Reblog Warrior

Clark sighs as the elevator door opens up to his office floor, trudging over to his desk and setting his briefcase down. Skips right over to their break room’s coffee maker to brew up a sugary full cup for the day ahead of him. Jimmy gave him a greeting with a rougher pat on the shoulder, jolting Clark in a reactionary shiver when he thinks back to being touched in bed by no one or something while he was withering all alone in his room.

He pushes his glasses up his scrunched up nose, letting out an almost disgruntled sounding hey.

Jimmy squints at him, noticing the offbeat attitude of his close friend and coworker. “You good, man? Sleep alright last night or did somebody take a hot piss in your Froot Loops?”

“Slept… slept fine, it’s just I’m kinda going through stuff right now. I don’t know.”

Clark swallows and stirs his steaming cup after dropping another sugar cube in. Jimmy pats his shoulder once again, trying to get Clark to meet his eyes with a tilt of his head.

“You know… maybe it’s about time.”

“What?”

“You know, dude, maybe it’s that time. Time for you to get yourself laid. I think it could help flush out some of these nerves in your system. You seem so tense. I know a few girls that would hop on that train, if you know what I mean.”

Clark turns beat red rather quickly, taking a long sip to gather his thoughts and come up with a response.

“Yeah you couldn’t have been any more direct actually. I… listen I understand, but it’s not that. Trust me, I’m getting… more than you think. I guess. Cause something like, something happened last night, I don’t even know how to explain it. And I liked….. it. It’s just really weird so maybe now’s not the time to discuss—“

Jimmy laughs a long, boyish giggle and slaps one of Clark’s broad shoulders, pulling Clark further aside into the corner with a look around for any coworkers meandering.

“Dude, I knew it. You found yourself a lady. You’ve been getting some and you haven’t been telling me. That’s really lame of you man, I thought our friendship had no barriers—“

“I haven’t met a— look, okay, it was weird, and I mean really really weird. I don’t know if you’ll understand it or if it’ll just sound crazy.”

“Whatever crazy thing you’re about to say, I’ve probably done crazier,” Jimmy assures with a knowing nod paired with a grin. “Trust me.”

“Uh, okay….” Clark clears his throat and lowers his voice, leaning down to Jimmy’s ear level. “Have—have you ever like, came untouched before? Felt someone…. down there…. even though no one else was in the room?”

Clark stares at Jimmy now, loosening the tie around his collar like he’s already broke out in another sweat just thinking about it. Wondering if it might happen again. If he has some odd guardian angel that likes to fuck him and look after him all at the same time.

“You mean you finished, no hands, completely dry? You’re living the dream. Should be more grateful. Why do you look so terrified right now.”

Clark closes his eyes and pinches his brows in a long sigh before nodding to Jimmy to follow him to the bathrooms after setting his coffee on his desk. With uneasy paranoia he peers down to check for any feet on the floor in the stalls before he continues.

“I… I don’t think you get it. It felt like someone literally rode me, like, put me inside them and came on my dick and everything. I wasn’t doing anything! Wasn’t even hard before it started happening, I was just reading. I don’t know how else to explain this or make it any clearer to you!”

Jimmy looks astounded after every word, awestruck with an open mouth. Even flashes of envy pass through his eyes while he chuckles and shakes his head. Typical Clark and his way of complicating things. Overthinking what truly sounded like a gift. “Sounds like a you’re being haunted by a friendly ghost that just wants to hop on that thing, dude. So what did it really feel like? And can I get one too?”

Clark closes his eyes and his mind goes back to last night. In the comfort of his soft sheets, legs sprawling out and taking over the entirety of his bed. How right when the plot of his novel started taking off he felt almost a tickle. A wiggle of what felt like a smooth, slithery tongue. It was unrecognizable when it started, like maybe he had an itch down there to scratch, or maybe some blood began randomly flowing down south.

When it became unmistakeable, too soft and wet to deny what was happening to him, he slammed his book shut with the bookmark in place and spread his legs wider, feeling the sweat breaking out. Feels his dick happily jump right into the warm invisible hole teasing his tip. He felt the hole clench down and struggle to take him all, slowly inching up and down like a bunny on top of what it could take. He clenched a fist at his side and held his dick up with a thumb, raising his hips gently into the heavenly heat. How the pace it had going stuttered when he did, probably in shock that he had more of himself to give.

Clark remembers crying with pleasure, pre cum getting drained out of him so effortlessly, so smoothly. Drool picks up on his tongue while he’s nearly going cross eyed, the pussy on top of him bouncing harder, bouncing faster—

“It feels— it feels unbelievable. I mean it was incredible,” Clark answers Jimmy’s question that had awkwardly hung in the air. “Haven’t felt anything like it before. Something might be seriously wrong with me.”

Jimmy raises a brow. “Watching too much porn? Just take a break. Meet a girl.”

Clark’s full body shivers, goosebumps now swarming up his arms and the back of his neck, making all the hairs there start to stand up. He feels an eager hand all the sudden grab onto his bare cock and slick their palm down, cold and wet like the hand had a puddle of lube to gloss him down.

If it hasn’t visibly shown up as a wet spot on his groin through his trousers yet, by the feeling of it it’ll start showing a dark spot soon. If he didn’t take his dick out it would surely start a puddle that would only dry as a fresh stain.

Clark takes a deep, shaky breath, turning over to grab onto the tile of the wall, resting his forehead against it and gripping like he’s engulfed in pain. Like his surroundings started spinning all around him.

“Woah, Clark. Dude. Take it easy. What’s happening?”

Jimmy gets closer to check on his friend but Clark can’t take it, shooing him off with a hurried no, it’s fine—just get out of here. I need a second. thanks!

“You sure you’ll be able to hold up the rest of today? You have enough leave. I’m sure Lois would understand—”

“Just, just…. I need to take a— I’ll take a ten, okay,” he whimpers, clutching onto the humiliating bulge growing so fast he already was showing a hefty print. “Maybe a fifteen. I can’t—I don’t know.” The hand stopped slicking up and down his cock and he feels it tease him by rubbing his length up and down a pearly wet slit, not yet having him enter.

He shoos Jimmy away and hurries to a stall, slamming it shut and locking it with his back to the door while his dick bobs around for more of her attention. Tingles sprout in his belly while his whole body starts to tense.

“Uh, okay,” Jimmy mutters. “Well I’ll leave you to it I guess? Here for you buddy. Don’t piss off your ghost girlfriend. Maybe next time she won’t fuck you as good if you do,” he laughs.

“Shut. The door. And shut. Up!” Clark howls, fumbling with his zipper and rushing to roll some toilet paper up into a ball for his tip when he’s hanging out of his boxers. He distantly hears his friend mumble a jeez, so touchy. sorry and the door creaks open and falls closed. With privacy at last, Clark is able to heave and thrust his hips gently into the beautiful, tight wet heat, little abstract murmurs and whimpers leaving his throat while his dick gets wetter, and wetter, and wetter.

“Don’t—Don’t, don’t want you to stop,” he quietly begs. Veins popping on his temple from all the straining his body is doing. “But I… I have to get back to work.”

Whatever is wrapped around his cock doesn’t pay his words any mind, sinking down all the way to his balls and creaming on his base the more they start their rough bouncing. Like they’re angry, like they’re taking everything out on his cock. Clark wished he knew what he did wrong, or maybe what he did right to deserve this kind of treatment from someone he couldn’t even see.

“I’m not gonna last, I’m not, it feels so good…. feels too good…. I can’t handle this again, not right now,” he breathes. Sees his tip bead more floods of pre cum and slip down the base of his cock, getting his balls messy with slick. The sound is obscene, with every up and down motion everything can be heard. How wet the pussy around him really is. How his cock stuffs it all the way through. If somebody came in right now, they would think he’s having real sex with a real body in this stall right now. When in all honestly, Clark doesn’t know what he’s having.

“Oh my gosh, gosh you’re more wet this time, you’re getting it so wet…. You’re gonna get me in trouble, wait…. please.”

The pussy on top of his dick starts to quiver, tremble and squeeze him down harder than before. Like it’s finally found release after a record of an eight minute round of going nuts on him like he’s nothing but a toy built strictly for their use.

Some cum that isn’t even his starts dribbling down on him, and that’s when the floodgates start to open. Clark can’t hold it anymore, and he doesn’t know how bad it’s gonna be trying to both cover his load and then clean it all up.

He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut once again, knuckles turning white while he holds on for dear life and busts another long, drawn out nut into whatever this thing is that’s tortured him yet again. He spits out rope after rope of cum in the waiting piece of balled up paper and tries to catch it all there but a few stray drips do manage to burst out too fast for him to act. He sprays a part of the wall and whines a little no, please, please no, you made me cum too hard again, I need to get back to work.

The come down is always humbling. Seeing exactly how foolish he was acting as the sweat under his arms and on his face visibly stains his clothes and his skin. He managed to wipe off his messy cum lines off the wall and stuffs another rolled up ball of toilet paper down his boxers to soak up whatever else is leftover in his pants.

When he feels ready enough he’s still catching his breath and trying to get his blushing face under control as he heads over to the sink to splash some water on his face. Presses on the soap dispenser over and over again until more than a mountain of soap is bubbling in his palm, lathering his sticky, filthy hands.

Clark fights everything inside him to try and act natural when he heads back to his desk. Ruffles his hair more than necessary, tightens his tie, rolls up his sleeves.

The cup of coffee he’d made had lost most of its heat but Clark was so preoccupied in his head he doesn’t notice, still gulping some down and logging back into his computer to answer more messages and emails that were left for him. His eyes zone in on an email he’d been CC’d in from Jimmy and Lois about an upcoming new hire’s start date for their vacant Office Assistant position.

The email read that Clark would be assigned as the one primarily training her since he’d started out in her exact title position a year ago. Clark adds a thumbs up to the email and closes out of it to start on another assignment, thinking in the very back of his head that if his dick can’t control himself while he’s training said new hire next week he’d be blowing his brains out, not out of his cock next time.

Jimmy side eyes him from across the room, mouthing a you good? much to Clark’s bashful shake of his head, assuring him with a roll of his eyes and a tired response of yeah, I’m fine. shut up.

Lois comes out of the blue up behind him and drops a fat stack of paperwork on Clark’s desk with a tight smile.

“New hire coming in next week. You got my email right?”

Clark nods and leans back in his chair, casual as he can muster.

“She’ll have to mostly rely on you for help and onboarding, since me and Jimmy have too much going on. Travel, deadlines, some new leads finally getting back to us for interviews. So you’ll take her under your wing for us, yeah?”

“Of course. It’s not uh, it won’t be a problem,” he answers under his breath, taking another sorry sip of his lukewarm coffee. He hopes the thing in his pants won’t be a problem.

“You sure? Jimmy said you didn’t look well. You can’t call out and leave her all alone here on her first few days, it’s gonna be overwhelming in the start—“

“Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine. It’ll get taken care of,” he promised.

“Alright, then don’t get her sick, got it?”

Clark wants to slap Jimmy for even bringing up his frazzled state to anybody in the office, mortified over what had taken place barely ten minutes ago, and how unpredictable his dick was gonna act for a while. Or forever. Who even knows at this point.

“My germs are all mine,” he swears, hands defensively up in the air. “Count on it.”

Lois gives him another one of her hard stares that basically told him she’d make him eat his words if he dared showing up to the office coughing, sneezing, puking. Clark was only worried about leaving his desk for twenty minutes at a time to get his dick rode by the same tempting mystical source he had yet to fully identify, let alone begin to understand.

It never left his brain even while he worked, back of his pen stuck in his mouth to chew on while he wrote up more emails and forwarded ones from their general inbox. Hours had gone by until he had about forty five more minutes left until he could be freed and finally head home, and Clark really thought he was in the clear of having another accident during work hours.

That was up until the fucking tease went at it again. The warm, sopping wet tightness wraps around his tip and slips him in, no mercy given. His dick springs back to life effortlessly, and Clark wants to cry.

He holds his head by covering his face with both hands, scooting his swivel chair forward so his crotch was safely hidden underneath. He drools an ungodly amount at the tip, feeling how eager this round was for her, how quickly she ruts against him and has him crying softly into the sleeve of his shirt.

Clark’s mewling and groaning is muffled into his arm, too helpless to hold in any of his noise when they move in sways up and down, switching off between going deep and going shallow with their pushes. Clark is beat red all over again, giving up after several minutes of unabashed torture and shielding his wet crotch with his briefcase pressed up against him, running off back to the toilets this time to sit down and breathe while undeniably enjoying everything being done to him. Fuck the last thirty minutes of his shift. Fuck the emails and the phone calls and the scans and the letters.

Clark shuts his eyes and actually smiles for a change as he eggs on whatever higher power bouncing on top of him to keep going. Nods his head and can’t help his soft murmurings of please, yeah, yeah keep doing that, you do it so good.

It might be his new imaginary best friend, or it might be his first sign to go to a mental hospital. Whatever it was, since it’s made Clark cum this hard, he guessed it couldn’t have mattered too much if it always made him feel this good.

. . .

The weekend was spent the same way. Getting his dick milked while he lied back and screeched every time she squeezed on him some way, somehow. He doesn’t answer anyone that texts him for plans, doesn’t do the dishes or take care of his laundry like how he’d hoped. No. He whines and stutters and cries, barely able to get in the shower without his dick getting trampled on.

It’s not a long shot to think he could be developing something. A mental illness. A haunted curse that plagues him with orgasms at all times of the night and the day. He’s one more round away from calling somebody to perform an exorcism or splash holy water on him to escape this succubus that had to be laughing in his face at how easy he is to rile up.

When Monday comes around again Clark doesn’t want to take any chances traumatizing the new hire with all the blotches of cum stains littering his pants. With a scoff and a sigh he steps each leg into a second pair of boxers to make slightly more effort into covering up. Even packs a backup pair in case both pairs he’s currently wearing are soiled by the end of the day.

After a hectic first hour of scanning and distributing the stack of morning mail from the bin, he slips a stick of gum on his tongue and gnaws on the flavor with his mouth open when an unfamiliar silhouette teeters closer towards the edge of his desk from the entrance.

Clark doesn’t get to looking up until she’s clearing her throat, playing with a strand of her hair with a smile aimed at the ground.

“Hi, sorry if I’m interrupting your work. I’m actually starting today,” she explains, eyeing him up from head to toe. Clark rips his head up at the voice and clears his throat, sitting up straighter and pulls a polite hand out.

“Oh! Oh, yeah that’s right. You’re our new hire. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Clark.”

She takes his hand with a laugh. Clark wished he understood what was funny. He joins in on it anyway, anxiously chuckling while he doesn’t stop shaking her hand in his. Realizing it had been well over ten seconds of her soft palm held up in his own long, gigantic fingers, he slips his hand off of hers, lingering in the awkward air of the moment.

She nods and scans her gaze around, peaking at the state of Clark’s desk. The endless string of sticky notes, the protein shakes, the tie he’d already taken off his neck. “So am I in the right place, or—“

“Yup. Yeah, yeah you found where you should be. I’ve been tasked to uh, help you fill all this out. After that we can get you started on some basics,” he breathes out, pointing to the stack resting on the side of his desk, sticky note on top with her name on it. Clark finds himself trying a little desperately to keep himself more cool, more composed. She’s the kind of pretty that made him nervous, suddenly aware of his undone appearance, of every awkward move he makes. He stops chewing his gum with as much rigor, clenches his jaw and scratches the back of his neck.

“I started out in the position you’re in, it’s real easy to move up,” he mentions, gathering up the paperwork and attempting to straighten it out before a quarter of the pages fall from his grasp in a pile. Beat red, Clark doesn’t do anything but stare at the ground and sigh before sheepishly joining in on her laughs.

