(And if he asks me out the next morning, I'll make him some Cuban coffee with breakfast for good measure. 😘)

And btw, I did see your headcanon request from last month. Though my requests are closed, your idea was a really good one lol. It's still in my inbox, I'm just saving it for when I hopefully have time to work on it. 😉

[baldelarose]

Ok, this was too sweet 🥲​ although it’s true that sam it’s such a gentle and patient boy 💛​

please please do a Sam x dumb reader. that man is a genius and I feel like he would have fun with a partner that has to pull out the calculator to make sure that 2+2 is really 4 and their mind isn't tricking on them (that could be me lol)

₊˚⊹♡ beauty and the braincell,

summary. math is not your forte. you know it. sam knows it. he doesn't love you any less because of it.

pairing. sam winchester x dumb!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 451

notes / warnings. soft!dumb!reader (affectionately dumb, okay?), math confusion, teasing, gentle banter, sam being the patient, loving nerd king he is, cuddles, and mutual adoration despite drastically different brain wiring

You stare at the screen of your phone like it just told you your dog ran away. Then, slowly, you open the calculator app and punch in the numbers again.

2 + 2 = 4

You blink.

“…Are you sure though?” you mutter under your breath, chewing the tip of your pinky and staring like the answer might change if you blink fast enough.

Across the motel room, Sam glances up from his book—something thick and menacing with a Latin title you can’t even pronounce. He watches you suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You just asked your calculator if it was sure.”

You sigh dramatically and flop back onto the bed. “I thought the answer was four. But I didn’t trust myself. What if my brain was lying? What if it’s not four? What if we’ve all just been told it’s four our whole lives and it’s actually, like… five? Or three and a half?”

Sam closes his book, very gently, like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he’s too loud. “You think the government is gaslighting us about basic addition?”

“Not intentionally,” you mumble.

He walks over, towering over the bed, looking down at you like you’re both the cutest thing he’s ever seen and possibly a walking red flag. “Baby.”

You groan. “I know, I know! I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“I googled what a preposition was yesterday and the definition made me cry.”

He smiles. Not mocking, not smug. That soft little Sam smile he gets when he’s holding back a laugh but also deeply, irrevocably in love. “Okay, sure, maybe you’re not built for academia—”

“Rude—”

“—but you’re brilliant in other ways.”

You squint up at him, suspicious. “Like what? Say something hot.”

Sam leans down, presses a kiss to your temple, then lays beside you on the bed. “You can read people better than anyone I know. You pick up on moods and feelings like magic. You remember exactly how someone takes their coffee even if you only met them once. You’re hilarious. You’re kind. And when I forget to take care of myself, you do it for me.”

You blink, a little stunned. “…Okay, that was hot.”

He chuckles, brushing your hair back from your face. “You think I care that you need a calculator for basic math? I’d still choose you over every genius I’ve ever met.”

You pout. “Even over yourself?”

“Especially over myself.”

You nuzzle into his chest, warm and glowing now.

And somewhere, your calculator app is still open—confirming, once again, that 2 + 2 really is 4.

Sam doesn’t care. He already did the math.

You + him = everything.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[baldelarose]

I can’t express how much I love this!!! And the fact that it’s from Sam’s POV it makes it even better!

A Dangerous Love

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Sam's POV of yours and Dean's relationship.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: Implied smut, angst, fluff, mentions of blood and injury, poor Sammy! Dean being his typical over protective self, both of them are stubborn.

AN: Hey guys, I know I've been MIA for a lil while, but I'm doing okay, still getting there, although this isn't a full return, I just wanted to pop on and give you guys a little something, as well as catch up on some reading now I have a minute 😅. This was sitting in my drafts and finally touched it up. I tried something little different with It being from Sam's POV. But I enjoyed this one and I hope you guys do too! ❤️

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They were fighting again.

Sam didn’t even flinch. He barely glanced up from his laptop as the sharp words echoed through the paper-thin motel walls—voices rising, footsteps pounding, another inevitable blowout brewing like a summer storm.

“You can’t just run in like that!”

“I had it handled!”

“No, you almost got yourself killed!”

“I’m not a child, Dean! I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me with the way you acted tonight!”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He’d heard this fight a hundred times—probably more. Same argument, different hunt. Dean being overprotective, you pushing back, neither of you knowing when to shut up.

Then came the inevitable—

“Go to hell!”

“Already been, sweetheart.”

Sam winced a second before a door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls. Right on cue, his own door flew open, and in stormed Dean—still fuming, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed with frustration.

Sam didn’t look up. He’d learned his lesson. Playing mediator between you two was about as effective as standing between two charging bulls. So, he kept his eyes locked on his screen, feigning deep concentration on the case he was researching.

A small town in Lincoln, Nebraska. Three bodies in a week, hearts missing. Probably a werewolf. Maybe a Rugaru. Definitely not as terrifying as the emotional carnage currently unraveling in the room.

Dean stalked back and forth like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam made the mistake of humming in vague agreement. That was all the opening Dean needed.

“Right? I mean, she just—she just goes in, no backup, no plan, like she’s got a damn death wish.”

Sam finally looked at his brother, eyebrows raised. “You mean like you do? All the time?”

Dean scowled. “That’s different.”

Sam snorted. “Oh, is it?”

But Dean ignored him, too deep in his rant to acknowledge logic.

“She doesn’t listen. Ever. I tell her to stay back, and what does she do? Runs straight into danger like she’s got something to prove.”

From the other side of the wall came a muffled, but unmistakably pissed-off voice: “I can hear you, jackass!”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Good!”

Sam sighed, long and suffering, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was his life. Not just the near-death experiences, not just the monsters and the ghosts—no, this. Being caught between his stubborn brother and his brother’s equally stubborn, equally reckless, equally loud girlfriend.

Dean, still grumbling to himself, flopped onto the opposite bed and crossed his arms like an angry child. Sam wisely said nothing. He knew the drill—Dean would rant, stew for a while, and eventually, in a few days—

Wait... Scratch that. 

A few hours later, Sam was rudely jolted awake by a very different kind of disturbance.

Something rhythmic. Repetitive. Suspiciously… breathy.

At first, his sleep-fogged brain struggled to make sense of it. A fight? No—too much giggling between the groans.

And then—

Oh. Oh, no.

Realisation hit like a freight train at full speed and his stomach churned.

The unmistakable sound of a headboard knocking against the wall. The low, hushed moans. And worst of all—

“Oh, God, Dean—”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Sam groaned, grabbed his pillow, and smothered his own face with it like he could suffocate the memories before they fully formed. How could he forget about the damn make-up sex? He should’ve known when Dean left the room and didn’t return that this is what would come of it. 

Burying himself deeper under the blanket, he contemplated driving to another damn state. Maybe exorcising himself. Was there a ritual for that? A way to erase the mental scarring?

