Chapter Text
As far back as you can remember, your mother spoke so dreamily of Soldier Boy. Your father, she insisted, telling you maybe too much for a little boy's ears - we spent the night in Paris together, a magical night. He's your father. You look so much like him. An entire childhood spent worshiping at his altar, using fantasy to fill the dad-shaped hole in your life. It's not like any other man would ever measure up, not the way your mother saw it. He'd ruined her for anyone else, she'd said, time and time again.
You had no father. But you did have a poster hanging above your bed to talk to late at night, filling in what he'd say back to you with all those lines you'd memorized from his movies. He'd ruffle your hair and smile at you and tell you how much he loved you, how proud he was. He'd play baseball with you and take you to his movies and tell the world how incredible you were, a gift.
He would be wonderful.
Soldier Boy was perfect. Untouchable. A modern day Hercules of a man, at least to you. And when your powers had come in at ten and you'd accidentally killed your pet cat Dolly, hugged her a bit too hard and crushed the life out of her with boyish super strength, your mother had only smiled and wiped the tears from your cheeks, cleaned her blood off your face. Hadn't even seemed to care.
You really are just like him, sweetheart. So strong. I love you so much.
Just like him. Maybe that's why he can't fucking stand you.
Nine years later, freshly signed on with Vought and looking cute in your little costume and domino mask, you hover anxiously behind the stage - because he's there, he's right fucking there, giving a patriotic speech about fighting the good fight over in 'Nam. Just got back from his tour maybe a week ago, and you'd begged, absolutely begged them to let you talk to him privately, had even made it a clause in your contract that they get you a meeting. It's all you've ever wanted.
They'd looked at you piteously. You couldn't figure out why.
Booming applause, and then the heavy trod of his boots as the lights go low. He smells like cigar smoke and women's perfume as he passes you by without so much as a glance, snatching a coffee from the assistant waiting at your side. He's busy, of course, it's tiring work to be the world's greatest hero. Nevermind how long-suffering the assistant looks as she leads you after him, to his dressing room.
"Soldier Boy, your meeting?" she says to the door, and you hear him grunt inside. Sniffle. "Sir--"
"Christ, send 'em in already. Let's get this over with."
Can't even find it in you to be upset about how gruff his tone is in comparison to your fantasies, opening the door and stepping in shy, your heart hammering. You've dreamed of this moment all your life, for as long as you can remember - have walked through your half of the conversation in your head until you've got it damn near memorized, and his too, the things you think he could say, or might say, or definitely will say. He'll certainly give you that Soldier Boy smile, that part you know for certain. Maybe he'll want to get some kind of test done to know for sure, but that's fine, there's no way he isn't your dad. Your mother wouldn't lie to you. Your pulse flutters as you swallow your nerves, start to speak.
Feels like it stops when you recognize why he's bent over the vanity like that, snorting fat white lines up like it's candy. He turns around rubbing at his nose, bloodshot, wired to the gills.
"What? You want a fucking autograph?"
You watch him smear the excess into his gums - not quite the smile you'd expected. He's got pupils like pinpricks as he looks you up and down, coked out of his head, lip staying curled in the faintest sneer as he soaks you in. Stalks closer, then, until he stands towering over you, an absolute hulking beast a man staring down at you like you're Abraham on the mountain.
"Oh, it's you. That bullshit little wannabe." A harsh bark of laughter. Nothing like your imagination said it would be, this slick drawl, ever so disdainful. "I'd be worried Vought was looking into a replacement if you weren't so goddamn pathetic. Couldn't come up with your own shtick, huh?"
"But - I--"
"Buh-buh-buh-buht--" he mimics, nasal, mocking you. Flicks you between the eyes hard enough to send you tottering back on your ass, your skull ringing as you gawp up at him. "Beat feet, Porky Pig. I'm busy."
You find your nerve as he turns back to his coke, standing and stalking up to his back.
"Just listen, I'm your--" A frustrated huff, this isn't - this isn't how it's supposed to go. You didn't rehearse for any of this, voice straining ever so petulant as you talk to the space between his shoulders. "I'm your son, sir. Nineteen years ago, in Paris--"
"--I fucked some whore and made you?" He laughs, a jeer that shakes down to your very core. No warmth to be found in it. "Come on, kid. Do you really believe that? I've had three dozen women tell me the same shit just in the last six months. Didn't even fuck half of 'em. Your momma's a lying bitch."