“You’re pretty organized, aren’t you?” she chuckles, bending over to pick up the few documents that landed on the floor. Clark’s jaw even drops when he catches the smallest glimpse of her hot pink colored thong poking up above from her dress pants.

“Yeah. Yeah I really am, you know. Organization is key,” he nods, tight lipped smile still on his face. He takes the pages she hands him over, watching her subtly arch her head to smell something in the air. Fuck. What the fuck? Did he even put on any cologne this morning after draining his dick for the hundredth time?

Before he could shoot himself in the head with more irrational insecurities his mind makes up she soothed his very visible worry with another laugh and a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Is it me? Do I reek like sweat or something—?”

“No, no. You don’t smell bad, you’re fine. I was just trying to figure out if you were chewing Spearmint or not,” she assures. “I like it. Promise. You do not reek of anything,” she snorted through another laugh. Clark beams, looking around everywhere but her face. Afraid his face could give his every fleeting thought away.

Thank god. “Uh, oh yeah. Yeah it’s Spearmint. You want a piece? I have a new pack,” he offers. To his surprise, she snatches up a piece out of his hand hardly before he gets to offer it to her. Blinks dumbly while she opens it up and tears the piece in half, stuffing one in her mouth and giving the other half back to him.

“Uh—“

She smiles at him, chewing the gum out of one side of her cheek. “I have this oral thing. A fixation I guess. Chewing or having something in my mouth really helps me.”

The thing about Clark is, he has manners. Has restraint. Thought he was a good boy that didn’t go on and chase any tail that came into his orbit. Especially not a new pretty co-worker. He doesn’t want to think about putting different parts of himself inside her mouth just to calm her down. Or the color of her thong. Or that wicked smile and addicting perfume to match. Something tries to draw him in closer, reason with his conscience like she’s teasing little signals, it’s not like you’re her boss or anything. if you flirt back no one would know a thing.

Clark stops his zoning out and nods his head to agree. “I get it. Having stuff in my… in my mouth cools me off too. Like—like stress.”

“You shouldn’t worry yourself that much. Seems like you’re wound up pretty tight.”

He feels like there’s this window into his thoughts standing clear as day right above his head, broadcasting every fleeting thought or mood. When he tries to look at her, stare at her back the same way she stares at him, he just wanted to run away before his own dick caught up with him.

Clark scratches his chin and sheepishly nods with his head down, agreeing with a gentle mumble, yeah you know, just normal stuff, kinda on edge. Not like he randomly cums in his pants or anything. He quickly finds a way to change subjects by directing his focus back to the work left in front of them and guides her to sit over at her new desk to fill out some new hire paperwork. She taps him on the shoulder and grins when she says his name to ask him questions. He dutifully answers everything he can, emails some higher ups to get her logins to some of their systems and trains her how they go through their mail and answer consumer’s inquiries over the phone.

She takes just about everything in a stride. Overwhelmed of course by certain things that have nuances and will take more time getting used to. Clark introduces her to more staff, waves to Lois, makes the new hire her own cup of coffee after showing her their break room. Jimmy tries to raise a brow, even wiggles both of them up and down at him from behind her back, but it only makes Clark kick him in the shin and gruffly threaten him under his breath as he’s passing by while she wasn’t looking.

Clark sends her off to her first break, telling her to meet him back at her desk for more training later. Watches absentmindedly as she picks up her purse, snatched up a lighter from one of the pockets and stuck a cigarette behind her ear, waving goodbye and strolling out to the elevator doors. Before the elevator doors close he could see her take the stick from her ear and put it between her lips, probably a habit she’s picked up from that oral thing, Clark figured. He wants to stop himself from picking apart her business but he’s too intrigued to stop, still lost in thought at his desk while he takes a break of his own.

After spitting his piece of gum out he chugs a few thick swigs of his protein shake, spaced out in blank thought. A corner of his mouth smiles when he feels the other half of that stick of gum she’d torn off and given back. His dick twitches but ultimately stayed soft, undetected in his pants. He’d shamefully started wondering how the hell his dick was so well behaved, so normal today of all days. Not that it was a bad thing. He just found it curious. Why was this the first time in days his dick wasn’t getting swallowed, rode, or came on by whatever invisible force that clearly had been having its fun tormenting him? And will it ever come back to fuck him again?

Once Jimmy finds Clark alone at his desk wiping fingerprints off his glasses, he swats his shoulder and bashed one of his knees to his swivel chair, causing him to start spinning.

“What the hey, dude—don’t—“

“This could be your shot. All’s I’m sayin,” he shrugs. Sees Clark stop his chair and shove his friend forward, only enough power to knock him off his feet a little bit. “Hey, hey! That’s all I’m saying, I said!” he laughs and defensively puts both his palms up to shield himself from any more of Clark’s wrath.

“You can’t say that stuff. Don’t. She’s new, okay! And… and she needs my help learning everything around here. She doesn’t need some big oaf getting in her business, abusing power, or being… being weird towards her,” he concludes.

“Hey, opportunities sometimes fall right out of the sky. This one just fell right into your lap. And you’re not a fat oaf dude. Pfft, you actually think being her co-worker is gonna affect anything?”

“Uh, yes it does in fact. It will literally affect everything. You think it’d be appropriate for me to treat her like that?”

Jimmy shrugs again, ruffles Clark’s curls and says he should think about reconsidering some of his rules and start breaking them in order to finally get something he wants.

When she’s back from her break her hair is damp, fresh perfume sprayed on her coat to get rid of some of the stench from her cigarette. She looks refreshed, albeit a little more flustered than she was before she left. Her boots squeak slightly on the floor from stepping out on the wet ground outside. He thinks about complimenting her boots, her coat, her hair, thinks about complimenting her everything. But his words fall short after his voice cracks from the very simple greeting of hey, welcome back.

“Hey, can I ask you for a favor after work? It’s totally fine if you say no or if you can’t. You don’t have to give me any reasons,” she assures.

Already eager to know what she’s going to be asking of him, his ears perk and his posture straightens up as he scoots his chair over to her desk.

“Yeah of course. What’s up?”

“It started raining pretty hard and the forecast says it won’t stop until tomorrow morning. I actually walked here to work, and if it’s not any trouble, would you be able to give me a lift back home?”

Clark swallows an upcoming lump in his throat, feeling his palms start to get clammy. The mere thought of the proximity was enticing. Having her next to him, in his car. Her trust in him helping her with something as intimate as having her get back home safely. He tries to answer casually, like he’s a nonchalant guy — as if the offer wasn’t any big deal, wasn’t making his heart start to beat a little faster.

What comes out though is a horribly rushed, clumsy, stuttered —

“Ohyeahofcourse, you don’t even have to worry about it!”

Jimmy’s teasing still echoes through the hallway of his brain. About opportunities. About how sometimes they seem to fall right out of the sky. How this one has fallen right into his lap.

“Thanks so much Clark, I appreciate it. You’ve been the sweetest guy. I’m really lucky to have you here to teach me everything,” she praised. Turning his cheeks pink in all of two seconds with a flat palm on his broad shoulder, squeezing gently and holding the warmest smile.

“We’re lucky to have you. You’ve been— you’ve been great,” he gulps, trying to bring the focus back to her. “We don’t have too much more to fill out, but um, I don’t wanna overwhelm you with any more new things today. Let’s wrap up this paperwork then we’ll hopefully get you on those phones to practice the last hour.”

“Great! I’m almost finished with those. And for the record I do promise where I live isn’t far, I don’t wanna be too much an inconvenience,” she laughs. Clark shook his head again, ready to protest the very idea that she was asking too much. In truth, she was so stupid pretty that if she asks him to say his ABC’s backwards he’d still give it his best shot. She almost cuts off his attempt to deny it, straightening up some of the last pages left to read over and sign.

“You are not any inconvenience. If you are, then please keep inconveniencing me,” he says, flashing a toothy smile at her. He prays to himself that it comes out right, and to his delight, she grins back, adorable face expressing back to him, well, then don’t mind if I do. “with anything you need, I’ll be here.”

Is he being too much?

“Thanks, Clark. I owe you.”

Oh? What should you owe me?

He shakes off any perverted thoughts and spares a glance at his watch.

“Are you hungry? It could be lunch time. Up to you. We don’t clock in and out, we just have timesheets, so breaks are pretty flexible.”

“Yeah, I could eat.”

Clark’s head screams well there’s a full meal right in front of you.

“Great.”

. . .

He sees her head off to the break room and start chatting with Lois, smiling at her welcoming disposition while she checks in on how her training is going. Clark knows he has the option to stay, to ogle while he ate at his desk, but he feels like he has too much steam to blow off before handling the rest of the day. With a long final exhale, he adjusts his glasses and snatched up his keys to head back home for his lunch hour.

Once he’s back at his apartment he immediately sheds his god awful shoes and his suffocating button down before he’s lying flat on his back in bed, staring up at the wall. Trying to manifest that magical touch and beckon it to come back. Beg for it even. Wonders to himself if there’s some hidden way he hasn’t figured out yet to trigger it, or if it’ll always remain spontaneous.

Clenching his jaw he angrily starts groping his crotch, trying to feel himself out. He opens one eye to peer down at his dick and see if he just thought about it hard enough he’ll bring it back to life, feel that beautiful all consuming weight drip on top of him again.

“C’mon. C’mon, please… You… you’ve fucked me every day and I took it all last night, now I want it, I need it. Right here, please?”

Clark strokes his cock while it sways back and forth against his belly, mind already feeding into an idiotic fantasy of his new hire bending over, showing him her pretty colored thong. Maybe she’d pull her panties up higher so they’re peaking out further above her waistline, or maybe she’d pull them over to the side….

He raises his hips off the bed to thrust into his fist at the thought, pants still strung down barely past his groin. Figures if he shows back up to work the rest of the day in different pants, it’s his business and his business only, and so be it.

“Oh god it was so good last time, wish you could touch me like that again…”

He knows it’s pathetic. Everything he’s doing, everything he’s saying. While he grips the tip and twists particularly tight, he shamefully whimpers out his new hire’s name while his dick starts to drip into pubes. Messy, sticky, but gosh he needed this. Clark deeply misses the warmth on top of him, the hot teasing, the bouncing, and the thrill of not knowing what will happen next—

“Oh my god….”

. . .

part two

posting this cuz I’m so done looking at it already dear jesuslawd. if I should keep going somehow let me know I love coworkerXcoworker getting down and nasty. I like the idea of clark not knowing what’s going on and getting slobbered on by his work crush. fully no clue when/if the next part comes out oh my lawd. thanks soooo so much for all the love on the first little prelude:( im so obsessed with every reblog+comment

tag list: @emmaaagb @herejustforbuckybarnes @asthavraj @bitchy-bi-trash @gothgirlwannabe80 @snore-3 @noirecherie @lovergirl-007s-blog @tumlrwhore @glorydescent @forsakenskulltwist @brattybunnybby @unavurse

He loved your cousin and treated Daeron as if he were born of his own blood. But though you were often found in the same trouble, Ormund's display of discipline was always a bit different when directed at you.

Not only a raised voice but a physical punishment, too.

A rough hand on the back of your neck. A lashing across your knuckles. Fingers curled tight around your jaw.

You'd let yourself believe that things would change when you became a woman grown. It is one thing to discipline a girl with the intent of guidance, but it is another thing to strike a lady.

The solution was to discipline in private.

Once, you'd gotten caught stealing wine from the kitchens in the dead of night. And when Ormund had been told of your transgression, he'd come to your bedchamber alone. Sat on the side of your mattress, fingers gentle as they stroked your cheek.

He shook you awake, and pretended at patience while you rubbed away the drunken stupor from your eyes.

And then he'd explain, "I am hard on you because I care. Because I see the potential beneath all your corruption. I understand it is not your fault you have such atrocity in your blood. I am only teaching you to overcome it. And you have much yet to learn, sweetling."

This is the first time Ormund takes you over his knee.

His palm lands sharp and hard across your bottom, five good times for each and every cup you'd stolen. He makes you count, and does not comment on the tears as they brim at the corners of your eyes.

The first time is the worst, because you hadn't expect it.

But by the tenth time it stops being a surprise and starts to become an expectation.

The routine is always the same. The sun will set, and he will slink into your chambers. Sometimes he doesn't even speak. He will simply stare down at you where you lay, head tilted, eyes dark, and you'll whisper apologies in the flickering candlelight.

He is meaner, you come to notice, when he is encumbered by duty. His strikes are harder and there are more of them. Sometimes he will spend hours in a day listening to petitions or dispersing soldiers or politicking with lords who come to him with future propositions.

On these nights, Ormund will groan low in his throat when you twist in his grasp, your legs flailing as you run from the impact of his tingling palm. But he will always wait for you to compose yourself, and then he'll lift his own leg over yours to bracket you in place, all before striking you again.

It is only after several months of this routine of discipline that you begin to wonder if it is less for your sake and more for his.

On one particular night, you're on strike eight out of ten, the number gritted through your teeth as you speak it aloud. Your breath comes fast and labored in your chest, lungs burning as you greedily drink up oxygen. Your muscles tire of pulling tight in anticipation only to melt in relief as the pain disperses across your skin.

It is later than usual, and you'd spent the day on horseback, and you're so exhausted that you fold your hands over one another and lay your head atop them. Face turned, you steal a glance up at Ormund to find his lips parted and his shoulders relaxed.

Posture far different than it had been when he'd closed your chamber door behind him.

You force your eyes to stay open as he hits you again, observing the look on his face.

Troublesome and argumentative woman you are, you're smart enough to recognize solace when you see it.

"Nine," you say, though it is more of a whisper than a fully spoken word.

Ormund notices.

His eyes find yours, gaze heavy and intense, as if he were seeing something inside of you that he could not put a name to if he tried.

This time, when his palm comes down against your cheek, it is hard enough that the sound echoes against the stone walls.

Your eyes squeeze shut and your ears ring and you can hear and feel and sense nothing but the heat of him beneath you and the pain he elicits. Breathing does not come easily. Each inhale is short and labored and choking.

"Count," Ormund says, the word low and demanding, the way he so often is.

You cannot catch your breath.

"Count, girl," he repeats. "Or we will begin again."

A spark of fear ignites in your chest, because you could not endure another ten lashes. Not like this, not knowing this is not even about the cruel words you'd spoken to your septa but rather for his own selfish respite.

"Ten!" The word is rushed. "Ten, ten, ten—!"

His hand smooths over your spine, as if to heal the ache he himself inflicted. "Very good," he whispers, shushing your cries. "You did so well."

The following morning, your flesh stings and bruises have already begun to form, but all you can think of is the way his praise had made your heart sing inside the cage of your ribs. The words echo in your mind, a mantra, a song, a poem.

The feeling is only because it is so rare to hear such things from his mouth, you tell yourself. It is not for desire. You could not desire a man like Ormund, could you? Who'd shaped you into the woman you are. Who saw such corruption in you and had spent the better half of your life trying to root it out.

But no matter how hard you try, you cannot shake the look you'd seen on his face. Like he'd enjoyed it.

And because you are stubborn and far too curious, you conduct an experiment to disprove your theory.

For weeks, you try very hard to be good. You go to your lessons without complaint, you listen to your septas, you pray to the seven and deny yourself excess in all forms.

You speak kindly. You cling tight to poise. You cast your eyes away when a man speaks to you and bow graciously instead of arguing or challenging a direction, no matter how stupid it may be.

You are perfect.

It is the longest you have gone without punishment in all your life.

But the stretch of time only lasts so long. And you wake late one night to find Ormund standing at your bedside, hovering.

Staring, with that same look he's leveled at you for years—not disgust, but something more complex. Something hotter. Searing.