Eventually, after a painfully long time, blissful silence returned, and with it, the symbolic, albeit fragile, truce between you and Dean.

The next morning, Sam nursed his coffee like a war veteran as he sat in the outdated diner, watching the two of you with equal parts fascination and whiplash.

You were nestled beside Dean on the other side of the booth, stealing bites of his pancakes with a smug grin.

Dean—who, under normal circumstances, would stab a man with a fork for even looking at his food—just smirked, all stupid heart eyes, letting you get away with it like you were some divine exception to the rule.

Sam squinted. Not even twenty-four hours ago, you two were about five seconds away from an actual homicide.

Now? Now, you were practically glowing, exchanging touches, finishing each other’s sentences, giggling like a couple of lovesick teenagers in a CW drama.

Sam exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

Every relationship expert on the planet would call this toxic. Hell, if he described it to anyone—the explosive fights, the impossible stubbornness, the complete disregard for self-preservation when it came to each other—they’d probably diagnose you both with something and slap you with a warning label.

But for as long as he could remember—even before you and Dean finally got together—it had always been like this. Back when you were just a couple of reckless teenagers, trading jabs and daring each other into stupid, dangerous situations. Before things got complicated with feelings and labels.

You and Dean were like flint and steel—constantly striking, constantly sparking, burning hotter than anything Sam had ever seen.

But the fire never went out.

It should have. By all logic, it should have burned itself to the ground a dozen times over. But instead, it just kept going, somehow forging you both into something stronger.

It was chaos. It was infuriating.

And, honestly? It was kind of impressive.

Even if it made Sam’s head want to implode.

But then there were moments that tore away all the noise, stripped everything down to the bare bones of what you and Dean truly were. Moments that left no room for doubt.

Because when it came down to it—when it really mattered—the two of you didn’t just care. Didn’t just love each other. You were willing to bleed for one another, break for the other, burn the whole damn world down if you had to.

And tonight? Tonight just proved that.

The hunt was supposed to be routine—get in, take care of the pack, get out. But the damn werewolves were faster, stronger. They had numbers. And somewhere between the chaos and the fighting, you made a split-second decision.

You saved Dean’s life. And you nearly lost your own in the process.

Dean caught you before you hit the ground. One second you were standing, the next you were collapsing, blood soaking through your shirt, pooling between his fingers as he pressed down hard against the gash in your side.

“No—no, no, no,” Dean’s voice was hoarse, raw with panic. “You're okay. I got you.”

Sam barely had time to react before Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Sam! Get the car!”

Sam was already moving, sprinting for the Impala as Dean held you against him, his flannel already stripped from his shoulders and bunched against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, his grip unrelenting. His fingers trembled against your skin, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “Just hang on. I got you.”

Sam skidded to a stop beside the car, yanking the door open. He turned back just in time to see Dean lifting you into his arms, his expression twisted in barely contained panic.

Sam didn’t miss the way his brother held you—not just with urgency, but with a kind of care that made his chest ache.

He helped ease you into the back seat with Dean, still pressing the flannel to your side. His voice was shaking, but his grip was steady.

"Step on it, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t argue. The second he was behind the wheel, he floored it, tires screeching against the asphalt.

The drive was a blur of traffic violations, but because it was nearing midnight, the roads were practically empty, making up for the reckless driving. The city flashed by in streaks of yellow and white, and in the rearview mirror, Sam could see Dean cradling you against him, his forehead nearly pressed to yours as he whispered every reassurance he could think of.

"Stay with me, sweetheart.”

"You’re okay.”

“I swear to God, you’re gonna be okay.”

But Sam heard the crack in his brother’s voice. Saw the way his hands were shaking. Dean wasn’t just worried. He was terrified.

By the time they crashed through the ER doors, shouting for help, Dean was covered in your blood.

The nurses barely had time to react before Dean was snapping at them to hurry, his voice sharp, desperate. And then you were gone—whisked away behind double doors, leaving Dean standing there, breathing hard, fists clenched, and your blood staining his hands.

Then came the waiting.

Dean couldn’t sit still. He paced the hospital waiting room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair over and over, jaw tight, eyes darting to every single doctor or nurse that walked by.  

The agitation built inside him like a pressure valve ready to burst, as Sam sat nearby, watching his brother unravel, feeling helpless.

"What the hell is taking so long?" he growled, throwing his arms up in frustration as his gaze stayed trained on the double doors they had wheeled you through.  

Sam let out a quiet sigh. He was just as worried, but kicking and screaming wasn’t going to make time move faster. “They’re doing everything they can, man. You have to let them do their job.”  

Dean clenched his jaw, his entire body rigid with anxiety, and Sam could see the cracks forming in his brother’s usual composure. Deannwas a lot of things—fearless, reckless, stubborn as hell—but right now? Right now, he just looked scared.

When the doctor finally approached them, Dean nearly jumped down his throat.  

"How is she? Is she okay?"

“She lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. “But we’ve managed to stabilize her. She needs plenty of rest, and we’ll have to monitor her overnight and go from there.”  

Sam let out a breath of relief. But Dean—Dean’s shoulders sagged, his lips pressing into a thin line as something unreadable passed through his expression.  

They had lied, of course. Told the doctors you’d been attacked by a bear because —“yeah, doc, she got slashed by a goddamn werewolf” — would’ve landed them in padded cells. Thankfully, the doctors didn’t ask too many questions.

When they were finally allowed to see you, Sam watched as Dean crumbled at the sight of you lying in that hospital bed.  

You looked so small. So fragile. The machines beeped steadily beside you, an IV hooked up to your arm, your face pale from the blood loss. It made even Sam’s heart twinge painfully to see you this way. You were not only his brother’s girlfriend. You were his best friend. His sister.

Dean approached cautiously, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he got too close. Then, without a word, he sat beside you and grasped your hand, his fingers brushing over your knuckles with a gentleness that didn’t match the man who had just been almost punching walls in the waiting room.  

His throat bobbed. Then, wordlessly, he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering there as he exhaled shakily.

"You scared the hell outta me," he muttered, his voice thick, raw. “You’re gonna pull through this, you hear me?”

He swallowed hard, then softer, more broken— "cause' I can't lose you."

Sam swallowed hard against his own emotions. He knew this wasn’t just about saving you anymore. It was about Dean confronting the most terrifying thing he could ever imagine—the thought of losing you. And for a man like Dean, who was constantly worrying about this very thing, you'd think he'd be somewhat prepared for the real thing. Evidently not. It was crushing, breaking him into a thousand pieces.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching the way Dean’s thumb traced gentle circles against your skin, but he saw the anger rise, predictable from his brother's guilt and fear as it continued to chip away at him the longer he looked at you. 

“Dammit, Y/N. Why didn’t you listen to me? I—“ Dean’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he just closed his eyes, like he was trying to pull himself together.  