You won't let anyone talk about her like that, not even him. Outrage makes you bold, too bold.
"Don't say that! You're--"
You make the mistake of touching him. Fuck, you just want to turn him around, to make him look at you and see. Certainly don't mean to make him wheel around and send you flying with a punch, jaw knocked crooked, head ringing where it bounces off the hard floor. It's like getting hit full force with a sledgehammer. Soldier Boy cracks his knuckles and stares down at you like he's considering doing more, but finally turns away as you pick yourself up spitting blood, goes back to his coke.
"Get the fuck out." A snort. "Before I add your fucking ears to my 'Nam necklace."
You do. God help you, you do, scrambling like a child for the door, mopping blood from a bitten lip as you go. (He didn't mean that, did he? Wouldn't do that in Vietnam, those anti-American hippies are liars, making up horrible stories about the troops. He wouldn't.) Thankfully the assistant is gone, so there's no one to see you shake like a leaf all the way out to the parking lot, head ducked as you dodge passersby. Feels like the world is ending.
Yours sort of is. He was everything to you, he was - he was supposed to look at you, and smile that Soldier Boy smile burned into your retinas, and tell you he wished he could've raised you himself, but clearly didn't need to, because you'd come out just fine. Hug you, warm and firm, like you always imagined.
He was supposed to love you.
When you call your mother later that evening, nursing a purplish bruise across the high point of your cheekbone, you force yourself to smile so it ekes into your voice. Try to keep it going despite her thin, sickly coughs. The doctors give her six months, maybe a little more if she rests in the hospital - but she won't stay there. Won't leave her little altar to fucking Soldier Boy, a man in her head that doesn't seem to exist anymore. Maybe he never did.
"Did you meet him? Did you talk to him?" she rasps, desperate hope in her voice, and you blink back tears.
"Yeah, ma. I met him."
"Does he remember me?"
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"Yeah, ma. Said he - couldn't forget you." You laugh, short. Choked. "Even after all these years. Face like an angel, how could he?"
It's a lie, but you'll eat the bad karma just to hear her delighted, wet sigh. Like it's all she's ever wanted. As far back as you can remember, it has been.
"I'll come visit next week, alright? Vought's got me busier than a cat covering up shit on concrete."
"Of course, Johnny. You come when you can, don't worry." Her next breath rattles. You are crying now, mopping tears away with your fingerless gloves (just like his). "I'm going to rest for a bit. I love you so much. So, so much."
"Love you too. Try to get some sleep, alright?"
She does. You get the call less than a day later to tell you she's dead, went and laid down in your bed underneath that sprawling poster and never woke up again. You sob the way you did when you killed Dolly, bundled up in your scratchy Vought sheets, full-body wracking fucking misery. Like a disease. Feels like you're dying, inside and out.
This time, there's no one to mop up your tears and tell you how much they love you. Not her, and not fucking Soldier Boy.
_____
Three months until you see him again. Of course it's at fucking Herogasm.
Grief has left you hollow inside, still. Your mother was your world, fantasies about a father who doesn't love you aside, and it all feels so goddamn pointless without either of those things to keep you going. You're a rising star in Vought's roster, sure, but what does it even matter? Women slink up to you in bars and on the street and run their fingers through your dark hair, kiss at your neck in the quieter places, tell you how handsome you are. How charming. You know, you look just like--
You know. You fucking know you look like him. It's not a compliment anymore. You always extricate yourself from them with a kind smile, a muttered excuse.
It doesn't hurt that women have never particularly caught your eye anyway. But being Vought's boy means you can't be anyone else's, no matter how drawn you are to strong jaws and hard, masculine lines, so you're subtle about that. You think so, anyway, until another Supe slips you the address to some big Vought soiree one evening at that Supe club everyone goes to, won't tell you what it's about, exactly - only that you'll have fun, said with a wink and a nudge. There's something for everyone there.
You have no idea why you decide to go. Haven't been in a particularly festive mood lately, but maybe a change of scenery will pick your spirits up again. Parties have always been fun.
Not this one. You walk in and smell sex, and sweat, and - god, nevermind the things you see. More skin than you've seen in your entire life, you think, tits and ass and cock every which way you look, because this is the heyday of Herogasm where the A-listers still come around and make merry. It's a regular fuckfest of who's-who. You're red right up to your ears, think to leave, but--
"Come on," some woman jeers from behind you, pushing past hard enough to send you sprawling. The carpet is ever so vaguely... sticky. "Don't be such a pussy. At least get out of the footpath."