You lift yourself up on an elbow and ask timidly, "Did I do something wrong?"

His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. "No."

Somehow, his answer is worse than if he had found a reason to punish you. Because this meant you were right, that his discipline was not only for you. It meant there was something else beneath it all.

It meant that this perverse craving in your chest that you have tried to fight off was not only yours. It was shared.

"If I've not done anything wrong, then what are you—?"

"Get up." He lifts his hand, motioning for you to remove yourself from the comfort of you linens, finally breaking the intensity of his stare.

And because you have been trained to heed his every beck and call, you do exactly as he says.

He sits at the edge of your bed, the way he always does. And you stand in front of him awaiting instruction, the way you always do.

Your heart feels suddenly too large, pushing against your bones.

He is supposed to say, kneel. He is supposed to say, over my knee. He is supposed to say, do you know what you've done?

Ormund does not.

Instead, he says, "Take off your gown."

You blink in surprise, unsure if perhaps this is a test. Maybe he's temping you, goading for a reason. Trying to get you to reveal yourself, to sacrifice your modesty so that he might prove you are just as wicked as he believes you to be.

"What?"

"Your gown," he says again, voice firmer now. "Take it off. Do not make me repeat myself."

You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel suddenly frozen. Afraid to move, afraid to say one thing when he truly means for you to do another, and—

Ormund stands suddenly and his hands are on you. Big and rough and mean, tearing the lace fabric over your chest so hard it leaves indents against your shoulder blades. Your nightclothes are thin and give so easily beneath his violence.

You do not stop him. You don't even try.

You don't want to.

Before you can fully process what's happening, you're standing completely bare before him, white fabric pooled at your feet. Your nipples harden beneath the night's cool air and your heart hammers in your ribcage.

He is not shameful in his assessment of you. His eyes are greedy and roaming, leaving no part of you untouched, starting at the curve of your throat and the the swell of your breasts, and eventually lower down to your navel and the space between your legs.

Ormund stares, and his lips part on a hollow sigh. His hand comes up to cup his jaw, squeezing hard, trying to rub the tension away.

You want so badly to hear the thoughts in his mind but know better than to ask.

Does he think you're beautiful? Does he like the shape of your body? Does he enjoy the softness of your skin, or the scent of honeysuckle oils at your pulse point? Are you womanly enough for him?

Does he want you? Does he think of you, the way you have him? Do you appear in his dreams, too?

He clears his throat, the sound masculine and powerful, startling you out of your reverie. And then he sits back down on the edge of your bed and says, "Kneel."

You do.

"Over my knee."

This instruction, too, you follow.

Warmth blooms low in your belly at the texture of his leather breeches against the top of your bare thighs.

He doesn't ask if you're aware of your transgressions, because there are none.

Ormund sets one hand on the small of your back, and the other comes to rest against the globe of your arse. His hands are calloused. Rough. Hardened from the weight of a sword.

And above all, they are…delightful. Delicious. "How—" you swallow thickly. "How many?"

His hands are gentle as they stroke your skin. Feather light and mistakenly devoted. Ormund leans forward, lips a breadth away from your ear as he answers, "As many as I'd like."

And then his hand comes down sharply, the sound of skin against skin a piercing echo.

A whine leaves you, and it takes a moment to gather yourself enough to choke out, "One."

He hits you again, and again, and again—and each time those delicate touches in between last just a bit longer. As if he is able to find peace in your punishment, granting him the gift of softness.

Everything feels hot. Your skin, your hands, the place between your legs. It throbs and aches and grows stickier by the minute.

You think he must see it. He must. Each strike has your spine arching, exposing you even more, the number more of a moan on your lips than a cry.

It is around number six that you begin to feel him harden beneath you.

The swell of his cock presses against your belly, right beside your navel. Growing larger with each loud echo.

He does not mention it, and neither do you. But your head feels fuzzy with the truth of it.

Ormund settles around strike fifteen. You are certain it will be painful to sit tomorrow, but you can't find yourself in it to care when he traces delicate patterns over your warmed flesh with the tips of his cool fingers.

The praise comes after some time, when your muscles relax in his hold, when you stop expecting one more strike to befall you.

"You always look so beautiful in the aftermath," he mutters. and you feel yourself smiling, despite your better impulses. "Pretty, obedient little girl."

His hands knead at your sore skin, squeezing the pillowy flesh and spreading you open. You look up to see him staring at your most intimate place, likely seeing the wetness that's gathered.

He then does one more thing you don't expect.

With only the pad of his thumb, Ormund slides his finger through your slit.

The touch is firm and so unforeseen that it sends a jolt straight to your heart. You let out a true cry this time, but not of pain.

Of pleasure.

You're so sensitive that your muscles clench at the contact, so lost in the feeling that you hardly hear the low groan that rumbles through his chest.

And then he's pushing you off of his lap onto your bed, and standing to his feet. He does not even spare you a parting glance over his shoulder as he says, "Enough for today."

You do not see him again for some time.

In fact, Ormund leaves Oldtown entirely the next morning and he takes Daeron with him. It is only from your septa's that you learn they've set on a quest to deliver goods to the Citadel.

Usually Ormund will mention as much to you over supper with your cousin, and you cannot help thinking the reason for his sudden and unannounced absence is due to what transpired between you the night before.

And to yourself only, you admit his absence has made you yearn for him.

You cannot quiet the thoughts in your mind each night, the longing for him, the hope that he will simply appear at your bedside with a heavy hand and that familiar stare.

But he never does, and left to your own devices with thoughts of his touch invading your every thought, it is not long before you try desperately to abate the need yourself.

In fact, you form a new routine of your own.

It starts as desperate rocking against nothing, but you learn rather quickly just how much better it feels with your linens wedged tight between your legs as you do.

The bulk of the fabric presses deliciously against your center, and each roll of your hips has your vision turning black around the edges. You can think only of Ormund—your mentor, your disciplinarian, the hand that shaped you.

You think of the force behind his strikes and of his low groans and of his sweet, sweet praise. You think of the darkness in his eyes and of his strong jaw and the way the muscles in his shoulders flex when he moves.

Even his gait makes your belly squeeze tight in desire—the surety in his steps, his confident posture and the way he towers over you. Always so big and hulking and intimidating.

Sleep only comes to you each night after you reach the peak of bliss. After a fog clouds your mind and your vision goes all starry.

You think if Ormund were to see the things you'd been up to in his absence, you don't believe fifteen strikes would be nearly enough.

He would tell you it is a sin to indulge lustful fantasies in this way. That your pleasure is reserved for your husband, meant to be given at his discretion.

But you've never been a perfect listener nor a rule follower. If there is anything in your life you are certain of, it is that.

You allow yourself to freely walk about the tower in his absence, too. The rookery and the kitchens, plucking fruit or cheese from nearby trays and sending ravens to your cousin Helaena in the Red Keep.

You visit the stables to pet the horses and even make friends with a bastard boy who'd recently come to Oldtown from Casterly Rock.

When Ormund does finally return, you're there to greet him in the great hall with a flicker of delight in your chest.

He looks the same as when he'd left. Strong, masculine, confident. His skin is maybe a bit more sun-kissed than before, and his normally polished leather boots are caked in mud.

Yet still, you cannot help but smile when you see him. You'd worn your most beautiful dress, a gown of emerald velvet and white lace, low cut with a jeweled bodice. He'd complimented you on it once, several moons ago, and it has been your favorite ever since.

When he comes to stand in front of you in greeting, you bow low. "My lord," you say. "I am grateful for your return."

His eyes stay glued to yours when you rise, his pert mouth turned up at the corners. "I am grateful to be back," he says, taking your hand in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips.

Ormund's kiss is chaste, but it feels anything but. The simple touch of his hand has your belly flipping and your face heating.

He does not linger long, though you wish he would. But there is much to tend to in the keep, things that have simply been awaiting his return.

The cooks prepare a feast that night. A massive spread for both Ormund and the knights that traveled with him.

Ormund sits at the head of the table and Daeron sits to his right. You are placed on the other side of your cousin, who spends most of the night recounting tales of the Citadel to you. Of the towering stacks of books and the tomes bigger than his head.

He tells you in a whispered tone just how old the Grand Maester truly looks. "Ancient," he explains. "With tufts of graying hair and eyes that no longer see."

You laugh and giggle together about it, indulging your childish whims that always manifest whenever you are near him.

Daeron tells you, too, about the ambush they'd suffered from raiders who's been lying in wait off the King's Road.

"Uncle Ormund nearly died from a stab wound," he whispers, and it makes your heart give a sudden lurch. "He fought bravely. Slashed the raider clean in two, if you'd believe it."

This makes you mirth fall. You have never considered his loss before this moment. Ormund has always been there, a steady presence in your life.

Just the thought of it—of losing him, it does not sit well in your gut. Though hated by him as you are, you could not imagine...you could not imagine.

Ormund does not speak to you, but you can feel his stare. Heavy and warm on the side of your face. You wonder silently if he'd missed you as you have him.

Had he been thinking of that night, too? Of how it had felt to be bared before him? Of the heat you saw in his gaze?

Had he thought of you with a blade pressed to his belly? Had it truly gotten that close?

Ormund makes a toast to his men near the end of supper. To their valiant efforts that contributed greatly to the trade and to their protection.

Your maidens ready you for bed that night and spend a little longer scrubbing you clean at your request. They dress you in white silk and by the time they leave, the fire in the hearth has dwindled to cinders. The excitement in your chest is a roaring flame, however.

But, Ormund does not come to you.

You toss and turn restlessly, hoping to hear the creak of your chamber door or footsteps on the stone just outside.

Yet, there is nothing. The night is still, as it has been for the last several weeks.

You lie there with a longing in your chest, an ache between your legs, and your head filled with a thousand questions.

The setting sun has long since given way to the moon by the time you leave your bed.

Ormund's chambers are on the other side of the Hightower, but you are more and more certain with every step you take.

Ser Roy of Oldtown stands guard outside his door, the way he does most nights. He bows low when he sees you, eyes cast away from the too thin fabric of your gown. "My lady."

"I wish to speak to him," you say, trying to muster the strength to keep your voice from wavering.

"He did request not to be disturbed lest there was an emergency," the knight tells you.

"I don't care," is your simple response, because it is true. "Please, ser, step aside so that I might—"

Ormund's door opens, the heavy weight of it daunting.

He looks at you and stares. Hard and knowing.

Your breath gives way at the precision attention, all the jumbled thoughts in your mind untangling like a pulled thread before promptly vanishing. There is…something new behind his ire for you. Something you might call intrigue, if you didn't know any better.

Ormund does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks. "Find something to busy yourself, Ser Roy," he says, eyes searching your face now, flickering from your nose to your cheeks and then to your mouth. "And do not come back," he adds to the knight.

Roy nods stiffly and doesn't argue. He, too, knows better.

The clang of his armor disappears down the corridor, and before long it is just you and the man who haunts your insides. Heart and head alike.

He smiles down at you. A true smile. Small, but real, and it weathers your resolve in an instant. Because it's a kindness he does not give freely or often, but he is here now, giving it to you—who you'd thought he'd hated.

But this doesn't feel like hatred to you in the slightest.

It's heavier. Sharper. Sweeter.

In the end, it is you who breaks the spell, pushing past him and into his chambers. You recall all your cousin had said about the journey to the Citadel. How blades had been drawn and blood had been spilled and the thought of it makes your eyes sting.

Ormund closes the chamber door behind you, but you face away from him. Staring into the crackling flames in the hearth, trying and failing to fight the tears that brim in your eyes. "Daeron told me there was an…altercation on the King's Road," you say. "He speaks tales of blood and death. Is this true?"

His heavy footfalls sound in your ears. Ormund nears you, yet you still do not turn to look at him. "It is," he answers simply. "These are dark times, as you well know. Darker yet to come."

The idea of it—of war, of famine, of the rot and loss that he speaks of, it makes you terrified. You've seen men die before, in jousts or tourneys, even on the way here to Oldtown. But thinking of Ormund in the middle of it all?

Finally, you turn to face him. He is closer than you'd expected. Only a single step away, focus narrowing as he sees the tears in your eyes. "You could have died."

"But I did not." His head tilts curiously. "Where do you place your ire?"

"In you!" You should not yell. You know this, and yet the venom in your mouth refuses to be washed out. "It is from someone else that I'd had to learn you'd been attacked on the way to the Citadel. From another I'd learned you'd taken a wound that very nearly could have put you in the grave. And even those details I'd had to overhear from one of your men when it should have come from you!"

He watches it unfold; your rage surfacing, all masks of poise absent. He does not stop you or speak a warning into existence, he only watches with curiosity on his face and something far more intense alongside it.

"I have longed for your return for weeks! You leave without a word and take my cousin with you, leaving me to sit all alone and wonder if perhaps I'd done something wrong or worse—disappointed you!" Your tears fall freely down your cheeks now, but you are far past the point of sparing yourself any embarrassment.

Ormund raises his hand to your face, cradling your head in his palm. His thumb strokes gently across your cheek, swiping your tears away. "Is it for me that you weep, sweetling?"

Yes, you want to say. Yes, of course it is. He is everything to you and has always been. "Do you have any idea how I would have mourned you?"

His eyes soften, and it soothes something inside of you to see it. Ormund leans forward slowly, carefully so as not to frighten you.

And you stand there, frozen in the gentle hold of his hands, as he licks the tears from your cheeks. His tongue is warm and soothing against your ruddy skin, and it feel so intimate that it makes you shiver.

He then kisses your eyelids. The left first, followed by the right. "I cannot promise to tell you of each of my wounds," he says, voice softer than it's ever been before. "But I can promise to warn you before I leave the tower again. I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me after all I've done, in truth."

"Glad?" The thought does not register in your mind. "I could never be glad of your absence. I confess, I…I hate it."

"Is that right?" Ormund takes a step back, and you see him inhale a shaking breath as he does. "More than you hate me?"

You wish you could deny the words, but you cannot. You've hated him all your life—the man who'd always looked at you as if your very blood was wrong, who'd never hesitated to raise a hand to you, who'd been cruel and rigid. The man who denied you the softness you've always craved unless you'd earned it.

You do hate him.

But yes, you hate his absence more.

"There is another matter," he says, not giving you time to answer his question.

Perhaps because he did not care to hear the answer, or perhaps because he could not bear it.

"I am told you'd been quite disruptive while I was away," Ormund says. "That you'd stolen and spoken with a sharp tongue. All things I could forgive, considering the worst of your misdeeds."

Your brows furrow. "And what was the worst?"

"I have told you a hundred times to stay away from the stables," he explains. "So, imagine how unexpected it was to hear that you'd been spending far too much time with a boy who works in the very same stables I've warned you against."

Your stomach twists at the sharp tone of his voice. A stark contrast to the way he'd spoken to you only moments ago. "He does magic tricks," you say. "We were not being inappropriate."

"Magic," he spits. "Is that what you'd sell your virtue for? Your maidenhood? Worth nothing but a few tricks?"

"What? No! I—!"

"It does not matter if you truly did it," Ormund interrupts. "All that matters is the way it might seem to the passing eye. A whisper in one ear turns to truth in the mouth of another."

"But I didn't do anything! There was another, in the stables," you argue. "An old woman mucking out the stalls. Ask her, she can attest we were simply brushing the mares and—!"

"He did not touch you?"

"No, my lord. On the seven above, I swear it."

You see something rigid relax in him as you say the words aloud. His posture softens, his hands unfurl. Ormund wets his lips and says, "There is still the matter of precedent. I told you not to do something, and you went ahead and did it anyway. On this much we can agree, yes?"

"Yes," you echo.

He nods thoughtfully, steps closer to his four poster bed, and says, "Come."