And then, as if on cue, you stirred. Your fingers twitched in his grasp, your eyelids fluttering, and Dean went still—his breath caught, his entire body frozen as he waited.

Slowly, your eyes opened, hazy with exhaustion and pain, but when they focused on him, you still managed a weak, lopsided smile.

"Worth it.” you murmured, voice hoarse.  

Dean closed his eyes like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time, because of course you’d have a comeback, even on the brink of death.

Sam huffed a small, teary laugh, shaking his head.

Because this was the two of you. Always on the brink of disaster. Always throwing yourselves in front of danger for each other. Always driving each other insane.

It was a deep love. A dangerous love.

But it was real.

And it was true.

AN: What started off as a Drabble, became a one shot lol. I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was fun to do. 😁💕 Also I am still working on part 2 of In The End , I'm sorry for the delay guys 😭

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like ��

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[baldelarose]

This is so adorable and cute! 🥹🩵 And I'll most likely reread it over and over again

safe and sound was absolutely beautiful 🥹 dad!dean is one of my faves, and for every story i read about him as a dad, i truly believe it’s like he would have had been if he would have had a child of his own 🩵 could you write sth with dean and his bby about she having her first sleepover ever? baby winchester can have the age you prefer, but i know sth for a fact, dean wouldn’t sleep that night, he would miss his girl until he picks her up, but he would also very sooo happy that she has a relatively more normal childhood than he did ✨

no one can change my mind, dean winchester deserved the world 😭

₊˚⊹♡ first night, forever girl,

summary. dean's gone through a lot, but dropping his little girl at her first sleepover? that's the hardest thing he's ever had to do in his entire life

pairing. dad!dean winchester x 8yo daughter!reader genre. fluffy fluff

wordcount. 645

notes / warnings. dean winchester being the world's most emotionally repressed softie: no actual sadness—just man vs. sleepover-induced heartbreak

Dean’s standing by the Impala like he’s witnessing the end of the world.

His daughter—his baby, his tiny tornado of a human—is halfway up the walkway of her friend’s house, backpack bouncing and braid swaying, when she turns and beams at him with her whole face.

And Dean Winchester melts.

She waves. “BYE, DADDY! LOVE YOU!”

“Love you more,” he calls back, voice caught somewhere between proud and panicked.

She vanishes inside. The door shuts.

And Dean stands there, alone on the porch, looking like he just got dumped by the love of his life. Which, technically, he kind of did.

“She’ll be fine,” Sam says gently from the passenger seat when Dean climbs back into the Impala, still staring at the house like it might explode. “It’s a sleepover, not the end of the world.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean mutters. “What if they give her the wrong kind of mac and cheese?”

Sam blinks. “That’s your concern?”

“It matters, Sam.” Dean grips the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline. “She likes the spiral kind. Shells are a betrayal.”

Sam snorts and pats his shoulder. “You’re a wreck.”

“She's never been away for the night,” Dean mumbles, eyes on the rearview like she might suddenly sprint back out and change her mind. “Not once. She still can’t reach the top cabinet without a chair.”

“She’s eight.”

“Exactly.”

Sam doesn’t argue. Because he gets it—they never had this. A childhood with birthday parties and glittery backpacks and sleepovers. Dean made sure she did.

It’s 11:37 PM when Dean finally stops pacing.

She would’ve been tucked in by now. Maybe they’re watching movies. Maybe she’s cold and too polite to ask for an extra blanket. What if she forgot her toothbrush? What if—

BZZZT.

Dean’s phone lights up.

[Photo attachment] It’s her. Wearing a fluffy headband and a pink face mask, making peace signs with two other girls and grinning so wide her eyes are little crescents.

Dean stares at the picture like it’s a sacred text.

Text from: Cece's Mom

"Face masks + Barbie movie night = best time ever! She’s glowing! 🩷

Sam leans over the couch. “That her?”

Dean flips the phone so he can stare at it alone.

“…She’s having fun,” he says, and there’s something weird and wet behind his voice.

Sam smiles softly. “Like she should.”

It’s well past 1 AM when Dean gives up on sleep.

He’s lying on the couch, fully dressed, one arm draped over his eyes. The baby monitor he hasn't used in years is weirdly back on his nightstand. The light in the hall is still on. Just in case.

He keeps looking at her bed like she might appear there by magic.

He misses the soft shuffle of her socks in the hallway. The way she always comes in three times before bed—to ask for water, for a hug, for just one last chapter of her favorite book.

She’s fine. He knows she’s fine. But Dean Winchester doesn’t know what to do when the most important person in his universe isn’t under the same roof.

When he picks her up the next morning, she runs out the door, messy-haired and still in her unicorn pajamas, and barrels into his chest like she never left.

“Hi Daddy,” she says, half-yawn, half-giggle.

Dean holds her tight—just a little longer than usual.

“Did you have fun?”

She nods against his neck. “So much fun. But I missed you.”

Dean’s chest tightens.

He pulls back and smiles down at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, baby. I missed you too.”

He ruffles her head, helps her into the Impala, and gives the other girl's mom a grateful nod and a small wave.

The door shuts.

And this time, when he drives away, she’s in the backseat—home, safe, sleepy—and humming along to the radio.

Dean exhales. Finally.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[baldelarose]

max is so fucking awesome and cool ❤️‍🔥

also, where i do i have to sign so i can be her friend?

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. oc!max "mad max" winchester

MAX "MAD MAX" WINCHESTER is the wild card in the winchester deck: unpredictable, untraceable, and impossibly hard to kill. the only daughter in a family of soldiers and ghosts, max learned early that love doesn’t come easy—but loyalty, that’s carved into her bones. born with a null heart, she’s a myth wrapped in muscle and mystery: undetectable by angels, demons, reapers, or any force that hunts by sense or soul. possession rolls off her like water. she can’t be tracked. she can’t be touched. it makes her terrifying to enemies and priceless to her family. she walks like she’s got nothing to lose and fights like she’s already lost too much. she’s the one who keeps going when everyone else breaks—and she’ll burn the whole world down before she lets her brothers fall.

she’s a little sister, rebellious daughter, best friend, and loose cannon.

she wears dark, musky perfume that lingers like a ghost - sandalwood, tobacco flower, vanilla. she picked it not from trends, but because it masked the scent of gun oil and sulfur. castiel once said she “smells like war and cake.” she took it as a compliment. she carries the perfume in her go-bag because "smelling like sulfur and grave dirt isn't hot, dean."

sam once admitted it smells like home to him now. the smell has immortalized itself in the impala. all of the boys jackets or flannels have traces of it. when cas came along, the more time he spent around her, he started to have the smell linger on him as well.

in the beginning, the fact that cas had the smell on him as well sorta pissed dean off but he grew to secretly enjoy that traces of max were always still with them.