Liberty, you think. She's just as coarse as you've heard, sneering handsome under her cowl at you in passing, and you can't have such a big name thinking you're a bitch. Feel obligated to stagger up to your feet, feeling her dark eyes follow you as you sink into the fleshy, sweat-slick crowd. You'll - mingle a bit, maybe, and then go. And you'll ignore the very blatant male couplings happening here and there, some hidden behind doors and audible, more of them out in the open, unashamed. Keep your lingering eyes to yourself, keep your thoughts (and certainly your hands) clean, wandering dumbstruck through the halls.
After one turn, his voice cuts the air like a knife. You couldn't miss it if you tried.
"You! Johnny boy." He's in an adjoining room, the door cracked. Just a sliver of him shifts in and out of view, lower half in motion. "Get in here. Wanna talk to you."
You move like you're in a dream, those molasses-slow steps that drag along cheap, cum-stained carpet. From the steadiness of his voice, you wouldn't for all the world have guessed he's midway through fucking some woman into the foundations - probably should have, though, shouldering the door open and glancing down at her, dazed and ragged, limp beneath his pumping hips. She doesn't seem to be enjoying it anymore, mewling soft and weak at you, eyes rolling as he snarls around a cigar. Plucks it loose and puts it out on her ass, grunting throatily at the way she tenses, crying out.
Is this really the man that made you?
"Been thinking, kid." You can't believe he's trying to talk to you right now, midway through apparently trying to fuck this poor woman to death. You're too dumbstruck by the scene to move just yet, because she's a mess and he's - naked as the day he was born, the wet slap slap slap of his balls against her like a machine, tireless, unrelenting. She's not a Supe, she's not built for this kind of punishment. And it seems a whole hell of a lot like punishment from where you're standing, stuck in place like a statue. "About you, and - fuck, tighten your ass up a little, it's like I'm fucking a goddamn subway tunnel. About you and me."
That middle bit is spat at the woman's back, winding his fist in her long blonde hair and yanking at it, forcing her up on wobbly wrists. You think you see some of it drift loose around his knuckles, stomach churning as you spot the wet red on his cock. He's literally fucking her raw.
"And I'm thinking--"
"Stop."
The word feels numb in your mouth, tingles your tongue. The look he shoots you - first of the night, actually - sends a chill down your spine, ice sliding into your stomach, but you tighten your jaw and say it again, louder. "Stop... that, with her. She's done."
"You think I give a fuck?" He snorts, speeds up to spite you. "Pay attention. I'm talking about us."
"I'm not, and I told you to stop," you say, voice quaking as it rises. As you square your shoulders like you're really about to try and do something, hands squeezing into fists by your sides. He cracks his neck like he didn't hear you, or like he's choosing not to, now, and you prickle, stepping forward. Putting some bass in your voice. "I said--"
Stop. Like when he pulls out with a sharp yank and throws her to the floor, eyes locked on yours like magnets. She pays you little mind on her way out, half-limping and half-crawling out. Speeds up when he stands off the mattress, his expression caught between a sneer and a...
A smirk. A hateful thing.
"Got some balls on you, huh?" He snorts, unkind. Reaches back for a fresh - blunt, you think, because it doesn't smell like tobacco when he lights it, puffing weed-stink into the air between you. "Hell, you might just be mine after all."
His partner-turned-victim shuts the door behind her, leaves you two trapped in this little room with pukey 70s wallpaper and blood on the sheets. Two wild animals in a too-small cage, trying to figure out who eats who. Months ago, those words out of him would've brought you sheer elation - and some stupid part of you still craves it, thrilled by the barest shred of acknowledgment from your childhood hero, the idol of your youth. Some lonely, naïve corner of your soul that still wants a father, no matter how fucking awful he is.
That wants somebody. You're so... alone, anymore. Nevermind that he's still fucking naked when he walks up to you, just as big out of the suit, a sprawling paw of a hand landing on your shoulder and squeezing. Fatherly, almost, if you pretend hard enough. And his smile warms you like the sun, if you don't think about the smoke that drifts into your eyes and makes them sting behind your slim domino mask.
"You really do look just like me."