You do not know quite why, exactly, you feel your heart slow as he says it. The word is rehearsed and familiar and puts you at ease in all the places you've felt wound tight for weeks now. You stand in front of him and await further instruction, and Ormund does not hesitate to give it.

"Remove your dress."

That spark of excitement returns. You obey wordlessly, unlacing the fabric just enough to pull the silk over your shoulders. It falls down your body like water and pools at your feet.

And then, finally, he says, "Kneel."

You do.

Ormund does not sit on the edge of his bed for several moments. He simply exists in the space you've created, drinking up the power he holds over you. He's still fully clothed, wearing a black tunic and leather breaches, towering over your naked body that awaits his instruction.

When he does finally sit, he speaks a word you have not practiced before but it invokes something primal in you all the same.

"Crawl."

You do.

Ormund's chest heaves as you keep your eyes firmly on his, closing the space on all fours. And when you're close enough that you're right between his spread knees, you lay your cheek against the inside of his thigh.

He squeezes his eyes closed, whispering under his breath, so quiet you'd have missed the curse on the tip of his tongue had you not been paying attention.

His throat bobs as he swallows and exhales slowly. When his eyes find you again, there is something akin to wonder in them. "Over my knee."

You assume the practiced position and find yourself slick between your legs before he's even touched you. But you know he sees it, too, when he squeezes your flesh and spreads you open wide enough to feel to cool air touch your cunt.

"Ten," he says lowly. "Because I can see now that you were only acting out in response to my lack of thought for your isolation."

Ormund does not give a warning. He never does. He simply raises his hand and brings it down sharply against the swell of your cheek. The impact is painful and soothing all at the same time, and though your breathing stutters you feel your chest loosening.

You count each and every one in perfect succession, skin growing raised and warm to the touch. You cannot be sure if his hand comes down harder each time or if perhaps you've just grown more and more sensitive.

By the sixth strike, you're throbbing. Your hips move of their own accord, desperate for something to be wedged between them. Your toes curl and your feet cross at the ankles, thighs squeezed together as you try to abate the need.

By the eighth strike, you can feel Ormund's cock pressing against your belly, hard as stone. You cannot bear to look at him, not like this. Because you think you might lose all sense of self if you do, might kneel and beg for him to touch you. To violate you.

"Nine," you hiss, fingers curling in his sheets. You can feel everything, everywhere, all at once. Not just his hand and the way he hits you but his other, pressed firmly to the small of your back to keep you in place. You can feel the leather beneath you and his breath as it fans across your spine. You can feel the cool air that drifts in through the open window pane and the warm lick of the fire across the room.

You can feel your blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the holiness in your body.

"One more," Ormund says. "Breathe, girl."

You obey, sucking in a slow breath of air and letting it fill your belly.

He strikes you on the exhale, and this time his hand stays against your tingling skin.

"Ten," you whimper. It feels as though your bones melt in his hold. The tension in your muscles dissipates, fading to nothing.

Just one touch would be enough. The pressure has become a mountain inside of you and it's on the verge of collapse.

"Are you…enjoying this?"

You cannot lie. Not to him. "Yes," you answer breathlessly.

He hums, a sound at the back of his throat that you're not sure is because he's pleased with you or because he's appalled. You half expect him to strike your backside again.

He does not.

Instead, his hands drift slowly down the back of your thighs. And as his thumbs move, they slide through your slick and your spine arches back of its own volition.

"Oh—" You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the moan that threatens. But it feels so good, better than anything else.

He lifts one hand, and you expect it to hurt when he touches you again. Ormund instead curls his fingers inwards, spreads your knees, and strokes his knuckles through your syrupy folds.

This time there is no chance at holding back your sound of pleasure. It rips through you, deep and heady, goosebumps spreading across your skin.

"So sensitive," he muses, more to himself than words spoken to you. "You've always been such a sensitive girl."

You press yourself backwards, chasing the sensation of his hand. He gently strokes you again, soft enough you'd convince yourself it's a touch of love if you believed he were capable of such a thing.

His knuckles graze over your clit and what was once warmth in your belly now spreads like wildfire beneath your skin.

"Please," you whimper. "More, please. I'll be good, I'll be—I'll be so good, I promise."

"Of course you will be," he says. "You're my perfect girl."

The word clangs around in your emptied mind. Perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect—

Ormund smooths his hand over your cunt, the pressure and roughness of his touch dizzying. He then presses his thumb directly to your clit and you feel all the blood in your body rush to your center. "Do you know what you're asking of me?"

"Yes," you answer truthfully. "I want it to be you. I need it to be. No one else…" You swallow.

"Speak, sweetling," he encourages.

"No one else makes me feel like this," you admit, turning your head to look up at him.

And what you see is catastrophic to your aching heart. Because you've known Ormund all your life, but you've never seen him look like that.

Despaired, hopeless, a slave to the thoughts that plague him. There is such longing in his eyes that it makes your stomach flip. But beneath it all there is understanding—like he relates far too well to your words to ever deny them.

"I could ask for your hand," he mutters. "Though your mother will likely deny me for my allegiance to my cousin and my house."

"So take me." The words come unbidden, a treason in their own right. "Steal me away. Hold me captive, a prisoner of a war not yet waged."

Something dark and searing flares behind his eyes when you speak.

"I am yours," you admit, and you think it may just be the truest thing you have ever said. "The way I have always been."

Ormund growls low, a frustrated sound at the bottom of his chest. He leans forward and presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades. "You are, aren't you."

Not a question.

He sighs, breathing in the scent of your skin deep into his lungs to soothe himself.

You are unsure of what comes next, once the truth of your feelings for him has been laid out in the open.

It feels raw. Like your chest has been cut and your ribcage cracked so he might see your very insides.

What happens next is a kiss upon your shoulder.

Gentle. Devoted. Faithful.

There is a deep crease between his brows, and you can feel evidence of hesitation in his hands.

"You are troubled," you observe aloud. "Is it because of me?"

He winces as if you'd struck him. As if the words were far more painful than anything he's ever done to you. Ormund's jaw feathers, and he breathes in deeply before saying, "Of course not. You have never…"

He shakes his head, swallows, and tries again.

"Understand this; my feelings for you do not come from a righteous place. I should feed you, guide you, protect you, and do nothing else. You should not be here now. I should not want this. Or—or you."

"But you…do?" It sounds mousy as you ask it, said with an unsure tongue.

"I do," he admits in a hoarse whisper.

There is pain in his eyes as he says it. As if this feeling has been sitting in the depths of him for some time, and only now does he allow himself to succumb to it.

You move. You are uncertain and cautious as you do, but you will strength into your limbs anyway. Climbing into his lap, straddling his hips, winding your hands around his shoulders and tugging gently at the hair at his nape. "You don't have to take," you say, so close now you're breathing in his air. "Not if I give."

His stare is heavy and dark. Full of more longing and lust than you have ever seen exist in a man before.

You close the distance. Ormund freezes, unmoving as you press your lips to his experimentally. He tastes of smoke and cedar, of steel and blood, of safety and familiarity.

He tastes of home.

When you pull back, his chest heaves and his hands curl into the sheets. The thought crosses your mind that he is angry with you—furious, even.

But Ormund does not shout or raise a hand to strike you.

He grabs you by the back of the neck and crushes his mouth to yours. Less experimental and less nervous than you were.

Ormund kisses you like he's starving.

His lips move against yours, soft and wanting. And when his tongue slips between them, he moans into your mouth as he tastes the inside of it.

It is a battle of a different kind. He bites and sucks and licks, and you try to meet his fervor. You are just as desperate, but Ormund is untamed. A feral dog let off its leash.

Your center throbs and you whimper, rolling your hips on top of him to abate the feeling. He is still fully dressed while you sit naked in his bruising grip, and you suddenly want nothing more than to feel his bare skin beneath your fingertips.

When you tug at the buttons of his tunic, Ormund's hands find yours to assist your clumsy movements. He is much faster than you are, and tugs the garment over his head the moment he is able.

There, along the left side of his abdomen, is a jagged wound.

You pause to press your fingers tenderly to the angry, red skin. His muscles are strong and hard beneath your touch. Though the stitches are removed now and the wound is mostly healed, he still winces at the pressure of your fingertips.

Without thinking, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the scarred skin.

Ormund melts beneath your affection. And then he brackets his arms around your waist and turns you both, laying you flat against the mattress. He kneels between your legs, seeming so large and intimidating from the new angle.

His hands find your face, feeling your skin. They move slowly over your bones, down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, your navel, your hips. As if he were trying to memorize this particular moment by sight and touch alone.

"I have thought of this more times than I could ever say," Ormund tells you. He settles low, hovering over your body, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat.

His lips follows the same path as his hands, peppering wet kisses over your skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake.

"Your taste, you scent, your sweetness—I have dreamt of it," he continues. His tongue circles your navel once before moving further down. And when he kisses your pubic bone, Ormund pauses. Looks up at you through dark lashes, his stare soft but still no less intense. "Is this where you ache, sweetling?"

The words feel filthy and depraved and so delicious that you whine. "Yes," you tell him, squirming. "Will you kiss me there?"

A malevolent smirk forms on his pretty mouth. "More," he answers.

And with no warning at all, Ormund licks a stripe through your heat, tongue flat and soft and so very wet.

It sends you reeling. The sensation, the sensitivity—him. "Oh, gods, I—"

He does it again, this time licking back down as well. Ormund moans low and the vibration of the sound spreads through you mercilessly. Again, and again, and again, his tongue laves through your apex. You feel yourself clench, muscles pulled taut.

Your spine bends off the mattress and your hands come to his head, fingers twisting in his soft curls, pulling his mouth impossibly closer.

When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks gently, your vision blurs. Everything else in the world fades to nothing, every sensation muted apart from the pleasure his warm mouth brings.

Ormund is relentless. He doesn't stop, even when you're writhing and gasping for air. His face flushes and you can feel his stare on you even when you can no longer keep your eyes open.

It's far better than linens between your legs, far more intense. It doesn't take long before you become a trembling mess, legs shaking around his head, heels digging into his spine as you scramble to find some sort of purchase.

And then it happens—a searing pleasure, ripping through you mercilessly. Light flashes behind your eyes and your spine arches and your fingers tighten in his hair.

He licks and sucks you through it, making those sweet, rumbling groans all the while, as if this is more for his pleasure than yours.

The bliss is blinding and fizzles out slowly, leaving remnants of euphoria behind. Only then does he settle, tongue slowing as it slides through your wet heat with less pressure now.

When he finally pulls his mouth away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are glossy with your arousal. "Better," Ormund whispers. "Far better than I ever could have dreamed."

You can hardly react to his praise, too lost in the feeling he'd given you. "I did not know it could be like that," you admit, breathless. "That it could be so…"

"Perfect," he finishes for you. And you think, yes. He is perfect.

Maybe not in everything, but for you.

Ormund crawls over you until you are face to face once more. He is heavy on top of you, muscles thick and smothering in the best way. His length presses against your hip, so hard now you can feel the pulse of it.

He kisses your mouth but this time it's slower. Softer. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating.

His hands cradle your face far gentler than another ever has. It is dizzying, the way he can bring such pain and still grant such ease.

You wriggle your arm beneath his abdomen, reaching for the metal of his belt buckle.

Ormund groans, but you feel the way his lips turn up just slightly against yours. "Greedy girl," you says, pulling away to nuzzle your cheek with the tip of his nose. "I have warned you against overindulgence endlessly."

He speaks true, but you have never listened to his warnings. Have always bent the rules until they break, have retained a sharp tongue and a love for all that might destroy you.

Including him, you suppose.

"Will you deny me, then?"

"No." Ormund shakes his head. "Never in all my life."

It eases something in you to hear the response. To know this is a sin you share, a mirrored reflection of one another.

He leans backwards, just enough to unbuckle his breeches and remove them. His cock is larger than you'd anticipated. Thick and veiny and flushed at the tip, hanging heavy between his legs and decorated with a thatch of dark, coarse hair at the base.

Ormund kneels in front of you, staring hard, watching you take all of him in for the first time.

He's beautiful, you think. Strong and powerful and profound. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, your brain going fuzzy again, carnal impulses beginning to take hold.

"I can be gentle," he says. "If that is what you need."

But it's not gentle you want. You want him—with all his sharpness, with all his anger. The totality of it; his heart, his soul, his body. If it hurts, you think it is meant to. "What I need," you whisper, "is you."

He watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face, trying to find hesitance that doesn't exist. And then he nods, leans forward to kiss your temple, and says, "You will tell me if it becomes too much."

You swear to him that you will.

Ormund takes his cock in his hand and slides the head of it through your center, coating his length in your wetness. Each stroke of him over your clit has you sighing, hips canting towards the sensation.

He lines himself up at your entrance, and your attention is so focused on his movements between your legs that it startles you when he uses the other to grab your face.

Ormund's fingers curl tightly around your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to look at him. "Eyes here," he says, voice firm.

And then, gently, he begins to push in.

The stretch of him burns, but it is not terrible. It simply aches, and you whimper a distorted version of his name but he does not stop. He keeps going until he's fully seated inside of you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly.

All the while, he keeps his big hand around your jaw, squeezing so tightly it momentarily distracts from the throbbing of your cunt.

Ormund touches his forehead to yours, breathing in your air. He says, "You are so fucking perfect."

And it makes you moan.

He starts to move, slowly at first. Pulling out of you tenderly just to slide right back in. A few strokes, encouraging your endurance. Sweet and soft and loving.

"Feels so—so full," you say, whimpers falling from your lips.

Ormund pulls out again, nearly all the way this time. He still forces you to look at him, and you can see the desperation enter his eyes mere moments before he slams his cock in deep.

There is nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.

Your vision goes blurry and the air vanishes from your lungs as if it'd never existed there in the first place. The force of it aches so deliciously you feel pressure begin to form behind your eyes. "Oh god—!"

He does it again, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into you. "My perfect girl," he mutters against your lips. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." Your hands find his shoulders, fingernails digging into the thick muscle .

"Do you wish for me to stop?"

That familiar warmth spreads someplace deeper than before. Not just your belly but in your womb. "No, please don't—don't stop."

Ormund turns your head just enough to press his own against the side of your cheek. He inhales the scent of your skin and a low growl reverberates in his chest.

Finally, blessedly, he picks up the pace. Hips grinding hard against yours, finding a rhythm that feels somehow both satisfying and violent. He breathes shallowly against your cheek, pressing kisses to your jaw that feel so tender in comparison to the way he fucks you.

And when he reaches between your bodies with his free hand to find you clit, you think you might die. It's too much, too sensitive. Your toes curl and your spine arches, pressing your breasts against his chest. The only word you seem to have held onto in your bliss is, "Please. Please, please—oh god, please."

"You beg so prettily," he says. "Almost like you were made for it. Made to kneel before me. Made to be mine."

The possessiveness in his tone alone has you teetering on the precipice of release. You'd given yourself freely to him, willingly—but Ormund still manages to take. Your innocence, your purity, your heart.

You're falling. Bliss blinds you, thighs trembling, nerve endings coiled and white-hot. His name falls from your mouth and Ormund kisses you hard to swallow up the sound.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "There you go, sweetling. Give it to me. My perfect girl."

He doesn't stop, even when tremors rock through your body. He keeps fucking his cock into you without remorse, fingers moving over your clit in tight circles, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher until you feel like you might burst with it.

The pace of his hips falters, and then he's groaning low against the curve of your neck and laying wet, open-mouthed kisses against your pulse. With his cock buried inside of you, he fills you with his release, painting your insides all sticky and white.

Ormund gives a couple of slow thrusts, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, before gently pulling out of you and rolling to his side.