laundry day is sort of a funny thing because the boys have grown so used to the smell of it being on their clothes that the detergent smell kinda irritates them.

her jewelry is a collection of mismatched tokens and quiet sentimentality: a rusted bullet casing on a chain from dean (her first salt-round)— when dean went to hell, his ring stayed on that same chain until he got back home. on the inside she etched three notches, a failsafe the siblings had from when they were young, always the same meaning: three, still standing. a tiny quartz stone sam gave her when they were kids ("for luck," he’d said, dead serious), and a bent spoon bracelet she swiped from a diner in spokane during a hunt they barely survived. she wears them like armor, never flashy, but always there. quiet relics. proof she’s survived this long. her fingers are always stacked with rings - some stolen, some gifted, one possibly cursed - from a vegas exorcism. a simple band one that she wears on her left middle finger that dean stole as a gift for her seventeenth birthday. one of them doubles as brass knuckles. a few knuckle tattoos she did herself in a motel bathroom at seventeen.

known to be terribly blunt but very empathetic – max doesn’t sugarcoat things. she says it like it is—but when it counts, she understands people in a terrifyingly accurate way.

dry-humored as fuck – her sarcasm could slice through kevlar. she uses humor as both a defense mechanism and a test. this definitely stems from dean.

silent caretaker – she won’t tell anyone she’s worried. the boys have both learned to recognize that care in silence. she’ll fix their gear, stash their favorite snacks in the Impala, and stay awake until she hears them come back from a hunt.

she had to learn emotions on her own - how to cry without breaking, how to love without trusting, and how to build a self out of broken pieces no one helped her pick up.

keeps three knives on her person at all times: one silver, one iron, one sentimental. the last is rusted and cursed and belonged to john.

max doesn’t flinch from pain, but she hates watching others get hurt - her breaking point is watching dean bleed. while sam is also her older brother, dean was and always has been her protector and caretaker. in silence, max and sam look up to dean, would follow him to hell and back (again and again) if he simply asked.

stitches herself up with better precision than any ER nurse - once did it in a truck bed with a cracked mirror and dental floss. dean threw up.

talks to the Impala like it’s a person - leaves her favorite rings in the glovebox when she’s scared - “listen, sweetheart,” she says to the Impala, lovingly wiping down the dash. then stomps inside: “freakin' haunted-ass concrete bunker. smells like old men and disappointment.”

has a ritual of spitting salt over her left shoulder before a hunt - dean rolls his eyes. sam copies her when he thinks no one’s looking.

refuses to say goodbye - says “see you later” instead. says it like a prayer.

the tether of the family – she’s the one who silently ties sam and dean together when they start drifting. she talks them both down, even when she’s breaking inside.

dean’s co-pilot in grief – when things get too heavy for him to carry, she picks up the slack, sometimes without him noticing.

sam’s secret keeper – he tells her things he doesn’t even say out loud to himself. she sees his softness and protects it.

she’s the chaos between sam’s logic and dean’s instinct.

she borrows (steals) dean’s old shirts constantly—oversized flannel that smells like motor oil, leather jackets with burn holes, a metallica hoodie she swore she gave back but never did. sam’s sweaters, though? only when she’s sick. or homesick. she’ll deny it, but they’re comfort, pure and simple.

best mechanic of the siblings – dean’s good, but max feels engines. she talks to the Impala like it’s a breathing thing. she can fix a carburetor by sound alone.

her and dean used to get into a lot of petty fights about who can fix certain things faster.

a lot of the skills she honed was from bobby and john, in order to keep her out of trouble at school she was found under the hood of the impala or the odd stolen car on off days.

occult specialist – she’s the one who dives into the dark texts. latin, enochian, arcane rituals—she remembers the weird things others skim over.

this is sam and max's bonding time. being able to put everything aside and put their brains to work. they feed off each other perfectly, if sam doesn't know, max probably does and vice versa.

has a weird superstition about red thread – she always keeps some in her pack. ties it to trees. says it "keeps the soul tethered."

believes any cup of coffee over $2.50 is “a scam against humanity.” - she will rant about starbucks like it personally insulted her ancestors. meanwhile, her YETI mug says: “world’s okayest sister.”

there’s a duct tape label on one of the drawers in the bunker kitchen that says: “MAX’S DRAWER. DO NOT TOUCH. EVER.” it contains: hot sauce packets, gummy worms, three bullets, a lipstick, a sachet of salt, and an unopened red bull from 2014. dean tries to replace the red bull but the same one is constantly put back. - “it’s a relic. ain’t bothering nobody”

believes in fate but hates it – she’s convinced she’s part of something bigger, and it both comforts and infuriates her.

max didn't learn jackshit from john other than to survive, load a gun, protect her brothers, and throw punches like the ones she was aiming for owed her goddamn money- she learned about makeup and how to be anything but a hunter from drugstore aisles, grimy motel mirrors, and half-torn cosmo pages

max is the type of girl who sharpens her eyeliner with the same blade she uses to clean her gun. always picked up things from TV screens flickering in motel rooms, from other girls in bar bathrooms.

funnily enough max enjoys nail polish. she had a nail biting problem and has been putting on nail polish to counteract it because the sight of chipped nails irritates the actual fuck out of her, so it def helped there.

its always black and redone in gas station bathrooms using cheap polish and hunting knife tips as cuticle pushers. when she discovered chrome nail power, she likes the black polish + chrome look.

that said, she likes to experiment from time to time, once showed up to a hunt with blood-red polish, nails grown out (dean says they look like claws) with rhinestones on her ring fingers, and not a damn apology in sight. dean didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.

carries a flask labeled “holy water” that definitely isn’t holy water. (it’s fireball. dean’s tried it. regrets ensued.)

her room is somehow the cleanest and messiest at the same time - the bed’s always made. weapons are lined up by type. but the desk? it’s a chaos altar. books, coffee mugs, crushed salt packets, little bones, polaroids, expired motel keys, a crowbar, her earrings, one of sam’s hoodies.

writes little half-poems in the margins of her research journals - always half-finished. always a little sad. she pretends they don’t exist. - her handwriting is borderline illegible. sam told her to translate her notes once and she couldn't

has a list in her journal titled: “people I’d fistfight again”. it's alphabetized.

texts like a goblin: no punctuation, all caps, uses 🧍 constantly, ends most convos with “ok cool die”

she makes their coffee too strong. she leaves knives in weird places. she’s the one who always has a plan B...and C… and burn it all down.

supernatural mlist!