He says it thoughtful. But not warm, not kind. The heat is entirely in his eyes now, in the hand that slides up and wraps around your throat and squeezes, and your eyes flutter with grim realization. He drawls his words, grip tightening, unworried when your hand grips at his wrist and squeezes. Sheer instinct.
"The world doesn't need another Soldier Boy, though. Not some... cheap fuckin' knockoff I made the mistake of squirting out in a wet hole, not on the sheets. And definitely not some other motherfucker's brat that just happens to look like me. Gotta keep the brand pure."
Ah. He's going to kill you here, now.
Fuck, do you even care anymore? Isn't this more merciful than letting you crawl through life the way you feel these days? Hulled out of everything that brought you warmth, made you feel alive?
You're already dead. These past few months have just been about killing time until your body catches up. Soldier Boy seems perplexed by your wry little look as you accept it, the way you drop your arms to your sides and let him. He could snap your neck and make it quick, sure, but maybe he just likes to see the light die in their eyes. In yours, the same color as his when he squeezes tighter and they flutter open instinctively, fingers twitching at your side as your lungs start to burn. Your vision rolls up to the ceiling soon enough, fuzzing out at the edges, chest heaving for paper-thin breaths as the minutes tick on in agonizing, thick silence. It would be better if he spoke, not stare at you like a surgeon, picking apart your reactions. The way you look when your knees finally give out, held up entirely by his grip.
Good. Good. Keep going, almost there, almost gone. You'll see your Ma soon enough, tell her you're sorry for lying. Just keep going.
He doesn't, of course. Life isn't kind to you like that.
Air. It burns on the way down as he loosens his grip, shifts it from your throat to snatch a vicious fistful of your hair and yank your head up, force you to look up at him, past his bobbing dick. You hadn't realized he'd left the fucking boots on until one presses down on your groin, a dull painful throb from the pressure and--
"You're hard," he notes in a disaffected drawl, and you realize with hot cheeks and mounting humiliation that you are. Never been choked before, maybe - that's it, has to be. Fuck, this is embarrassing, you can't even suffocate right. Trying to squirm away from his boot and squeeze your thighs shut only gets him adding more pressure, dragging a low whimper out of your raw throat. "What, the idea of dying get you off that hard? Sick little fuck's into snuff, huh? Or maybe..."
He leans down, his smile white and perfect and fucking soulless. Taps the ash off his blunt into your eye, watches you water up and twist helpless in his grip. Fat, ashy tears down your left cheek and his voice filling your head, the sort of low tone that you'd never thought to hear from him. Thoughtful, soft.
Intimate.
"Maybe you ran that slut off because you want me all to yourself, huh?"
Surely he doesn't mean it like that. But the way he looks at you is - not warm, not even desiring, but dark, vicious. Like he's going to take you apart with just his teeth, the hand with the cigar dropping to your face, thumb dragging at your bottom lip.
"Maybe you just need some of daddy's attention."
You're going to be sick, you think. Your stomach lurches when his hard dick (is he harder than before?) drags against your cheek, smearing blood and lube and fuck knows what else from that girl's body along your skin. Your lips.
Disgust turns your voice low. Panic makes it crack, trying not to look at his cock in your peripheral, shooting him the most desperate of looks as you grip at his wrist. He couldn't be less moved.
"Just fucking kill me already."
"First lesson, son - you don't get any fuckin' thing in this world for free. And you didn't want me getting my nut with her, so it's your problem now. Open up."
His dick bumps your lips again on that last bit, and you earn a chuckle from him when you lock your jaw and turn your head, sneering in blatant disgust. He can't really be - serious, can he? Can't really do this. You're his fucking son, or - well, you're probably his son, and even if you aren't, you don't want to, it's sick. Even thinking about it feels wrong, dirty; the very concept has animal terror building in your chest, slowly winning out over the shock. Doesn't seem to bother him, though, popping the blunt between his teeth so he can absolutely rock you with a punch, even harder than the last time he hit you.
And another. Another. You open your mouth after the third with a whine, jaw clicking now, drooling blood from loosened teeth. Squeeze your eyes shut when he forces his disgusting cock down your throat, the taste of him all raw and salty as he faux-affectionately slaps at your cheek. It stings.
"Attaboy."
Fuck, how many times you've imagined him saying that very thing to you over a baseball glove, or a well-done book report. Not like this, eyes watering as he fucks your throat like a pussy immediately, no gentle warm-up, ignoring your wet full-body gagging. You've never done this before, you don't know how to. He isn't exactly trying to teach you, either.