It is not you who reaches for comfort first.

His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you across the mattress and into his warm embrace.

You nestle beneath his arm, head resting against his shoulder. He is so large and the heat of his skin is so comforting. Familiar in some ways, despite this being the first time you've ever been so close.

That same warmth that emanates from him seeps through your bones and touches your fast-beating heart. A delighted giggle escapes you, and you can feel Ormund's mouth turn up into a smile against your forehead.

He tilts your chin up so you're facing him. "What is it that you find so amusing?"

You shake your head. "Nothing, just...I am—I am happy."

His smile softens into something heavier, but no less pleased. You don't believe you've ever seen him look this way. So vulnerable. Benevolent, even.

Silence settles for some time. And you would be content to stay here, skin tingling in the aftermath of bliss, safe in his arms. But there is something weighing on him, and you can feel it in the stiffness of his hands that stroke gently over your hip.

When you can stand his distance no longer, you ask, "Is there something wrong?"

He doesn't answer right away, which frays the edges of your comfort. But then he says delicately, "I have something for you. A gift."

"A gift?" You prop yourself up on an elbow. "From the Citadel?"

"No," Ormund answers. "I'd had it made for you some time before my journey. But I—it is not a…kindness, exactly. More a token of my own grotesque worship of you."

Your brows furrow in confusion. "What is it?"

Ormund untangles himself from the sheets, unkempt and messy now below you. He crosses the chamber to his wardrobe and pulls open a drawer.

It is hard to see from so far away, but you watch as he takes something hesitantly in his hand before returning to the bedside.

"I…I sometimes believe that I have been shackled to you by the gods themselves," he begins. "Fated to bend my own morals in response to my longing for you. I am but a wolf coiled around a lamb and there will never be anything else, not for me."

You don't understand. It makes a million questions form in your mind, none easily answered.

Ormund swallows thickly. "I am a slave to your affection," he says. It makes your chest pull tight. "I do not deserve your softness but I will never turn it away so long as you continue to give it."

He extends his hand in front of you, opening his palm to display the prettiest necklace you've ever seen. Made of glittering emerald stones and a silken black ribbon.

You reach out to touch it on instinct, and Ormund lets you take it from him. But as you do, witnessing the lack of length, realization dawns on you. "This heralds a collar," you say.

Ormund nods slowly. "I only wished for you to be…possessed by me, the way I have been possessed by you."

A response does not come easily.

There is a part of you that knows this is not the way of things. A man should love his lady. Should be kind and respectful. He should certainly not place a collar around her neck as if she is owned property or a family pet.

But there is…something else, too. A part of you where desire sparks at the thought of being so wholly his, of surrendering to whatever fate may befall you so long as it is done by his own hand. There is peace in it. And certainty.

"I'd told myself to get rid of it a thousand times, but there has always been a hope within me that perhaps one day you might return my wretched affections," he says. "It is yours. But if you are to wear it, you must do so willingly."

The decision feels heavy. Weighted.

But you do not need long to decide.

You hand the necklace back to Ormund, who takes it hesitantly from your grasp.

And then you turn, facing away from him but looking over your shoulder to ask, "Will you tie it for me?"

He smiles, and there is something deeply fragile in it. Almost boyish, as if this is the first time in all his life he has ever felt truly loved by another.

Ormund kisses the back of your neck and sets the ribbon in place around your throat.

And when he ties it, he pulls the ribbon tight.

the annoyingly bright florescent lights of the star court mall boutique hummed, casting a bright glow over the racks of neon fabrics and denim. you walked past the displays, your arms already heavy with a couple of records and a new guitar strap you’d managed to find for eddie’s birthday. shopping for your older brother was usually easy—just find anything black, studded, or related to heavy metal—but today, a stray mannequin near the back of the store had caught your eye.

it was wearing a dress. it wasn't your usual style at all—no baggy band tees or flowy maxy dresses to hide behind. usually, you avoided shorter, more revealing cuts. finding clothes that fit right was always a gamble, especially with a bigger chest; things either pulled too tight across your top or ended up looking like a shapeless tent.

but this one was different. it was a deep brown tone, with a slightly lower neckline and a hemline that hit a few inches above the knee. something about the cut made you pause.

“why not?” you muttered to yourself, slipping the hanger off the rack before you could talk yourself out of it.

in the dingy changing room, you set eddiems birthday gifts down and carefully stepped into the dress. as you pulled it up and adjusted the straps, you braced yourself for the usual disappointment. you reached for the zipper, waiting for it to catch, but it slid up smoothly.

turning to face the full-length mirror, your eyes widened.

the dress didn't just fit—it looked incredible. the lower neckline framed your breasts perfectly without feeling uncomfortable, and the fabric hugged your curves in exactly the right places before flaring out slightly at the waist. the shorter length felt fun and bold, completely different from the baggier, long clothes you were usually forced to opt for anyway.

for the first time in a long time, you didn't see the flaws in the mirror. you just saw how vibrant and confident you looked. a massive smile broke across your face, and you twirled slightly, watching the fabric move.

you couldn't wait to buy it. eddie’s birthday party was the perfect excuse to finally wear something that made you feel this spectacular.

hours had passed since then. now, you stood in front of your bedroom mirror, smoothing your hands down the fabric of the dress one last time. seeing yourself like this—confident, vibrant, and wearing something that actually made you feel amazing—felt entirely new, and you couldn't help but smile at your reflection.

a sharp knock on the door broke the quiet. "hey, kid! you ready? everyone’s waiting, and i am ready to celebrate!" eddie’s voice boomed from the hallway.

"yeah, just a second!" you called back.

remembering that eddie would definitely be celebrating with a few beers tonight, you walked over to your nightstand and snatched his van keys. as the designated driver for the night, you slipped them safely into your purse before opening the door. eddie took one look at you, gave a proud, approving nod at seeing his little sister looking so happy and confident, and the two of you headed out to the van.

the drive to steve’s house was filled with the usual loud music and eddie drumming on the steering wheel, but your heart raced a little faster as you pulled into the driveway.

when you walked through the front door, the crowded house seemed to fade into the background the exact second steve looked up. he caught sight of you from across the room, and his jaw practically dropped. he didn't even say goodbye to the person he was talking to. he walked straight over to you, his eyes locked onto yours, full of absolute adoration.

"hey, gorgeous," steve breathed, his voice warm and filled with awe as he stepped into your space. he immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest. "you look... absolutely stunning. i can't even take my eyes off you."

"you like it?" you asked, a flush of happiness hitting your cheeks.

“i love it. i love everything about it," he murmured, his hands resting securely on your waist, completely unwilling to let you go. he leaned down, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your forehead and temple, mumbling against your skin about how incredible you looked.

your cheeks tinged red as they began to grow hot, making you curl up in his touch. you gently pushed at his chest and broke free from his grasp. “i’m gonna get a drink. you want anything?”

steve was right. he literally couldn’t take his eyes off of you. they didn’t even know where the focus. they were trailing down from your face, to your chest, all the way down to your shoes, and back up to repeat the cycle in a scrambled order. “just, uhm…” his voice trailed off, licking his lips as he admired how beautifully this dress fit. “beer. just a beer please, honey.”

he looked like a sad puppy for entirety of your walk to his fridge. he couldn't breathe. he actually couldn't breathe. the fact that everyone could see you in that pretty dress while he had to watch from afar, irked him in a way he wasn’t ready to admit.

and the moment you returned, he was cracking open the bottle cap with his teeth and pulling you into him, your chest flush to his with his big hand splayed over your back. “you look like a fucking dream, you know that?”

steve was already one or two beers deep from the casual sips while setting up, the alcohol stripping away his usual composure and replacing it with a desperate, starving hunger. he didn't just want you; he was fucking obsessed.

he had spent the last hour practically glued to your side, his body pressing into yours every chance he got. he wasn't subtle either. his hand was permanently anchored to you, his fingers digging into the soft, plush curve of your tummy, kneading the skin through the fabric of the dress. he loved how you felt—how soft and yielding you were. he kept sliding his hand down, pawing at the fat of your hips, squeezing your flesh with a needy intensity. and the moment he pressed himself tight up against your side, you could feel exactly how hard he was under his jeans.

"god, you're so beautiful," he groaned, his voice thick and hazy. he leaned in, his breath smelling of beer and smoke, pressing wet, sloppy kisses all over your cheeks, your jawline, and the sensitive skin of your neck. he was practically vibrating against you. "you have no idea, honey... i can't even think. i can't even fucking look at anyone else."

he shifted closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to a filthy, guttural whisper. "i want you so bad. i want to feel every inch of you. please, baby... just let me take you upstairs. i’ll be so quick, i promise. no one’ll even notice we’re gone... just me and you. i need to get you out of this dress. i need to taste you."

you chuckled and lightly pushed at his chest to create some space between the two of you. “steve, we can’t just leave. it’s my brother’s party,” you reasoned, pecking his lips to help soften the rejection. “what if someone find us hiding up there?”

he towered back over your, lazily mouthing at your neck. “we can go to the car,” he suggested, completely intoxicated by you. he couldn’t help but suck a deep purple bruise just below the neckline of your dress. one wrong move and everyone would see it. “no one will come looking for us out there.”

when you finally nodded, a small, breathless smile on your lips, steve let out a sound that was half-moan, half-sob. he didn't just walk you out— he practically steered you, his hands unable to stay still for a single second.

as you led him toward the door, you couldn’t help but anxiously glance around for any eyes watching. steve followed close behind you, his large palms gripping your ass, squeezing the soft cheeks through the dress, pulling you back against his hardness with every step. he was extremely bold and clingy from the beer and the desperation, his hands wandering upward, reaching around to paw at your breasts. he kneaded them firmly, his thumbs brushing over your nipples through the cloth, his breath hot and ragged against your shoulder.

"so big," he whimpered, his voice trembling. "so fucking soft. i’m going to devour you the second we hit that seat."

your felt another flicker of anxiety, glancing back at the house where the party was still roaring. "steve, stop," you whispered, your voice a mix of a plea and a command. "slow down. someone’s going to see us. we’re in the middle of the street—what if someone walks by?"

steve didn't even flinch. he stopped for a second, pulling you flush against his hard chest, his eyes dark and clouded with lust. a smirk played on his lips, arrogant and completely smitten.

"let them," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, possessive growl. "i don't give a fuck. i want them to see. i want everyone to know exactly how crazy my gorgeous girl makes me. i want them to see how much I need you."

you stopped dead in your tracks and turned to face him. you tried to keep your face stern, masking the smile that was tugging at the corners of your mouth. You put your hands on his chest, pushing him back just an inch, your eyes narrowing.

"no," you said firmly, your voice taking on a sharp, assertive edge. "you are going to behave. You will wait two minutes until we get to the car, and then you can do whatever you want. do you understand?"

the effect on steve was instantaneous. he didn't fight you. instead, he practically melted. the sight of you taking charge, putting him in his place with that stern look, sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to his groin. he looked at you with wide, dilated pupils, his chest heaving.

he nodded submissively, his head bobbing almost like a little puppy, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he fought the urge to just pin you against the nearest fence. he loved it. he absolutely loved being told what to do by you. he was exactly where he wanted to be—completely at your fingertips and utterly desperate for the moment you finally let him lose control.

"yes, ma'am," he whispered, his voice shaking with anticipation. "whatever you want. just... please, can we hurry?"

by the time you reached the van at the end of the street, steve was barely holding it together. he damn near ripped the back doors off the hinges, lifted you you inside, and practically tackled you onto the bench seat, his eyes wide and glazed with a primal, unfiltered hunger for every single curve of your body.

the moment the van doors slammed shut, the silence of the street was replaced by the frantic, desperate sounds of steve’s breathing. he didn't just want you, he was literally starving for you. he descended on you like a man possessed, his hands shaking as he gripped the fabric of your dress. “fuck, honey. need you so bad.” he loved how you looked in it, but the need to feel your bare skin was overriding everything. he practically ripped the fabric down, the dress sliding over your hips to reveal the lush, soft curves he had been dreaming about all night.

when your breasts finally spilled out, free and heavy, steve let out a choked, guttural sound. he didn't even wait. he collapsed on top of you, his heavy weight pinning you into the bench seat, and dove straight for your chest.

"god, look at them... look at you," he whimpered, his voice broken. he began nursing on your breast with a primal intensity, his lips sealing around one large, soft nipple as he sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the peak. he was a complete fucking mess, his face flushed, his eyes glazed over with pure adoration. “jesus christ, baby. you’re gonna fucking kill me in this pretty thing.” he moved from one breast to the other, licking, biting, and sucking on the pale skin, leaving a trail of wet, hot marks across your chest. he was completely enamored by the size and softness of them, his hands palming your breasts, squeezing them together to push them closer to his mouth.

"so perfect... fuck, you're so fucking perfect," he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick and needy.

while he was devouring your breasts, his hips were grinding relentlessly into you, his hard length pressing against your center. he could feel your cunt soaking straight through the thin fabric of your underwear. he fumbled with his belt, the metallic clinking of the buckle sounding frantic in the small space. he didn't take his eyes off you for a second, his gaze hungry and devoted. with a desperate grunt, he freed his huge, pulsing cock and guided himself to your opening.

he slid into you slowly, a long, deep stretch that filled you completely. steve let out a loud, melodic moan, his head falling back against the seat as he felt the crushing tightness of your cunt. he was shaking, his entire body trembling from the sheer sensation of being inside you.

“oh god... you're so tight... so fucking warm," he gasped, his voice straining. he began to rut into you, his hips moving in slow, heavy thrusts that drove him deeper and deeper. he wasn't just fucking you; it’s like he was trying to merge into one with you, wanting to be as close as humanly possible.

every time he pushed forward, his hands stayed glued to your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, lifting them up so he could watch them bounce with every thrust. the mix of hushed whispers, of praise and desperation and moans, in your ear was enough to make you want to scream.

it doesn’t take long until his hot mouth is back on your breasts, sucking hard and licking at your peaked nipples. it was all too much. “oh! stevie, mmph! please— need to slow down,” you whined, blinking back the thick tears pooling in your eyes. “i can’t— fuck, i can’t mess up my makeup.”

he released your skin with a wet pop and pressed a long, sweet kiss to your lips. “we’ll get you fixed up later, honey. oh, fuck. i promise,” he gasped out. "i can't... i can't even think when i’m looking at your tits," he groaned, his pace picking up, becoming more frantic. "i love them so much. i love every fucking inch of you. shit, i’m not gonna last... baby, i’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that... fuck, i need you... i need all of you."

he was a shipwreck of a man, completely undone by your body, his moans filling the van as he drove himself into your warmth, obsessed with the way you felt and the way you looked beneath him.

with a sudden, powerful surge of strength, steve gripped your hips and rolled you both over in one fluid motion. he sat up against the back of the van seats, his back against the cool leather and your legs situated on either side of his thighs, seating you firmly on top of him.

the change in position was electric. now, you were the one in control, bouncing slowly on his huge cock, and the view for steve was nothing short of heavenly. your heavy breasts were perfectly positioned right in his face, swaying and jiggling with every downward press. he looked up at you with eyes that were completely blown out, his expression one of pure, unfiltered worship.

as you sank down, the small patch of coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbed perfectly against your clit, creating a friction that had you gasping and arching your back into him. steve let out a strangled noise, his hands immediately flying to your body. one hand stayed anchored to your clit, his fingers dancing over the sensitive nub in a rhythmic, driving motion that pushed you closer to the edge, while the other hand gripped your breast, pulling it firmly into his mouth.

he began to suck on you again, his tongue swirling around your nipple while he looked up at you through his lashes. he wasn't just focused on the sex; he was obsessed with your entire body. he reached down, his large hand sliding over the soft, pillowy curve of your tummy, his fingers digging into the plushness of your thighs. he loved the way your skin felt—soft, warm, and abundant. he was a complete sucker for every single curve, every fold of your beautiful body.