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒: i love her so obvi had to give her some headcanons. check out my spn mlist for more of my beloved oc. iʻm so happy that this oc has been recieving lots of love from u guys. my inbox is always open for suggestions, requests, and general thots. muah muah <33

[baldelarose]

i highly doubt this will ever get old 😂

Hey could I please request headcanons for how Dean would react to reader texting him "she's busy" as a joke, yk kind of like

Dean: Hey baby

Reader: She's busy

I really hope this makes sense and isn't so confusing 😭😭

Ooh I think I know what you mean. 😏

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Word Count: 850

Imagine: Texting Dean when he's on a hunt.

Once again, Dean sighed while he waited on his brother.

They were stopped at a 7-Eleven gas station after a hunt, but Dean had long ago filled up Baby's tank. Sam was inside, grabbing a few snacks for the road tomorrow. Supposedly.

Dean fished out his phone from his pocket and texted him.

Hey, Driving Miss Daisy. You good in there?

A couple of minutes later, Sam responded.

Yeah, just getting a few things.

Dean rolled his eyes. Right.

For half an hour? What, you taking a shit or something?

Sam's response was testy, just as Dean predicted.

Dean, give me a minute. Jesus.

Dean sighed, with a roll of his eyes. He scrolled back into his texts and found your name. He was a couple of states over from Lebanon, but still within the same timezone. You should still be awake back at the bunker.

He decided he wanted to hear your voice, let you know that he and Sam were going to catch one more night of rest here at the motel before they made the long drive back home.

But...you didn't answer when he called.

Weird. You were typically a night owl, either watching something or plugging away at your laptop. He tried texting you instead.

Hey, baby. You up?

He eventually saw the three gray dots pop up. You were typing...

She's busy.

Dean frowned. What the hell?

Had you invited someone over? Like Jody or Donna?

But neither of them would've replied like that...so he texted back.

Stop messing around.

Dean tried calling you again, but it went directly to voicemail this time. In came another text from "you."

She'll call you back, dude.

Dean's jaw ticked with annoyance. And despite himself, unease began to creep in and churn his stomach.

What the fuck is this?

She's in the shower. I'll tell her to call you back, no worries.

All right. WHO is this?

Ooh, are you the boyfriend? Yikes lol.

A deep, slow breath made it through Dean's nose. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, reminded himself that he did, in fact, love you.

Then he responded.

Babe, if you don't call me in the next 30 seconds, there's gonna be hell to pay when I get home.

Dean checked his watch and actually counted. About ten seconds passed before his phone rang with an incoming call...from you. He answered.

"Promise?" came your teasing voice. When it ended on a giggle, Dean rolled his eyes and rested his head back on the seat. He blew out a frustrated breath.

"Oh, trust and believe. You're gonna fuckin' get it this time," he said, though his lips curved on a reluctant smirk. You full on laughed at him then.

"You make it too easy," you replied.

He knew this. It wasn't the first time you'd teased him, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

Still, he couldn't help being a bit irritated this time.

"You know, how would you like it if I did that to you?" he asked. "Wouldn't be so fucking funny then, would it?"

"...Okay. You're right. I'm sorry, baby," came your more contrite voice. But he could still hear your smile. Could imagine the way you might soothe a hand along his arm, if you were here.

"How about I make it up to you?" you offered.

That worked a slow smirk onto his face. "Yeah? What did you have in mind?"

For the next few minutes, you purred into his ear about all the things you'd been thinking of while he was gone. Daydreaming about the talents of his hands, lips, and tongue.

In particular, you reminded him about a certain birthday wish that he still hadn't claimed from a couple weeks ago, when he and Sam got wind of this hunt.

Two weeks really was too damn long, in your opinion. (He agreed with you.)

Now with a half-straining bulge in his jeans, Dean licked his lips and tightened his hand on the leather wheel of the car.

"All right. Sounds like a plan to me, sweetheart," he said, deceptively breezy. As if you'd just told him you planned to make tacos for dinner.

"When are you getting home?" you asked.

He heard the tone of your voice, like black silk. It sent a tendril of heat down his spine, raising the hairs on his forearms.

"Tonight," Dean said. Deeper, a note of gravel in his words. "I'll see you tonight."

"Good." Once again, he heard the smile in your voice. "I love you."

He sighed, and raised a hand to card through his hair.

"Love you too...even though you play too fucking much," he muttered the latter bit.

Your laughter once again reached his ears, reluctantly making him smile.

He hung up with you just before Sam finally opened the passenger seat door and climbed in with two hefty grocery bags. Did he do a whole damn shopping spree in there?

...Whatever. Dean shook his head and started the car.

"Change of plan," he said. "We're heading home."

"What? Thought we were gonna catch a few hours of sleep. It's a long drive, Dean," Sam said, earning his brother's gaze.

"Yeah, well, you'll live," Dean snarked. A more devious grin spread across his face. "I've got a date."

And she's about to get punished.

The Impala's tires screeched as Dean pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

AN: Ha! This one was fun. 😘 Thanks for the prompt!

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean W. Tag List:

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

[baldelarose]

yes, bela manipulated dean and sam, deceived them, stole from them, and evidently wasn’t honest with them, and repeated that pattern over and over. she did everything in her power to have things done her way. i doubt she ever told anyone about what she went through she when she was a kid. lilith evidently tricked her make the deal, and bela was just a vulnerable and traumatized girl, wanting all her pain to go away. i still believe she wasn’t a villain, but rather a broken person with severe trust issues, and as we know how her trauma was caused and by who, we don’t judge her for that. i truly wish bela was given more time, maybe her character would have learned to trust people again, maybe be a little more herself with trustworthy people. realize that not everyone wants to hurt her, and that there is people with genuine good intentions. i think bela deep down knew she could trust dean and sam, although because her trust issues, and all of the layers she created due that and her past trauma, she was able to attempt to unalive sam to save herself due a “deal” she did with a demon to save herself, and even later dean admitting to her that they would actually would have had helped if she asked nicely. and while dean was right, because she stabbed them in the back more than once, it bothers me that the boys never knew the why she was that way. i understand why bela didn’t wanted to share her truths, but if she had, if the boys would had heard or knew her pov, everything would have had been so different, and possibly for the better. minutes after bela’s 10-year deal was over, dean could hear and the spectators could see part of her “true” self, an insecure, vulnerable and broken little girl, that the majority of her persona was a façade. i wish bela was given time enough to heal from her trauma and pain, being able to live a rewarding life. i don’t justify bela’s actions, but she deserved a chance to pick all of her shattered pieces, glued them back, and being a whole again. bela had so much potential, on her own and with the winchesters, but it was all wasted.

you saw the crow’s feet at the sides of my eyes and a small chip on my front tooth. i looked just like everyone else.

remake of this gifset

[baldelarose]

i can’t express how much i love this!!! this is what dean deserved as his ending 💔

𓂃˖ ࣪ 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤

˚₊‧꒰ა @bluesunrise02 ☆ dean winchester ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ⋆˙⟡ where leo, taurus, gemini meets aquarius, leo*, saggitarius. ⟡˙⋆

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐

ꔛ. meeting each other,

✧ what’s the most likely way for you two to meet?

you meet in a small town library that's weirdly busy for 11 p.m.—you’re researching something local and eerie, half for fun, half because you know something’s off. dean’s pretending he’s not casing the place for signs of a haunting. he notices you first. because you're talking to yourself about the layout of the old church on main street like it’s a crime scene. that gemini moon and mercury-leo combo? you talk out loud and boldly, and he’s immediately like: “who is this?”