It hurts. Hurts your mouth and throat and hurts inside, too, in a spot in your chest that you thought had sputtered out and died after your mother did. You wish he'd just snapped your neck, it would be kinder than this. Than when you puke around him, pulled off his cock with a mildly disgusted tut, turned forcibly to the side to heave the rest of your minimal lunch onto the carpet between you. Bloodstained, now.
"What kind of queer doesn't know how to suck dick?"
"Just - stop, please stop. I'm sorry." Your voice is ragged, throat absolutely wrecked. (Thick with the urge to start crying, but you won't, not in front of him. Were born in that era where men don't cry, not ever, not even in front of the fathers that fuck them.) He steers your head back and spits in your face, hot and wet across your cheek. "I'm sorry--"
"You sure as fuck are."
Soldier Boy shifts his stance, brings his boot down in just the wrong spot on your leg with just the right amount of force. Your tibia snaps all dull and wet, and the pounding music drowns out your scream - his hand too, grabbing you by the mouth and hurling you bodily onto the mattress, broken bones jostling in a way that steals your breath. High gasps, wet agonized choking as you grip at your foreleg and feel your stomach churn at the crooked, jutting bone. Hardly even see him wiping his cock off on the sheets before he hauls himself up after you, stubbing the cigar out on the end table and tossing it across the room. He grabs you by your wrecked leg and drags you close (you yelp like a puppy and hate how it sounds), hands dropping to the waistband of your costume like he's done this before.
The terror is overwhelming. You've never hurt like this, never been afraid like this, not of anyone and never of him. He was supposed to love you, protect you, supposed - to be good, the best of them--
It's stupid to try to hit him, but you're edging into a wild animal now, thoughts reduced to a smear of pain and terror. Still manage to turn his head with it, your eyes saucers as he turns it back slow, brows raised and licking at a spot inside his mouth that must sting. Not a single mark you can see, sure, but his expression has shifted, less sneering disappointment and more... thoughtful, you think?
He laughs. Just a little hah, short and genuine. Leans down low, weed stink on his breath, and rumbles his words just inches from your face, soft like it's only meant for the two of you to hear.
"Mean right hook on you, huh? Just like your old man." He's got eyes like a dog, flat and unfeeling. Smiles like one too, teeth bared just before the bite. "And your granddad."
You don't want it anymore. Not the praise, not the attention, not his poisonous touch. Don't want to be anything to him, even though the shred of approval still gets something knotting up painful in your chest, stealing your breath harder than the pain ever will. Nineteen years of desperate dreaming just won't fucking die like you want it to, your whole body revolting when he piles in close, pins you in place under his sprawling, hot weight. Not that you could manage to escape with a broken leg anyway, that was probably the whole idea.
You hardly even recognize your own voice now, high and thin with panic. Pleading.
Stop stop Soldier Boy god please stop--
"Stop whining. You're fucking embarrassing." He palms your head and turns it to the side by force, bats away your pressing hands like flies. All this strength you have and it doesn't even begin to compare to his. "Guess I'll have to do what your momma never did and teach you how to take it like a real man. You think I ever had a choice?"
The meaning doesn't sink in now, but it might later, if you survive this. Your heart is trying its hardest to pound right out of your chest as he drags your pants and underwear down to your knees so roughly that a seam rips somewhere, wrapping a hot fist around your long since softened cock. The dry friction of his strokes sets your teeth on edge, doesn't even feel good. He seems to realize this, leans in and hocks up thick spit from the back of his throat on you to slick the way - it's the most kindness he's ever shown you, probably, and in the most unwanted way. You throw an arm over your eyes to hide from it, your other hand locked in a vise-grip in the sheets.
"Attaboy," he drawls again, and you roll your head to the other side, face away from him. Easier to focus on the pain than the thin, barely-there threads of pleasure you don't want, or the equally shameful warmth you get from his praise. It absolutely shouldn't go straight to your cock, you're sick, you're so sick. "Knew you'd pick it up fast."
He knew you'd give up fast, would stop fighting him fast. He's got sixty plus years of war and pain under his belt, you're still cutting teeth, don't know how to suffer like he does. Sure as fuck could never fight him and win, he's so strong - barely has to twitch his fingers around your throat to constrict your gasps again, just the littlest bit. You hate how your hips rise at that, jerking up into his hand of their own accord, your desperate breaths whistling on the exhale.