"you’re so perfect," he whispered, his voice a ragged, shaking mess. "god, i’m the luckiest man in the fucking world. looking at you, feeling you... you're an angel, baby. you’re fucking unreal."

he started to thrust upward with a sudden, violent intensity, his hips snapping up to meet your descent. he wanted to feel the impact, wanted to see the way your tits bounced and jiggled harder with every heavy hit. he was practically whimpering now, the sound of his desperation filling the cramped space of the van.

Ormund Hightower that doesn't stop fucking his wife throughout her pregnancy because her cunt is so deliciously swollen from carrying his babe that he gets even more addicted to it than he was before. Whenever he can he has her on her back or on her hands and knees, careful not to squish her stomach while rutting into her with vigor.

Ormund Hightower who becomes obsessed with his lady wife —spoiling her whenever he can with the softest silks, beautiful new ribbons and sweet, sweet perfume that only makes him want to spend more time with her.

Ormund Hightower finding out he adores the smell of her skin — something entirely hers mixed with the smell of the milk that leaks from her breasts the closer to the due date she is. He loves how she smells, he loves that he partly is the reason of why it's happening.

Ormund Hightower that cannot stop himself from nursing from her breast after the baby is born, latching onto her nipple and drinking the sweet like honey and so so delicious. He loves to lay with her in their bed, head on her chest as she cradle it. It's intimate and so sensual and he loves hearing her gasp and whine while his mouth is closed around her.

Ormund Hightower pretending he has no idea what is happening while maester is surprised that her milk still haven't dried up because their babe is fed by nursemaids so why would his lady wife still produce it?

Ormund Hightower that gets her with another babe as soon as she feels strong enough to bear another, making her swell with his babe again, while carrying a squealing, giggling infant on her hip — a sight that makes his heart swell and a smile to form on his face all by itself

taglist: @ghostlybfgf @userhotd @qardasngan @elisabethturner1919 @sczlxdy @itspbjellytime @morriganstark @aerangi

You, who were chosen because Sage clearly remembers the day you slapped your boyfriend for saying something stupid (Accusing you of cheating, which you 100% were) and gaslit him so hard he came back within the hour with flowers and begging for your forgiveness.

You, who were chosen because Sage also recalls how at all times you always had three or more men on your roster because "if you have three, it assure you can never catch feelings for one"

You, who eventually get bored, just for the fun of it turn your sights to Homelander because you couldn't help just how easy he would be.

Homelander who never took any real notice of you other than the fact you were a pretty face, but Sage brought you on, so you had to have something. It made him suspicious of you.

Homelander, who began to understand your appeal when theories began to circle around you. He watched as people spun their own tales about you based off a few clips. One of you holding a baby, another of you back in your college days helping a girl, and the final one of you being surrounded by dogs from a pound.

Homelander, who began to pay more attention to you once you approached him. He was desired by many, but they didn't know him, you did. You were always there, so you knew him, if only a little.

Homelander, who started speaking more honestly with you around. You ignored everyone else in the Seven besides him and it's weak he knows, but he basks in that knowledge that you only pay attention to him.

Homelander, who thinks the best of you because you never mess up. (There's nothing to mess up) You never undermine him. You boost his public image whenever you appear beside him, so he stays beside you often. (Try as he might, he still needs validation)

Homelander, who preens at the little compliments you give him. Feels a shiver travel down his spine when you whisper a small "I'm proud of you."

Homelander, who grows confused when you start to pull away. Suddenly you're paying more attention to your phone than to him.

Homelander, who tries to act unaffected by the look you've just given him after trying to talk to you.

You, who a week back picked up what Sage put down. There were coordinates. Ever curious, you go, and you find someone delicious.

You who finds Bombsight and figure out who's better than him to add to your super roster.

Bombsight, who is adamant he's the one in control in this little tango between the two of you.

Bombsight, who says you're not getting a relationship out of him. All you say is "I'll change your mind."

Bombsight is sure you won't, until you both start doing things people would do in a relationship. You call him every night. You fall asleep on the phone with him. You call him baby, love, and all the other sweet names that come with being in a relationship.

Bombsight, who is beginning to enjoy the perks of having a relationship without ever being in one, and he is sure he's got you.

Bombsight knows he has you when you start telling him things like "I've never opened up to anyone like this before" and "I feel like I've known you forever."

You who's got Bombsight right where you want him, so you turn your attention back to Homelander. You've only gotten caught twice in your entire career of playing men. Once, it was a rookie mistake; he got hold of your phone. Second time? You didn't lay the groundwork well enough to be able to gaslight him into thinking you were never cheating.

You, who, at this point, have gotten so used to cheating, you don't even think it's taboo. It's a normal, and expected even, that you're bound to cheat. Your heart rate doesn't speed up because you know your little weirdo (Homelander) can hear it.

You who make sure none of your males ever align unless they're best friends who know how to keep their mouths shut and don't want to lose their friendship.

You who never keeps your phone out in the open for anyone to grab or take, and your cute pink iPad hidden somewhere no one would care to look.

You who makes sure all tangible proof can be misconstrued.

Homelander, who is starting to have withdrawals from your lack of affection. He's getting more snappy. Having more fantasies of lasering someone from the press in half.

Homelander, who, in his desperation and lack of you, lets his father, Soldier Boy, out of cryo, doesn't know he's just given you your third bitch on the roster.

You, who jumps for joy when you see Soldier Boy, and YOU KNOW it's free eats, because he screams that he's easy as hell.

Homelander, who would never assume you'd do anything with anyone else because you told him that if you ever caught him with someone else, you'd be quick to leave the Seven. Safe to say he dropped Firecracker pretty fast.

Homelander, who still gets worried when Soldier Boy goes sniffing around you, and you entertain it. But no! You'd never cheat on him, how could you when you said you'd leave him and everything else if you ever found out. He doesn't want you to leave.

Soldier Boy, who yearns to take you from his weird ass son when you tell him that he's forced you into this faux relationship, and your life and family are on the line.

Soldier Boy, who kisses you any time he can. Behind a door, in your room, in the room of the Seven when he knows Homelander is gone.

Soldier Boy, who relaxes because you give him everything he could ever want. You shower him in compliments that he doesn't think deep enough, because if he did, he'd realize they're all backhanded. But he's too busy coming to you for all the things Clara and Crimson Countess ever did for him.

Soldier Boy, who knows you chose him because you always tell him so. Over and over you whisper that it's him. That you think he's the one, that you've never been more sure about anyone other than him.

Soldier Boy, who think's stupid at first but then grows to crave your words.

Soldier Boy, who doesn't even realize you begin to just barely giving him anything, and yet he can't understand why he gets this rush of you giving him something he's not supposed to have. Maybe it's because his son is obsessed with you and had you first.

Soldier Boy, who says you want to leave it all and go off with him somewhere. He lets the idea warm him.

You, who can't help but smile at it all.

Bombsight, who still answers your call because he loves what you tell him. You call him, telling him you missed his voice. You text him, calling him your handsome boy.

You, who had mastered the art of ★Love Bombing★ and have made sure to integrate yourself into Bombsight's routine.

You, who makes sure you're the first person he wakes up to, and the last voice he goes to sleep hearing, and always making sure to sprinkle in a good dose of telling him "Baby, I just think you're the one." All the while in the next room, Soldier Boy is fucking his hand because you left him all hot and bothered, not even five minutes before you called Bombsight.

Bombsight, who thinks you might be perfect for him with your little phrases that delight him when you tell him, "We're so alike it's scary because I feel the exact same way!"

Bombsight, who starts thinking about giving you the V1 to keep you around forever. You're already a supe; some V1 just makes sure you stay forever.

Bombsight, who starts imagining a life with you when you start using "us" and "our" consistently so much so he would think it abnormal for it to be any other way.

Bombsight, who takes everything you give him and keeps it close to his heart. You told him, "I'd never leave you," after he told you about Golden Geisha.

Bombsight, who mourned in your arms Goldie and you let him without ever telling him anything and he knows you'll stay.

You, who has to suppress a smile every time you see any of your hoes.

You, who starts to hang around more with Soldier Boy, but you never do anything with him. Never letting it go beyond kissing and heavy petting.

Homelander, who is starting to get insecure with how much time you spend with Soldier Boy, so he starts changing anything and everything about himself for any small comment you make. You told him you liked his blonde hair, and that warm feeling tingled down his spine. You then told him that his roots are showing. He's damn near in the hair salon every day, making sure his roots are never visible.

Soldier Boy, who starts to get annoyed when he has to deal with seeing more and more public outings of you and Homelander.

Soldier Boy, who hates seeing Homelander having his hand on some part of you at all times.

Soldier Boy, who has to hold himself back whenever Homelander presses a kiss to your temple and you make those pleading eyes to Soldier Boy to save you. He just hasn't figured out a way to do so yet.

Soldier Boy, that casually mentions kids as a way to distract you from his weird-ass son. He tells you he wants three kids, you agree, and say you'd want them to be raised in the country. He couldn't agree more.

Soldier Boy, who tells you he wants all boys, but you warm him up to the idea of having a couple of girls, and from then on can't stop thinking about having little girls who look just like you.

You, who all the while keeps Homelander with the facade that you're a virgin and he thrives off of that, seeing as the damn fool thinks he's god now, and now you fit perfectly in his little story.

You, who knows it won't be long till Soldier Boy breaks, and his only 'relationship' is gone. And you, for one, can't wait to see that day happen.

Homelander, who agrees to wait, never knowing his father has only just earned the right to eat you out and nothing more.

Soldier Boy, who is training himself to get off from just eating you out, because it's all you're giving him. But he can't bring himself to care all that much because no one else is getting you this way.

Bombsight, who laughs at both of them because he knows he's the one for you. (He's not) Why? Because he's the one that gets to fuck you.

Robbie is good at hiding. He's always been good at the sort of thing. So when he starts wanting you in more ways than one, he's also pretty good at hiding that.

Robbie can't have a relationship with you, but maybe something a little more than what you both have now —A situationship is what they call it nowadays no?

Maybe it wouldn't hurt. Shit, every time he sees you, cooking for him, waking up across the room from him, in his clothes, using his products to shower, his cock twitches and thickens in his pants. He can only just barely hide his need for you. Just barely, with teasing and making small comments that if you ever needed to, you can always sleep with him.

You took his offer. He was dead asleep when he felt you hugging him. Well after that, it wasn't long till Robbie was snapping his hips up into you with ferocity trying to hide the fact that he's bee lonely for so long.

And your sweet words in such a short time are getting him to rethink everything.

Sweet woman.

He's looking up at you as he sinks his cock into your soaked cunt as your straddling him. His mouth is agape as he looking at you as you give him shaky moans and needy whimpers from your pouty, swollen lips. Swollen because he's kissed you too hard. But you never seem to mind, every time he kisses you he feels your walls twitch around his cock.

He wants better lighting, he needs better lighting to see what he's sure is an ethereal sight of you above him.

Robbie thinks this is lust. This is just pure pure lustful sex, but fuck! You're just so good for him.

He's special to you. You can trust him. You've given yourself to him. Maybe he's an awful guy for taking advantage of you like this, but after all your sweet words of making him feel like he's the only one for you. Robbie just can't help himself.

Even now, he can't help himself because you're close enough that he can make out your starry eyes looking down on him all sweet and he knows that he's not gonna be able to let you go like he should.

"Please Robbie!" It's all you can manage to say. It sounds so good to him. Sounds so good the way his name sound rolls off your tongue and Robbie has to remind himself to not grip you too hard lest you break.

You told him you don't do this and yet you're on top of his whining that you wanna cum, and Robbie is thoroughly enjoying every single bit of it. Pleasure that only he can give you. “Yeah? Go ahead. Fuck, don’t let me stop you, pretty girl.” And the sight that follows, well, he can live in the moment for eternity. Your eyes squeeze shut before you’re creaming around his cock, his hands moving up your sides before cupping your face and pulling you into a sloppy, wet, bruising kiss.

Theres a bliss that blooms in Robbie whenever he feels your heartbeat race around him. It flushes every part of him when he can feel and hear your heartbeat, desperately trying to keep up. Even more so as he's kissing you, filling you up with his load while you moan and breathe your sighs across his lips in a tone he's sure his next wet dream will be about.

Robbie his holding on to you as he comes down from his orgasm and still lost in his hormone-drunken haze when he suddenly flips you and has you under him all the while he presses soft slow kisses over your face. He bathes in the sweet sounds of your whimpers at the over stimulation. He pulls back, looking down at you, and you have this dreamy look on his face that punches him in the gut when he recalls that he told you he can't ever be with you.

You give him a sweet smile and his cock twitches awake inside of your tight walls once more.

Maybe it doesn't sound like all that bad of an idea.

Soldier Boy, who tells you about the supe killing virus.

You, who starts to panic, because no one ever said your life would really be in danger. Males, you can handle. A virus? You're not so sure.

Soldier Boy, who comforts you by saying that both of you need to find Bombsight because he has the V1 and that it's the cure.

You, who gives a smile and a small laugh before agreeing. Your dumbass man, who says he's gonna work with Homelander to find it and then give it to you.

You, who knows you're gonna get in about a week, tops.

Bombsight, who can't get a clear reading on you. One moment you text him back within ten minutes, other times you don't respond after 10. But he knows you're online because you post on your social media. Small pictures every now and then.

Bombsight, who calls you out about not responding to him, but somehow always ends up taking the blame for you. "You said you didn't want a relationship, and I thought I was coming on too strong. I was giving you space."

Bombsight, who kicks himself over the fact that it is what he said, and it was stupid to say.

Bombsight, who panics when you start alluding to breaking up. He tells you that you told him you'd never leave him. So how could you!?

You, who only said, "But we're not together in a relationship, remember?" It took a week for him to come back begging for you.

Bombsight, who comes back with the V1, says he wants to spend eternity with you. He's on one knee, opening the box and giving it to you like it's a wedding ring.

You, who only look down at him as he looks up to you with such pleading eyes, it takes everything in you to not burst out laughing at him.

Bombsight, who stays still. You've given him heaven, and now you're giving him limbo.

You, who finally accepts and Bombsight gives you the V1.

Sage, who couldn't be happier with your work because it's only a matter of time before you grow bored and leave, or let them all know about one another.

You, who acts the pious one ever, tells Bombsight to go save Goldie, all the while Soldier Boy calls you to come get the V1 he'll take from Robbie before Homelander ever gets his hands on it.

Homelander, who will still take the V1, but before he does, he'll have his best workers make another one by reverse engineering the one he'll take and then give that second dose to you.

Homelander, who proposes to you, and you say yes, and so he's secured his virgin wife.

"Look, all we're after is the V1. You hand that over, we go home happy." MM spoke and Robbie looked over to him.

He looked back over to Goldie. Robbie is fast, but not fast enough to stop the bullet. "I can't."

"Robbie." Goldie called out and Robbie sighed.

"I can't because I don't have it. Haven't had it for weeks." He looked over to Goldie. "You said you weren't gonna change your mind. It took time for me to accept that, and I did."

"What the fuck do you mean you don't have it?" Butcher pressed the gun into her head.

Robbie is long over Goldie, but it doesn't mean he doesn't care about her. He wants her to have a good life. That's all. "Stop!"

"Where is the V?" Butcher asked once more.

"I already administered it to someone else." No point in hiding it. He just needs to save Goldie and then go back to you. That's it, that's all.

"Who?" Hughie stepped forward. It's not Homelander. That's a win, right?