✧ are you a hunter or a civilian?

you’re a civilian—but like, a researcher with teeth. your taurus mars and virgo venus give you that grounded, analytical edge. you dig deeper than anyone else would. dean’s used to civilians being liabilities… but you’re not a civilian, you’re an asset. he realizes that fast.

✧ what’s his first impression of you?

“hot librarian energy. smarter than she lets on. maybe smarter than me. dangerous.” your leo sun and mercury make you radiant and magnetic. your presence fills a room. you’re confident, charming, but not reckless. and your lilith in leo? yeah, you make him feel seen. it unnerves him.

ꔛ. friendship compatibility,

✧ how would the friendship be like?

solid. warm. teasing with hidden loyalty. he calls you “princess” and rolls his eyes when you talk about reading true crime before bed—but he listens to every word. you push him to try new things. he grounds you when your brain spirals into 30 open tabs worth of ideas. you exchange playlists, judge each other's coffee orders, and talk about trauma with jokes and deadpan delivery. it’s beautiful.

✧ how would it begin?

you accidentally help him crack a case. he begrudgingly admits it. you end up in his car for “just one ride to the station,” but somehow it becomes three hunts, shared takeout, and a mutual trauma bond.

✧ quirks and fun things about it:

✶ you both love karaoke, but he pretends not to. you catch him mouthing the words. he catches you filming it. ✶ car debates that get way too intense (“the best pie flavor” turned into a screaming match once). ✶ you organize the case files with color-coded tabs. he makes fun of it until it saves your lives. ✶ he gives you the aux. once.

ꔛ. romantic compatibility,

✧ are you compatible? is there a chance for friendship to develop into more?

oh god, yes. this is slow burn royalty. you’ve got the emotional intelligence he doesn’t know how to deal with. he’s got the ride-or-die loyalty you’ve always craved but rarely found. your leo sun/lilith + his leo rising/jupiter = spotlight lovers. people stare. and you like it.

✧ what type of relationship would it be?

protective. flirty. tender in the quietest ways. you bring warmth to his cold places. he makes you feel safe being vulnerable. there’s a lot of laughing between the heavy stuff. kisses in the front seat. fights that end in really good sex. it’s messy real—but deeply rooted.

✧ what are your love languages according to the charts?

✶ you: quality time + words of affirmation. your leo/venus/mercury placements mean you need to be adored and told so. ✶ him: acts of service + physical touch. he shows love by protecting and doing. you both crave loyalty and attention—but you express it in ways that are actually super compatible once you stop expecting the other to “just know.”

ꔛ. scenario, ₊˚⊹౨ what you’re like together ৎ ₊˚⊹

working together? chef’s kiss. you do the deep dives—researching lore, symbols, decoding journals. you love the library legwork. he handles the weapons, the bluffing, the muscle. but when the danger hits, you’re a damn force. taurus mars? you do not crumble under pressure. you trust him with your life. he trusts you to think fast and shoot faster.

favorite things to do together: ✶ driving with no destination, yelling lyrics to classic rock. ✶ karaoke duets (your go-to is "i got you babe"; his is "renegade"). ✶ picking motel rooms together and judging the wallpaper like snobs. ✶ late-night diner talks where you eat off his plate and he lets you.

as parents? oh. my god. you’re the structured chaos parent—routines, snacks, chore charts. he’s the soft chaos parent—impromptu road trips, sneaking them pie, helping with monster-hunting history like it's normal. together, you raise kids that are curious, grounded, and damn hard to mess with. your home is full of books, music, sass, and comfort. and pie.

bonus note? he’s never had stability. you give him that without ever taking his freedom. that’s everything to him.

ꔛ. overall, score : 9.3 / 10

this is found-family romance energy. this is enemies to besties to lovers done right. you push each other to be better, not just more. you speak your minds, but you also learn to listen. the sexual chemistry is off the charts. the emotional depth takes time, but once it’s there—it’s forever. if you can survive a few misunderstandings and the occasional stubborn standoff? you’re golden. like, actual goals.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

* since the birth time of dean hasn't ever been mentioned, I've placed him as a leo rising, since it's the sign that makes more sense to me.

[baldelarose]

Got more thoughts about the bbygurl Frank🎀! This is just self projecting as a fashion girly:

Reader will arrange her outfits the night before tomorrow (cause fashion sense is better at 7pm than 7am) and gets to play dress up and try out different combinations of clothes in front of the bedroom mirror. Upon being in a relationship with Frank he just gets to chill on the bed watching it all go down including glimpses of her in only underwear and tights from changing between outfits. God help him if she asks for his opinion cause he's just that one batman audio: "I am way too horny to talk to this woman."

Like bro is getting whiplash between the stunning outfits and her so confidently changing in front of him without any hesitation cause she's gonna find the perfect outfit!

oh yes absolutely yes. 100% agree on the 7pm better than 7am thing, before I go anywhere I have to plan my outfits at least 24hrs before LMAO.

we all know frank is just obsessed with his girl, so he knows date night is tomorrow and the moment he sees you go into your room the night before he follows like a lost puppy to get a front row seat to the show you're about to put on for him. this is a common occurrence in your home, frank always watching you pick outfits as if you were his favourite TV show, listening to you and marvelling in the way you look before him.

his eyes immediately bulge out of his skull as you shed your work clothes, flicking through your closet to find the item of clothing that's been on your mind all day. Frank lies back on the bed and enjoys the way you methodically look through each garment, humming to yourself as you let out a little 'aha!' as you find your favourite skimpy black dress. you slip it over your head and twirl to face him, eyes instantly drifting to the tent in his jeans as your eyebrows raise.

"ignore it doll, can't help it when ya look that good" he mumbles as he gestures you to come closer so he can feel the fabric on your body, smoothing it along your curves as it hugs you just right.

"what do you think frankie? this ok for our date?"