He's too rough with you, no tenderness in his touch. Your body betrays you for it, muscles low in your gut twitching at the heady drag of his hand, that little twist of his wrist right at the tip like he's jerking himself off, knows how to make it feel good no matter how much you don't want it to. Feels more like punishment than pleasure, your rattling teeth grinding until they ache, until blood tracks down from the corner of your mouth.
He leans in to lick it off, shoves your arm away and presses his forehead to yours in a mockery of intimacy.
"Look at me." You squeeze your eyes shut in response, tighter than ever, and grunt when his grip shifts down to squeeze your balls in turn. When he barks at you (like a soldier, like he'd done in all those wartime movies of his, every line still burnt into your brain), the displeasure in his voice crawls white-hot up your spine. "I said fucking look at me!"
You do, immediately transfixed by his stare. He's got blood and weed and bourbon on his breath, bloodshot eyes, and his gaze burns just like the end of his smoke had, cherry bright. Feels like he's hardly even here, one foot in the present and one locked firmly in the past, pitch black memory rolling behind his eyes. Soldier Boy's voice shifts from that snarl into a warm lull, his eyes half-lidding. He says the next bit slow, ever so careful to enunciate. Doesn't want you to miss it, like it's a fucking gift.
"Good boy."
Are those his words? Or are they half-remembered?
You twitch against his stomach, immediately squeeze your eyes shut again from the shame. He doesn't seem to mind, satisfied with your reaction; you feel his lips drag warm over your rising bruises before he sits up, grabs for something off the end table.
"Like it when I talk sweet to you, huh? Gets you off?" You snap out a low obscenity when he grips your hip and flips you over effortlessly, the knee in your good leg digging into scratchy, stained sheets. "What the hell, I'm feeling nice today. I'll pat your ass a little before I fuck it."
You think to pray to God (or Buddha, or Allah, fucking anybody who'll listen) to make this stop, but at this point... after all of this, after the past whole year of your life, you don't think there's anything out there at all. Why would they let this happen? You're not a bad person, you don't - you don't deserve this, not any of this. And Soldier Boy doesn't deserve all the good in his life either, but he still has it, doesn't he?
(You hope your mother can't see this, mostly. Just let her be dead, and let you fade into nonexistence after this is done, you don't want to have to remember any of it. Not the pain, or the shame, and particularly not how good his hand feels when it drags up and down your spine, rubs circles at your hip when he grips there.)
"Why--" your voice is a croak now, you swallow nails before you can speak halfway properly. "--are you doing this?"
"Because I've got a hard dick and you have a warm hole, kid." He tuts, drizzles something cold in the crack of your ass. Damn near empties the bottle, soaks you in it. "Hell, maybe I'm just trying to keep the fucked up family tradition alive. Who knows."
He doesn't sound proud. He also doesn't sound particularly remorseful either, pressing a thick finger into you.
He isn't gentle.
____
When you were younger, wracked by puberty, you used to jerk off to that poster of him, strapping and proud in his wartime gear. Not too often, and the guilt would eat you alive for days after, but your mindless hero worship bled into something dirty after long enough, something sneaky and hormonal and unbearably shameful. Had made yourself stop that after a while and wring out weak, ineffectual orgasms to a stolen Playboy instead, trying your hardest to pretend you were normal. That you didn't get a warm tingle every time you imagined him above you, a man's man's man, holding you down and touching you That Way, like he did all those women in all those movies.
This is nothing like that. Loveless, and rough, and--
"Fuck, you're tight," Soldier Boy growls behind you, barely audible over your sharp ahs, your whimpery sounds. He's big, he's so big, feels like every drag of his hips is turning you inside out as he fucks you like he fucked that girl. Maybe just a little harder, even, because you're a Supe and he thinks you can take it. Dumped the rest of the lube on you to make the way easier, but it still doesn't feel easy, raw and hot and aching - you won't walk right for days, assuming you ever walk again at all. "Taking me like a champ, kiddo. Wouldn't expect anything less from my boy."
You think maybe he gets off on saying that, like he's claiming ownership. Like you're just a possession, now, something that he made and therefore belongs to him and him alone. You can never tell when he wants an answer or he's just talking to the air, but this is apparently the former, because he snatches a fistful of your hair and drags you up out of the bed, a shred of cotton pillowcase still caught between your teeth. It flutters out on your next gasp, falls sticky and drool-soaked to your white-knuckled fists.