Sage spoke your name, and Robbie's head snapped towards her. How would she know that? "She works fast. For weeks, you said? Soldier Boy must've told her, and what? You cracked within a week when she told you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about?"

Both MM and Robbie spoke. Sage only shrugged. "What? Back up for the back up. If this didn't work, then she would."

Was Robbie played? No. You wouldn't. Not after everything. You wouldn't.

"And that I did." You appeared behind Sage. MM jumped back, and Sage froze as your arms wrapped around her. Your head rested atop hers. "To be fair, I had no idea about the V1 until Soldier Boy told me about y'all's virus."

You smiled over to Robbie, offering him a smile. So then he wasn't played? Things just lined up. Yeah, that's what happened. That's what he decides happens. Before he can say anything more he's charged by Ben.

"Where's the V1 Robbie?" Ben hissed in his ear, and Robbie threw him off.

"Gone." Robbie knew you had to put on an act for Soldier Boy and Homelander, but he was different. He was your boy. You hadn't even bothered to tell Ben that you already had the V1.

Ben looked over to Goldie, who only looked at you.

You looked over to MM and muttered, "This is always my favorite part."

Robbie scoffed and walked over to you, calling your name. He held out his hand. You stood still. Ben called your name, asking what fuck this was.

You stood there trying to hold in your laughter, but looking at both of them, gosh, you just couldn't. You began laughing. "I'm sorry." Was all you could manage between small little laughs. Suddenly, life was filled with sunshine and rainbows. You lived for this shit. The look of realization they've both been cheated, or even better, when they don't care, and they still want you.

Now to find out which is which. Your primary concern was Soldier Boy, seeing as he could fry the V out of you. Bombsight was a hard hitter, and Homelander, you're sure is to be due any minute.

Your plan was simple: you could keep Robbie as a side piece; you had laid the groundwork for him for over a year. He was solid. Ben wasn't. You need Ben back in that box so that one day, when you get tired of all of this, you unfreeze him and, in anger, he fries the V out of you. Simple. Homelander, well, he had to go.

So your laughing turned into crying. Tears of joy, but not that they would know that.

"Hey! Hey, hey, hey!" Robbie ran up to you, wiping your tears whilst everyone watched, and Ben stood there trying to understand what the fuck was happening. How the fuck did you know Robbie? How did Robbie know you!? And why the fuck is he wiping your tears like he knows you!?

"I'm scared." You muttered wiping your tears.

"Of what?"

"Homelander." You looked behind Robbie and to Ben, whose brows were still furrowed in utter confusion.

"Why?" Robbie's hand tilted your gaze back to him.

Ben made a face.

"He said he wanted me to ascend with him. Something about being the virgin or something. He-"

"What the fuck?" Robbie looked down. Virgin where? He's been making love to you for the past year. You weren't a virgin then. Robbie knew you had to play it for the cameras, but to know you had to go this far. His heart ached seeing you cry. His poor girl.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ben walked over to you, and you stepped away from Robbie. Was this another act? But why? For what? You wouldn't do this to him. Not after everything you've said. You wanted kids with him. So then what the fuck was this?

"He wants some kind of marriage and kids. I don't know!" Your lips trembled as you forced more tears out. Maybe they were real tears because holy fuck when Homelander told you about that, that was the fucking scariest shit you've ever heard in your entire life!

Robbie cupped your face, and Ben had just about had enough of this. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"And why the fuck would she-" You cut Soldier Boy off before things could turn on you.

"Because I thought I could handle it! I was wrong. I'm sorry, I just-"

Robbie shushed you before kissing your forehead. "It won't come to that. I swear it."

And with that, he flew off. Your eyes looked back at Ben. "Ben-"

"What the fuck was that!?"

You walked over to him, and before he could start cussing, you kissed him. You felt him tense before relaxing. You pulled back. "Ben, listen to me." He did. "I've been in the Seven for a while. I didn't even know who you were, but I knew I needed someone, anyone, who could protect me. That's all Bombsight is to me." Your hands cradled his face. "I love you, Ben. No one else. I meant every word I said. I do want children with you. I still want to leave, but I can't do that if Homelander is after us. I want our children to grow without any fear." You pulled his hand against your chest, your heart beat was fast. You always got a thrill out of these things. "Please, Ben."

He gave a sigh, and you pushed down a smile. He looked up towards the hole made by Bombsight and shook his head. He gave you one final kiss before running out.

You watched him with a smile and then "Pfft!" You turned around with a small laugh. "How was I?"

"Oscar worthy." Sage smiled and clapped.

"Right? Fuck I almost fumbled when I laughed." You shook your head. "Y'know, I wondered what it was you wanted with me, but I'm assuming it was this?"

"I knew you wouldn't be able to help yourself."

You only smiled and shrugged.

"Oi!"

You turned and caught the flask thrown at you. You smiled, giving a small cheer before drinking. You walked back over to him, handing him the flask. "I have you to thank." You bent down, looking at Goldie. "Had you not dumped Bombsight, this would've taken a whole lot longer." You smiled, going to put a hand on her lap. "So thank you for not choosing Robbie."

She created a force field, knocking you back. You rolled your eyes, standing up, dusting yourself off.

"You don't deserve him." She hissed out and only shrugged.

"Debatable. He's just a man, you know? All men are dogs, that includes golden retrievers like him." You pursed your lips, giving her a slow nod before laughing. You turned around, motioning to go. "I secured front row seats. I'd hate to see it go to waste."

You, who in the end got everything you wanted.

Homelander, who looked up to you, was heartbroken and angry when it was revealed that Soldier Boy had access to you in a way that you always denied him, and that Bombsight had been fucking you for a year, and you looked him in the face and lied like it was second nature.

Your face was the last thing he saw before Butcher ripped him in half.

Soldier Boy, who gasped for air as Bombsight choked him out, all the while you smiled as you waved goodbye.

Your face was the last thing he saw before he was put back into that damn box.

Bombsight, who still didn't get that you couldn't give two shits about him.

In the end, your face was constantly shoved down his throat as you went back and took over the Seven, reforming it, seeing as you had no prior offenses.

Still though. You laid down the groundwork for Bombsight exceptionally well, so even after everything, he still can't help but want you. And after all, you have all of eternity with him.

Nav.

m.list

Guess who's my favorite out of the three 🤭

How I imagine the boys seeing how reader was playing SB and BS🥱

_______________

The Father of God - Chapter 2

It carried on long enough that it became a routine.

Homelander came back from events glowing, and you praised him until he stood taller. You learned exactly how to tilt your head when you said, “You were so good today,” exactly how to soften your voice when you said, “They saw your strength as holy,” exactly how to make him feel not merely admired but understood. He would puff his chest out like a boy pretending to be a king, and behind your warm little smile, you would keep one eye on his pulse, his jaw, his pupils, his hands.

Always the hands, because now, those hands had started reaching for you. 

You let them.

Sometimes he touched the back of your hand during briefings. Sometimes he brushed your shoulder when he walked past you in the hall. Once, after a particularly successful press conference where he redirected a question about mass civilian casualties into a speech about national courage, he hugged you in an empty corridor.

It was stiff, like even he was unsure of what he was doing. 

“I did what you said,” he murmured near your hair.

“You did,” you replied, letting your hands rest lightly against his sides. “I was proud.”

His breath shook.

God.

He loved being told that.

He loved it so much it almost made you pity him.

Almost.

The Deep, meanwhile, got worse. He hovered around your office like a dog that had learned the treat jar lived on the top shelf.

“Did you see my segment?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against your doorframe with his attempt at casual masculinity. “The aquarium thing? Huge numbers with coastal moms.”

“I saw,” you said without looking up from your tablet.

“And?”

“And what?”

He shifted.

“And… how’d I do?”

You looked up then.

He was pathetic enough that it should not have irritated you, but it did. Maybe because you had run out of room inside yourself for men needing to be fed by your mouth in different ways.

“You stayed on message,” you said. “You didn’t over-explain the ocean acidification line, which was good because coastal moms already know the problem and don’t need it explained to them. And your male demographic prefers to think they know everything. Good instincts there, Deep.”

His face lit up.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He practically floated away after that.

Soldier Boy watched the whole exchange from your couch, boots on your coffee table, beer in hand, looking deeply offended by the existence of everyone.

“That guy wants you to scratch him behind the ear.”

You closed your office door and walked back to your desk. 

“He’s harmless.”

“He’s got gills.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” 

“Nothing, it’s just disgusting.”

You looked at him over your tablet. “You have the emotional range of a shovel.”

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes dropping lazily over your legs. “Didn’t seem to bother you an hour ago.”

Your face heated despite yourself.

He grinned.

That grin had become a problem. The whole man had become a problem.

Sage, mercifully, grew occupied with other things, specifically acquiring that virus to stop Homelander because she had stopped trusting The Boys to go through with it without getting distracted. 

She still checked in, of course. She always did.

“How is Soldier Boy’s integration?” she asked one morning.

“Resistant, but stable.”

“Define stable.”

“Not violent without provocation.”

“That is not stable. That is dormant.”

“You asked for manageable.”

“And is he?”

You looked at her and thought of Soldier Boy in your apartment the night before, shirt unbuttoned, standing in your kitchen, drinking your beer, and arguing that microwave popcorn tasted like chemicals. You thought of him falling asleep on your couch with one arm thrown behind his head, looking absurdly large in your quiet little home. You thought of waking him gently because you had reports to finish, and the way he had opened one eye and said, “Come here first.”

You cleared your throat.

“He is predictable in specific contexts.”

Sage stared at you.

“Interesting wording.”

“You enjoy my wording. It’s why you keep me employed.”

“No. I keep you employed because Homelander hasn’t killed anyone important in weeks.”

“Then you’re welcome.”

She watched you a moment longer.

“Don’t get arrogant.”

You smiled.

“Never.”

You were arrogant, of course.

Not loudly or stupidly, because you knew better than that. You knew where your bread and butter and first-class tickets came from. But you had become arrogant, as some people do when they constantly flirt with danger and escape unscathed. 

You started altering Soldier Boy’s reports in the second week.

Small things at first.

His anger spikes were softened into irritation markers. His refusal to comply with camera tests became “image fatigue due to historical disorientation.” His repeated threats to punch members of marketing were reclassified as “direct resistance to overstructured brand assimilation.” His wandering off-site for hours became “independent acclimation to modern civilian environments.”

You showed him the first doctored report at your apartment.

He sat on your bed, shirt half-buttoned, watching you scroll through the file with absolute boredom until you said, “You need to know what I’ve written, otherwise you’ll contradict me.”

That got his attention.

“You’re lying in my reports?”

“I’m adjusting them.”

“That’s lying.”

“It’s corporate lying.”

He looked amused. “Why?”

“Because if Sage thinks you’re uncontrollable, she’ll push for stronger containment. If Homelander thinks you’re a threat to him, he’ll provoke you until one of you does something stupid. But… if Vought thinks you’re useful and only a little difficult, you get breathing room.”

Soldier Boy stared at you for a second. Then he leaned back against your pillows, that infuriating smirk creeping onto his face.

“You like taking care of me.”

You did not look up from the tablet.

“I like preventing nuclear fallout.”

“You like taking care of me.”

“I like not dying.”

“You like taking care of me.”

You finally looked at him. “Do you want me to stop?”

His smirk faded. You saw the answer before he said it.

“No,” he said.

He sounded almost irritated by the truth. Something in your chest moved strangely. You went back to the report.

“Then memorize what I wrote.”

***

Meanwhile, Homelander grew brighter and more dangerous in equal measure.

Your false graphs became prettier, the lies came smoother, and so his devotion became easier to steer as long as you never let him feel deprived.

“You see?” you told him one afternoon, turning your tablet so he could see the manipulated response data. “The numbers are shifting. The country is slowly opening to the idea.”

He leaned over your shoulder, eyes scanning the comment sections of his fan page.

God chose you.

America needs divine leadership. Homelander is more than a hero. Maybe gods still walk among us.

His breath caught. You felt it.

“These are real?” he asked.

You smiled gently.

“They are.”

He looked at you then, and the expression on his face made your skin prickle.

Awe.

“You did this?”

“You did this,” you said. 

His smile spread slowly.

“You always knew. You always believed in me.”

You looked at him, heart beating with the cold, steady rhythm of a liar standing too close to fire.

“I knew they would believe, too. They just needed time to prepare for the ascension.”

He turned fully toward you.

“What happens then?” he asked.

“What?” you asked. 

“When America worships me as a god.”

The room seemed to tilt. You kept your face soft.

“What about it?”

His eyes moved over your face with an intimacy that felt invasive in its innocence.

“How will you feel?”

Your throat went tight.

“What do you mean?”

“When they all love me the way you do,” he said softly. “When they understand me. When they worship me. Will you be jealous?”

There were questions that were traps because the person asking knew they were traps. And then there were questions like this.

You looked at him. And once again, you became the woman Sage had hired. The woman who understood love as a lever, a wound, a hunger, a weapon.

You let your face fall slowly.

Not dramatically, because Homelander could spot an obvious performance from cities away. You just let the loss move across your expression like a shadow passing over water.

His eyes widened, equal parts touched and thrilled by your sorrow. 

You looked down. “I think…” You paused, as if the words hurt. “I think part of me will grieve it.”

He was silent.

You continued carefully. “Right now, I get to see something others don’t. I get to feel…” You gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Special. Maybe that’s selfish.”

“No,” he said instantly.

You looked up at him.

“It’s not selfish,” he said.

You smiled sadly. “But if the whole country sees it too, then I lose the secret version of you.”

His lips parted. That hit exactly where you intended.

God forgive you.

“But,” you added, voice steadying, “I would be proud. Devastated, maybe. But proud. Because the world deserves to know what I know.”

He looked like you had handed him your heart. Worse, he looked like he wanted to keep it in a glass box. He reached for your hand, bare fingers closing over yours.

“You’ll always be the first,” he said. “The first believer.” 

Your stomach turned. You squeezed his hand.

“I know.”

You didn’t. You knew nothing except that every lie worked until the day it didn’t.

Then, at night, you went home.

Sometimes you arrived before Soldier Boy. Sometimes he was already there. That should have frightened you more than it did.

One time, you found him sitting on your couch in the dark, and you nearly threw your bag at his head.

“Are you serious?”

He turned on the lamp beside him.

“Your locks were ass, so I replaced them, you’re welcome.” 

“Clearly…” you said, trying to even out your breathing after the shock. 

You stared at him for a long second.

Then started laughing.

You were so tired that it came out almost hysterical.

He watched you, amused but quiet, until the laughter thinned into something dangerously close to tears. Then he stood, crossed the room, and took your bag from your hand.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I’m not a dog.”

“Then stop looking like one somebody kicked.”

You glared.

He pointed at the couch.

“Ben.”

“Sit.”

You sat.

Mostly because your knees were not as committed to the argument as your pride.

He brought you a beer without asking. Opened it. Handed it to you. Then sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The silence should have been uncomfortable.

It wasn’t.

Soldier Boy understood silence because he did not rush to fill it. He could sit in it like weather. Heavy, present, unbothered. He did not need to be reassured every time your face went blank. He did not ask what you were thinking every three seconds. He did not demand access to every private thought just because he had touched your body.

Sometimes, you told yourself it was simply because he didn’t give a shit. He’s Soldier Boy… why would he care about your day anyway? And this thing is just lust, isn’t it? And he is only here, at your apartment, all the time because he hates the glass and chrome monstrosity Vought gave him to call a home. 

There was nothing else here, you told yourself. 

But sometimes… he would do things like this. Changing your locks, handing you a beer, frowning when your cabinet doors creaked, and asking you how long it had been that way… 

No. 

Stop. 

The television played some old movie he claimed was “the last decade America made real shit,” though he had said that about four different decades by now.