"like baby? shit i dunno how im gonna cope not tearin' it off in the restaurant." he groans as his hands splay across your chest "you look so fuckin' good sweetheart"

"thank you frankie" you playfully swat his hands away as you giggle, flush covering your face as you return to your closet. "hmmm I'm not sure though, lemme try.. yes this." you softly speak, picking up another dress, then another, and another as you sling all the fabric on franks body, using him as your own personal assistant. "you don't mind, right baby?" you hum

"don't mind at all doll, look forward to your fashion shows every time ya put one on f'me" he speaks, meaning every word as you shed yourself of the dress that took his breath away, twitching in his jeans. you have no idea about the effect you have on him, just simply removing your clothes as if no one was in the room, completely comfortable in his gaze.

after about an hour of trying on almost everything in your closet, you pick out a final three outfits: a white floral milkmaid dress, a tight black skirt with a white blouse and finally the first black dress you tried on. the whole time, franks eyes never leave your body, the way you so effortlessly change in front of him, being as comfortable in his presence as your own makes his heart swell with pride.

"okay frankie, which one was your favourite?" you ask, tilting your head to the side as he looks down at the three options before him on the bed.

"hmmm.. I dunno pretty girl," frank genuinely takes a moment to think about his answer, "you looked fuckin' gorgeous in everything.. but i think the first dress was my favourite." he holds up the infamous black dress and you take it from his hands, straddling him in only your underwear and a pair of black tights from your previous outfit change.

"okay baby, I'll wear this one for you. thank you for your help," your lips trail along his jawline, "lemme repay you for all your hard work, okay? give you a proper show." you grin as you capture his lips in a bruising kiss.

"please."

ugh there's something about frank in domesticity that fucking makes me explode. I love him he's so babygirl

[baldelarose]

hiya !! how are you? 🩷 i don’t know if you already wrote sth like this (if you have sry) but if you haven’t .. would you open to the idea of writing of dating frank and reader having a great sense of style and a rather big and full walk-in closet? obvi it could an unspecified style, so it can be inclusive to your followers 🩷

also this request falls on the hands of hannah montana, mia thermopolis and jenna rink for having the closets i so desperately wanted during the 2000s (and still want lol)

oh absolutely yes. what i would give to have a huge closet tailored specifically to me omg it truly is the dream.

and i feel like frank would eat this upp, when he first comes to your house to visit he cant help but stand in awe at your insanely huge closet. he doesn't know much about clothes or style, but he loves how much you do. he'd sit on the edge of your bed while you cycled through your collection, trying to pick the perfect outfit for date night, eyes focused on you and only you.

"ok frankie, what about this one?" you turn to him, showcasing the third outfit you've tried on. he looks you up and down, debating his opinion.

"hmm i don' know baby, i mean ya look fuckin' gorgeous, you'd look gorgeous in a trash bag, but i prefer the last one, the colour suits your eyes." he'd reply, reaching out to touch your hips, feeling the fabric between his fingers. "but don't think that means i hate this one, believe me i'd rip this off ya in a heartbeat if ya let me doll." he states with a wink, smacking your ass. you can't help but giggle as blush creeps up your neck as you go back to try on an additional four outfits, your dinner plans have absolutely been lost by now but it doesn't matter. you would be happy anywhere with frank.

as your relationship progresses and you fall deeper in love, you make the decision to move in together. you fell in love with a small apartment close to each of your's jobs. it was perfect, but the size definitely made you scared. you knew you would have to sacrifice your closet space and it crushed you, no matter how much you tried to hide it from him. he picked up on this instantly, and had to make it right.

"stay home sweetheart, i'll finish up moving the rest of the boxes, okay?" he places a kiss to your forehead as he leaves, truck full to the brim with your belongings. unbeknownst to you, he and Curtis had been planning to surprise you, completely knocking out a couple walls in your room to make space for a closet for you, one even bigger than your previous. the men worked for hours, being careful to not destroy parts of the apartment that weren't yours. taking the time to fill the space almost exactly the way you had it before, using sneaky photos he took of your closet as reference.

---

"frankie, what are you doing? why can't i look?"

"you'll find out soon enough sweet girl, just a few more steps and.. open ya eyes doll."

removing his hands from your eyes, the sight before you stuns you, your breath gets caught in your throat as your eyes travel over the space. your clothes organised in colours, dresses, skirts, pants etc.

"i.. i don't believe it. frank, you did this?"

"sure as shit didn't spawn outta nowhere babydoll." he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in as he places a kiss on the top of your head. "ya like?"

"like? frankie baby i love. thank you, thank you so fucking much." you squeal, wrapping your arms around his waist, tears welling in your eyes at the gesture.

"don't gotta thank me for nothin', this is your space, no way was I jus' gonna ya let it go like that f'me. i love ya sweetheart."

"i love you more frank." you say pulling him into a bruising kiss, pulling away you instantly rush to your new closet, running your hands through your most prized items, heart bursting with love for Frank and your new home together.

──── ୨୧ ────

a/n: i'm so obsessed with obsessed boyfriend!frank, so obsessed with his girl and her interests. ugh id do anything for him. i hope you enjoy this little drabble <3

my inbox is open!

♡ My Masterlist ♡

[baldelarose]

this would be a dream come true for me and get me immediately on my knees 🤭❤️‍🔥 oops

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 ۶ৎ bf!dean winchester x rich!bimbo!gf!reader (𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝟏𝟖+)

RICH!BIMBO!READER is chaos in lip gloss, all legs and luxury, and dean winchester is absolutely gone for you. you strut into his life in designer heels and never leave, wrecking his world with pink nails, sweet perfume, and a smile that could disarm a demon. you don’t know latin, but you do know how to charm a crossroads demon and shoplift from cursed boutiques like it’s a sport. dean calls you princess, worship and all—and you call him deany bear just to watch him grit his teeth and blush. you're glitter and gumption wrapped in an expensive sundress and manolo blahniks, and dean? he’d burn the world down just to buy you another one.

coconut body oil, sugar cookies, chanel, and vanilla flavored lip gloss. your scent lingers on dean’s flannel, in the impala, in the air after you leave a room - sweet, warm, impossible to ignore.

looks like an oversized designer sunglasses, bubblegum pink mini skirts, perfectly curled hair, and heart-shaped everything - necklaces, purses, prada sunnies, your damn mood ring you swear is “lowkey psychic.”

early 2000s pop icons, sultry lounge jazz on rainy days, and the occasional rock ballad - only because dean sings it under his breath when he thinks you're asleep.

always have a bejeweled lighter (even if you don't smoke), strawberry lip gloss in your expensive bra, and your phone full of selfies with dean scowling in the background.

chrome powder finished nails, soft blankets, romantic comedies with dramatic kissing scenes, and dean’s rough hands in your hair.

you're all glitter and girlhood, wrapped in curated chaos, with a heart so big it sneaks up on people. And dean? dean keeps catching himself thinking maybe heaven looks like her.

he totally didn't think he'd fall for you - at first, dean thought you were just another pretty face. high heels too high for salt and burns, nails too perfect for grave digging, and a wardrobe that looked more vogue than victim protection. but then you patched him up with the gentlest hands and bought him a limited edition vintage zepp vinyl “because it looked like something you'd like,” and he was gone.