"Thank you, daddy. Say it."
"Thank - you--" He angles his hips, a wet sob bubbling up out of your throat at the feeling. Soldier Boy groans when you tighten up around him, a hot ragged sound at your back that shouldn't make you feel the way it does. "Daddy, fuck, fuck--"
Back down into the sheets, head dropped so he can bring the palm of his hand across your ass instead, harder than your mother could ever spank you. You wish it just hurt, all of it. Wish it was agonizing, a crucible you could endure and then try to forget, or die from. Wish he'd just torture you until he's satisfied.
But you say the line he's feeding you and he squeezes your reddened cheek instead, grinding down into you again at that angle that sends white-hot fire crawling up your spine in the best (the worst, the worst) way. Keeps it up until you finally break, moaning low and hot around the wrist you're biting into to keep yourself quiet - it doesn't just hurt anymore, that's the problem. He acts like he couldn't give less of a shit, but seems pointedly focused on making it feel good, hitting spots you didn't know existed. Keeping you from zoning out, maybe, the way you could with pain, an adrenaline drip of pleasure that keeps you locked firmly in the here and now. Or maybe--
"You're lucky. I could tear you apart if I felt like it," he drawls behind you, leaning down low to speak in your ear. You feel the hot, broad weight of him across your back, the hand that loops around your jaw and forces it up so you can't muffle yourself. "See you try to run around in that little outfit with a goddamn colostomy bag stuck to the side, huh? But I'm not like that."
His breath is hot on the shell of your ear, nipping hard enough to split skin. His tongue follows after, drags over the wound before he shifts down to your neck and repeats the process, sucks a hard mark into your nape high enough that everyone will see it over the collar of your suit. Presses his forehead there next, panting, his skin sweat-slick as he groans under his breath. Maybe he's close. You're not, but the sooner he finishes up and leaves you alone (or snaps your neck like a twig), the better.
"I'm not - a monster," he murmurs, like he's trying to convince you. Convince himself, maybe. You shake your head with a broken grunt when he wraps his hand around your cock, gripping his wrist and trying to pull it away again. Don't, don't. Don't try to make this good. "Could teach you a hell of a lot. Thought you'd break by now, but you're tough like I was. You're strong. You can--"
He rolls his thumb over the tip, ignores your sob to focus on spreading precome, toy with your slit in a way that has you trembling back into him. Can't hardly breathe, your chest is so tight with bitten back noise, and horror, and tears you refuse to spill.
With wilted, roiling pride at his words. You're strong. You're tough. You're just like me. It's all you've ever wanted to hear, and now it makes you want to scream.
"You can take this." He presses a warm, dry kiss to your nape, over the bite. Just one, a soft candlelight flicker of affection to try to keep you warm. "And it'll make you even stronger. You'll be better for it, someday. I promise."
Feels like he just took a shovel and hollowed out everything inside you that made you. Whatever resistance you had left in you crumples, an arm tentatively reaching back so you can touch him, thread your fingers through his hair, grip at his chiseled bicep for some sort of support. Anything to ground you, keep you in one piece. Any shred of tenderness, even if it's fake, even if it's sick and cruel.
It's all you have, now. That and your tears, hidden and soaked in the sheets. You press your face into them and moan as he works your dick out of time with his hips, and your open sounds have him muttering praise in your ear that you hardly comprehend, warm words that feel hollow, no depth of emotion behind them, no meaning.
Just going through the motions. But he is going through them, isn't he? Him and no one else.
"You close?" He doesn't wait for words, really, takes your thready gasp as an answer. A sign to all but flatten you, save the space he needs for his pumping fist, the slap slap slap of his quickening hips almost deafening laid over your own ragged sounds. "Yeah, you're close, huh? Real fuckin' close. You're gonna make some noise for me, I like 'em loud. Got it?"
You must make some sort of sound that he takes as assent, because he buries his face in your shoulder, chases his climax at a pace that borders on bruising. Even for you, even for a Supe, some watered down little version of him with all the charm and none of the light behind your eyes, not anymore. You stare flat holes into the dull, over-washed flower print of the comforter and paw blindly for his hand, denting the mattress for support off to your left, desperate for... something that feels so distant, unreachable. Something to put some lifelike heat back into that cold pit in your chest. Maybe his touch can do it, if you can link your fingers with his like this. Maybe, if you can pretend he's not your father, if you can convince yourself that he loves you--
He pulls his hand from yours and sets it up higher on the mattress, out of your reach. You don't try to touch again.