he lives to ruin your expensive lingerie. you show up in matching sets — lace, silk, bows in the back — and every time he swears he’s gonna be gentle. but 15 minutes later, the panties are shredded, the bra's hanging off the lamp, and he’s got your lip gloss smeared across his jaw. “told you not to wear that if you wanted it back, sweetheart.”

motel sex with you is feral. you in your little pink mini dress on those grimy motel sheets? instant brain shutdown. he bends you over cheap bathroom sinks, lifts you up against creaky doors, pulls your heels off with his teeth. the man has zero chill when you're in “dumb little doll” mode, batting your lashes and giggling when he growls.

you love to tease him in public. sitting in his lap at a bar, whispering filthy things in his ear with a perfect princess pout. sliding your hand up his thigh under the table at a diner, playing dumb while he shifts in his seat and mutters, “you’re gonna get it later.” (you always do.)

the sight of you sucking on a lollipop? ends. him. he can’t function. Doesn’t matter where you are — car, bunker, goddamn library. you twirl that thing around with your lips glossed up and all innocent, and he’s 30 seconds from pulling over or bending you over a bookshelf.

he’s obsessed with your thighs. calls them his “favorite seat.” you could crush his head between them and he’d die happy. he’ll drop to his knees in the middle of a fight if it means tasting you — “hold still, baby, lemme take care of you real quick.” and when you ride him? hands locked around your hips, watching you bounce with that dumb pretty girl giggle — he’s done for.

he loves when you beg. big eyes, pouty lips, nails digging into his shoulders — when you whine for his cock in that sweet, breathy voice? he makes you wait just to hear you beg louder. “what was that, princess? didn’t hear you. gonna have to use your words fʻme.”

you love to leave scratches.his back, his arms, his ass — you mark him up like a crime scene. and he loves it. wears them like badges. dean’s favorite mornings are when he rolls out of your luxurious bed sore, covered in hickeys, and you’re lying there in nothing but his flannel shirt asking if he wants round two.

car sex. duh. backseat of the Impala. windows fogged. skirt bunched around your waist. dean with one hand on your throat and the other under your thigh, whispering, “whinin' already, princess?”

aftercare king, actually. for all his filthy talk and rough handling, he treats you like gold when it’s over. cleans you up, gets you water, rubs your thighs where he left bruises, kisses your forehead and murmurs, “you okay, doll? i didn’t go too far, did i?” then he wraps you up in his arms and says you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to him.

you're the only person allowed to call baby cute. you once referred to the Impala as “such a cutie lil car” and dean almost had a stroke — but then you pulled a diamond studded tire pressure gauge out of your designer bag and asked if she needed her fluids checked. now he won’t let anyone else touch her but you.

you always insist he moisturizes. “dean, baby, if you don't use this hyaluronic acid serum, your skin’s gonna look like leather before you're 40.” he grumbles, rolls his eyes, mutters something about “witchcraft,” but lets you do your little nighttime routine on him while pretending to hate it.

you’re fiercely protective — in your own sparkly way. the one time someone called dean “trailer trash” at a high-society event you dragged him to, you didn’t even blink just dumped an expensive cocktail on their head and said, “oops.” dean laughed so hard he nearly dropped his beer.

you spoil the hell out of him. real leather jackets. ridiculously expensive watches to, “match his outfits”. rare cassette tapes. a stupidly expensive gold lighter engraved with “Don’t Die, Dumbass.” he acts like he doesn’t care, but he keeps every single gift. And that lighter? Never leaves his pocket.

he secretly loves how soft you make him. you bring out a side of dean he doesn't let anyone else see. he finds himself saying “I love you, princess” more, letting his guard down, smiling more often. he even lets you paint one of his pinky nails sometimes “for fun.” (only the pinky though. he’s got a reputation.)

sam is baffled but supportive. he doesn’t get it. at all. but you bring dean back in one piece and make the bunker smell like vanilla and chanel instead of gunpowder and regret, so… he’s not complaining.

you love him so much. you don’t care about monsters or magic. you just know that dean winchester is the kindest, most broken, most beautiful man you’ve ever met, and you’d walk through hell in heels for him.

supernatural mlist!

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒: y’all ask, therefore u shall receive. the poll everyone voted for some bf!dean headcanons and im sorry this is one of my fave tropes ngl im gonna also be posting some pedro ones soon lovies!!

[baldelarose]

knowing how freaking hot and how sweet dean winchester is, i would def do this for him and do a scooby marathon just to see him happy 🥹 https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMBNUV4aq/

ᯓ★ scoob & snacks,

summary. scooby marathon with dean!

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 446

notes / warnings. soft dean winchester!

You don’t plan it like a grand gesture. It’s not a birthday or a holiday. You just wake up that morning, look at Dean—sleep-mussed hair, lashes casting little shadows on his cheeks, lips parted as he snores softly into your pillow—and think, I’d do anything to make him smile today.

So you do.

While he’s out on a supply run with Sam, you get to work. The bunker kitchen is stocked well enough. You throw together all his favorites—real food, the kind that makes his eyes light up and his voice go all soft when he says “you didn’t have to do that, sweetheart,” even though he’s already piling seconds onto his plate.

Burgers, fries, pie. And snacks. So many snacks. A whole stupidly cute tray of Scooby-Doo-themed treats. Bone-shaped cookies, aka Scooby Snacks. You even find a dusty bottle of root beer tucked in the fridge and pop it open like it’s fancy champagne.

And then, of course—the marathon.

You cue up Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? on the bunker’s TV, fluff every pillow you can find, and wait.

When Dean walks in, it takes him a second.

He’s got that I’ve-been-fighting-demons-all-morning posture—stiff shoulders, that little crease between his brows.

But then he sees it. The couch. The snacks. The show paused on the opening theme. You standing there, kind of sheepish, kind of proud.

His whole face softens.

“You… did this?”

You shrug. “You had a rough week. Figured we could use a Scooby break.”

Dean looks at you like he’s never seen anything so precious. “You’re gonna kill me with this sweetness, y’know that?”

“Guess I better keep going, then,” you say, and he laughs—really laughs, that boyish chuckle that makes your whole chest flutter.

You end up curled under a blanket with him, his arm around your shoulders, your legs tangled up together. He keeps reaching over you to grab more snacks, brushing your thigh every time like he’s doing it on purpose, which he totally is.

Halfway through episode four, he leans in, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your cheeks burn. “Dean—”

“I mean it.” His voice is low, serious now, but still warm. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me. Not like this.”

You smile. Press a kiss to his jaw. “Better get used to it, Winchester.”

He grins. “Zoinks, babe. I think I’m in love.”

You roll your eyes. “Nerd.”

His hand slips beneath the blanket to squeeze your thigh. “Your nerd.”

And with that, the Scooby theme plays again— And yeah. You’d do this a thousand times over. Just to see him happy like this.

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