"Come on," he grunts, throaty in your ear. His pushing is slimy, cool, but the mouth that presses just below your jaw and chews marks into your skin is burning hot. He pants his words, his sick encouragement. "Make daddy proud."
It's both the strongest and absolute most traumatic orgasm of your life, and it hits entirely too hard when he says that. You howl into the sheets as he curses, hips and hand and pressing teeth wringing every miserable drop of pleasure out of you that he can, like it makes up for the rest of it. Like it's easier to pretend he's not doing what he's doing if he forces your body to feel something besides wracking soul-deep sickness, like he's not a monster. He knows what he is, you think, deep down - no one who thought they were a good person would even think to say that.
You want to slump boneless into these sheets, throbbing with whole body pain and desperate for a sleep with no dreaming, but he's not done yet. Isn't done punishing you either, apparently, because when you groan miserably and try to pull his hand off your dick (you're so overstimulated, it doesn't even feel good anymore) he ignores you, chasing his own finish so desperately he has no care for what you want, what you feel now.
Just suffer through it, the way you've learned to suffer so well. A minute, maybe two before he groans bone-deep and crushes you into the sheets, a hand wrapped around your nape to keep you pinned in place while his hips twitch, then stutter-stop flush against you, finally still.
You press your face into the sheets, and try not to feel filthy. Try not to think of what your mother would think of all this. What Soldier Boy thinks of you know as he pushes up on his knees, cock sliding out of you so he can spread you, see his handiwork. You grunt when he sweeps up his leaking cum and pushes it back into you, gives your ass another harsh smack as he stands with a satisfied whew, like he just got done with a fucking workout and not violating his own maybe-son. You're fine with never knowing the truth now, honestly - it's a balm to think that he might just be some man your mother was obsessed with.
"Not bad, kid." You hear the trod of his boots, shifting fabric as he dresses. The soft flicker of a lighter. Out of your peripheral, you see him in fatigues, his chiseled chest sweat-slick and bare as he lights a fresh smoke and cracks his neck. "Think you've earned a choice."
Your words are a rasp, hardly audible.
"Choice?"
"Yeah. I'll let you decide what happens next - courtesy from one man to another." Puff, puff. Reminds you of a train, his thick clouds as he jerks his head towards the nightstand. "There's a deagle in the first drawer. You decide you're too much of a weak-willed bitch to handle... all of this, you know what to do. Or you can deal with it like a man, wipe your puss, and come find me at Vought HQ on Monday. Not about to have my boy fucking around in some C-lister squad embarrassing me."
Kill yourself, or kill yourself slower. What a choice.
"I thought you were going to do it."
He laughs. It's that Soldier Boy laugh you've memorized by heart, the one from the movies, a warm bark with little humor behind it.
"Fuck, kiddo. I respect you too much for that." He glances back, just once, to fit you with that chimplike smile. All teeth, no warmth. "And if you tell anybody about this, I'll turn your fucking knees backwards. Have fun."
Respect. You don't have the energy to move when he strolls past, not even when he gives you a slap on the back that rocks every sore spot in your whole body. Can only manage to turn your head and watch him go without another look back, apparently kind enough to at least shut the door and hide your shame.
It takes you a long time to pick yourself up, edge gingerly to the nightstand. He wasn't lying, there's a sleek dark Desert Eagle in the drawer where he said it'd be, fully loaded when you check the clip. You lie back in the sheets and toy with it, staring at the ceiling without seeing, thinking without real coherence.
Maybe he did it to work through his own bullshit. Maybe he just wanted to put you in your place. Fuck, maybe he just wanted to get his nut off after all. It doesn't matter, the dream you had of a father that loved you came true, didn't it? He just didn't love you the way you wanted him to. Wasn't the man you wanted him to be, that you and your mother made up like bedtime stories and convinced yourselves was real, because real life is never that warm or fuzzy or kind. Never will be, you think, not now. There's a stain on your soul you'll never get away from.
Just like him. Fuck, you really are just like him, aren't you?
You close your eyes, think of your mom. And then you make your choice.