You leaned back, eyes half-closed.

At some point, his hand settled on your thigh.

Your body, traitorous thing, softened.

“You alright?” he asked after a while.

You opened one eye. “Is that concern?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You smiled faintly.

“I’m alright.”

He grunted, like he did not fully believe you, but was willing to allow the lie.

Later, his mouth would be between your thighs, or his body would be next to yours in bed, one heavy arm slung over your waist like he had decided sleep required anchoring. Sometimes you woke in the middle of the night, too warm and trapped and strangely unwilling to move. Sometimes he snored. 

And slowly, despite his crude mouth and his 1940s smugness and his offensive opinions about oat milk, something grew where you had sworn nothing would.

You forced yourself to think about work. 

***

Weeks passed in preparation for Homelander’s ascension, and Sage was no closer to finding that virus. 

“The alternative is to get Soldier Boy to fry the V out of him,” Sage told you, pacing in your office. “But if we make him feel like it’s our idea, he’s going to hate it. He needs to hate Homelander enough to do it himself.” 

You nodded, distracted. She clocked that. 

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting your thinking time?” she asked flatly. 

You sighed. “Sorry, I’m just worried about this ascension thing. It’s tomorrow, and he’s so on edge.” 

“Are you complaining about doing your job?” she asked. 

You frowned. “First, I’m not complaining. Second, my job was to analyze and predict, not babysit, and I’ve been babysitting ever since I got here.” 

“So what, you want a raise?” she asked. 

You knew she was frustrated, but god damn it, you were frustrated too. Not that anyone in the Tower would care. 

“I hear you,” you said finally. “I will find an angle with Soldier Boy for Homelander while you work on getting the virus.” 

She looked at you, contemplating whether she should let a shred of humanity through. Then she thought the better of it and left. 

You turned your head to the ceiling and tried to orient yourself. 

Tensions had been building unbearably for the past week. It would all come to a head tomorrow, during the unveiling of the Church of America, of which Homelander had declared himself head. 

God. 

Fuck. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Preparing talking points for Firecracker for her show, controlling the nonsense Deep wanted to say on his podcast on ascension day, and generally keeping Homelander docile. 

You got home that evening, tired to the bone, and found Soldier Boy asleep on your couch with one hand tucked under his head and your chipped mug on the table beside him.

The television was playing some black-and-white movie he pretended not to care about. His boots were off, and your blanket was over him.

He woke when you set your bag down.

“Long day?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

You stood there in the warm, quiet room and felt something inside you fracture.

“Yeah,” you said.

He lifted the blanket without a word.

You went to him.

***

You hadn’t expected to fall asleep as quickly as you did. That was the problem with getting used to a person… how your nervous system instantly relaxed and practically knocked you unconscious in his arms. 

So when your doorbell rang, it was startling. 

The ring was followed by a series of knocks, insistent. 

Then your phone pinged. 

Homelander. It’s me

Fuck. 

You scrambled off the couch and quietly tried to shove Soldier Boy into the bedroom. You were aware Homelander could see through walls, but prayed that he fancied himself to be enough of a gentleman not to. 

Then you took one breath.

Another.

You smoothed your hair. Checked your shirt. Wiped your mouth with your thumb because, God, you did not know if any evidence of Soldier Boy still lived on your face. Your apartment smelled faintly of beer, takeout, and him. You grabbed the nearest sandalwood spray from the side table and gave the air one desperate mist.

Ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

You opened the door.

Homelander stood there smiling, a bouquet of roses in his hand. He looked… happy.

He wore civilian clothes, or what he considered civilian clothes: expensive dark pants, a pale blue shirt, no cape, no gloves. The absence of the suit should have made him look less threatening. It didn’t. It made him look like a predator attempting domesticity.

“Hi,” he said.

Your face softened instantly.

The transformation was so practiced it almost frightened you. The fear disappeared beneath warmth. The panic became surprise. Your mouth curved into the small, tender smile that always worked on him.

“Homelander,” you said. “What are you doing here?”

His smile widened at your tone.

“I know it’s late,” he said quickly, like he had rehearsed this in the elevator. “I know. I just… tomorrow is important, and I wanted to see you before.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the door, hidden from view. Behind you, your apartment was too quiet.

“Of course,” you said. “Come on in.”

Homelander stepped inside, looking around with open curiosity. 

“You’ve been with us seven months, and this is the first time I’ve seen where you live,” he said. 

“Yeah, I—I don’t entertain much,” you laughed. 

“It’s a nice place,” he said. “It’s… peaceful.” 

You didn’t doubt that Homelander was seeing the exact thing Soldier Boy was seeing in your home. You didn’t let that thought go further… you took the flowers from him to occupy your hands with something. 

“These are beautiful.”

He lit up.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Really thoughtful.”

There it was. The first offering accepted. His shoulders lowered slightly.

“I wasn’t sure if you liked roses.”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“White roses are lovely.” You moved toward the kitchen, keeping your body between him and the hallway that led to your bedroom. “I’m gonna put them in water.”

He followed you.

You could feel the bedroom door behind you in the shape of your own spine. Soldier Boy behind it. Silent, hopefully. Angry, definitely.

Homelander watched you fill a vase with water.

“I thought about what you said,” he told you.

You kept your hands steady. “What did I say?”

“About tomorrow. About America being ready if they’re shown properly.”

You smiled down at the flowers. “I think we’ve done a good job so far.” 

He stood a little taller.

“We have.”

You trimmed the stems with kitchen scissors because doing something with your hands kept you from visibly unraveling. “You’ve been patient. Strategic. And you’ll see the fruits of your labor tomorrow.”

“I’ve been listening to you,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“I always listen to you.”

You arranged the roses slowly, giving him the tenderness he had come to collect. “We’re a team,” you said. “We see different parts of a situation, and together, we make a whole picture.” 

He came closer.

Too close.

“You really think they’ll accept me?” he asked.

“It’ll take time,” you said. “But yes. You have to understand, people are afraid of things they don’t understand. A benevolent god is patient, even when it’s really fucking hard to be patient.” 

His eyes fixed on yours. You lowered your voice.

“But you won’t have to be patient for long. You are already the hero. The protector. The defender. Now there’s just a more appropriate word for all that.”

“God,” he said, but it almost sounded like a question. 

“God,” you said, approvingly. 

His face changed.

Fuck, you were good. You hated that you were good.

His mouth parted slightly. His eyes softened. The flowers sat between you, ridiculous and fragrant.

Then he reached out and touched your cheek.

You let him.

Every muscle in your body wanted to flinch. Soldier Boy was behind a door less than twenty feet away, and you could feel, with hideous certainty, how much he hated this. Your cooing. Your softness. The whole gentle, devotional version of you.

You could feel something behind that bedroom door now. A pressure. 

Homelander’s thumb brushed your cheek.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered.

The sentence landed like a threat wearing a prayer shawl.

You smiled.

“You’d still be you.”

“Yes.” His eyes searched yours. “But not like this.”

Your throat tightened. For a second, you thought he might kiss you. If he tried, you had no idea what you would do. Worse, you had no idea what Soldier Boy would do.

So you stepped back before the moment could decide for you and lifted the vase again. “These need to go somewhere nice.”

Homelander looked slightly disappointed, but not wounded. 

You carried the flowers to the small table near the window, deliberately pulling him toward the opposite side of the apartment from the bedroom. He followed, eyes on you, pleased again by the domesticity of it. You could almost see the fantasy forming in his mind. You arranging flowers he had brought you. Him visiting you after saving the nation. You welcoming him into warmth and softness and quiet.

It made you feel sick.

It made you feel cruel.

“You’ll watch tomorrow?” he asked.

“Of course I will.”

“From the tower?”

“Yes.”

“Not with Soldier Boy?”

There it was. You turned slowly.

He tried to make it sound so casual, but like always, he failed miserably. 

Your smile softened with practiced sadness. “Tomorrow is for you.”

His eyes searched your face.

“Not his?”

“Not his.”

“Mine?”

You took one step toward him.

“Yours.”

The single word was enough to make his face brighten again. God, it was obscene how well it worked.

He breathed out a small laugh, almost embarrassed by his own relief. “Right.”

You nodded.

“You know you don’t need to compete with him.”

His smile faltered.

“I’m not competing.”

“No,” you said softly. “You’re not.”

That pleased him more than agreement would have. You could see the difference. To tell Homelander he was not competing because he had already won was to soothe the child and crown the king in the same breath.

He came closer again.

This time, when he touched you, it was just your hand. He lifted it in both of his and looked at your fingers like they were proof of something.

“After tomorrow,” he said, “things will be different.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He ran his thumb gently over your knuckles. 

“Everything is so loud all the time,” he continued. “All the time. Their voices, their heartbeats, Vought. But you…” His hand lifted slowly, his bare fingers settling against your flushed cheek. “You make it quiet.”

Your throat tightened.

You knew what quiet meant to him. He wanted a place to put his hunger. A place to own for himself rather than simply occupy beside you. 

“Maybe after America has accepted me as their God,” he said, “we can be together properly.”

Your body went cold. He barely noticed.

“The people will love it,” he continued, warming to the thought with terrifying sincerity. “They’d want it, actually. God having a wife. That’s… that’s stabilizing, right? Good old American values.”

You could not speak. His eyes were still on yours, but his thoughts had traveled miles. 

“Our child would be the son of God.”

The derangement had peaked. You felt it like a drop in air pressure before a storm.

He believed it. Not as branding or political theater. He believed every single word with his whole ruined heart.

You made yourself breathe.

“Wouldn’t having a wife make you…” You chose the words carefully. “Too human? Too relatable?”

He frowned.

Not offended, but thinking. Actually thinking about the optics like they mattered to his mythology. 

You pressed gently. “Being God comes with its own chains.”

His face changed. That struck something.

“I’m tired of chains,” he said.

His voice was quiet.

Small.

For one awful moment, you almost felt sorry for him again. 

You were so tired.

So very, very tired.

You brought your hand to his wrist and squeezed gently, trying to bring him back down to earth. 

“Homelander…” you said softly. 

“Yeah?”

“You need to rest before tomorrow. It’s a big day.” 

He nodded slowly.

“You’re right.”

“I usually am,” you said, attempting to lighten to mood. 

That made him laugh. It was fond. The sound of it crawled under your skin. But what followed was worse… 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead. You forced yourself to relax and warm to him rather than give in to your instincts to go stiff. It was brief, almost chaste. Homelander clearly wanted you to view him as a gentleman, the picture of restraint and respect for your honor. 

That honor was behind your bedroom door, currently listening in on the performance. 

When he pulled back, he looked happy. Giddy beneath all the godhood. Like the whole world was finally beginning to arrange itself around his longing.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight, Homelander.”

He left with one final look back at you, at the flowers, at the apartment he had now touched with his fantasy.

You waited until the elevator at the end of the hallway dinged.

You waited longer.

Homelander could hear too much.

You stood there in your apartment, breathing quietly, face still soft, hands folded loosely in front of you, as if you had not just survived a siege disguised as romance.

Only when you were certain he was gone did your shoulders drop.

You turned toward the bedroom.

The door opened before you reached it.

Soldier Boy stepped out, his face unreadable in a way that made your stomach tighten.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked. 

“It keeps him calm.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

You exhaled through your nose. He stepped farther into the room. 

“Would you have let him kiss you?” he asked. 

“What would be my alternative, slapping him?” 

Soldier Boy’s jaw tightened.

“You know how fucked that sounds?”

“Do you think I don’t?”

Your words came out sharper than intended. Soldier Boy saw the switch. You saw him see it. Your softness vanished the moment Homelander did, and what remained was the mouthy, crude version Soldier Boy had managed to coax out of you. 

Normally, it pleased him. Tonight, it seemed to hurt.

He looked at the flowers again.

“Those are ugly.”

“They’re roses.”

“They’re funeral flowers.”

“You’re jealous of flowers?”

“I’m jealous of the fact that he gets that voice.”

Soldier Boy looked almost angry at himself for saying it.

You stared at him. “What?”

His eyes returned to yours, hard and bright. “You heard me.”

“You’re jealous of the voice I use to stop Homelander from leveling city blocks?”

“Yeah,” he snapped. “Stupid, right?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

You took a step toward him, disbelief rising through your exhaustion. “That version of me isn’t real.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s a tactic.”

“You think because it’s a tactic, it’s fake?”

He laughed once, bitter and rough.

“That’s what pisses me off. It ain’t fake. Not all of it. You are soft. You’re just goddamn careful with it. And he gets all the softness.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t want soft.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“You want me rude. You want me angry. You like when I snap at you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

“Then why are you complaining?”

“Because I want the rest of it too.”

The apartment went silent. Your heart gave one painful beat. Then another.

Soldier Boy looked away first, which frightened you more than anything else he could have done. He dragged a hand over his beard, irritated, restless, like the feeling had crawled under his skin and he wanted to tear it out.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

“You’re the one who started it.”

“No, sweetheart, you started it.”

He pointed at you, then at the room, then at the flowers like all of it was evidence in a trial nobody was winning.

“This. This place. The fucking cups and the quiet and the stupid blanket on the couch. The way you come home, and suddenly the tower feels like it never existed. You started that.”

Your chest hurt. You tried to reach for annoyance because annoyance was safer.

“You’re blaming me for decorating my house?”

“I’m blaming you for making me give a shit.”

The words hit the floor between you. You stared at him. For once, Soldier Boy did not look smug after landing a blow. He looked furious.

“You want to know how stupid this is?” he continued, voice rougher now. “I spent twenty minutes in your bedroom listening to you talk him down like he’s some rabid dog in a flag cape, and all I could think was, why the fuck are we still here?”

Your mouth went dry.

“What?”

“Why are we still here?”

“Because this is my apartment.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” you said, though you did.

He came closer, no swagger in his step, just pure agitation.

“We should leave,” he said.

You stared at him.

“Leave?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean… leave Vought?”

“I mean, leave all of it. Did you hear that asshole call your future kid the son of god? Is everyone fucking crazy here?” 

You laughed once because there was no other sane response. 

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m too dumb to know what I’m saying.”

That shut you up. 

He moved closer, eyes fixed on yours.

“I know what he is. I know what that tower is. I know what they’ll do when they figure out you’ve been lying in my reports and feeding him god fantasies.” His voice dropped. “I know we don’t win this by staying.”

Your pulse climbed.

“We?” you asked, and he looked at you like you were the stupidest person alive. 

“We,” he said, like he was confirming it. 

“You do understand Homelander could find us.”

“Let him try.”

“Ben.”

“What?” 

“You’re talking like running is freedom,” you said. “It’s not. It’s being hunted.”

“I’ve been hunted before.”

“I haven’t.”

“You’re hunted every day, you just get paid a good salary for it, doll.” 

Your mouth closed. The words would have made you feel dirty had you not known the real intention behind them. 

He was frustrated. 

He hated how small you made yourself, and he couldn’t care about the optics or the strategy of it. And it was killing him to watch you willingly put yourself further and further into this trap. 

“Ben,” you whispered.

“No.” His jaw flexed. “Don’t use the tone you use with him to calm him down, I don’t want to calm down.” 

“I’m not asking you to calm down. I want to know why this matters to you.” 

He looked at you. “You don’t know what you want.” 

“I really do. I want to know.” 

The apartment was so quiet you could hear the refrigerator hum, the distant traffic below, your own pulse like thunder in your ears.

His voice dropped.

“It matters because I love you.”

The world simply lost sound. You stared at him.

Soldier Boy looked back at you with all the arrogance gone from his face, and somehow that was the most devastating thing you had ever seen. He looked angry. Like the words had been dragged out of him by force, and he hated that they existed where you could see them.

But he did not take them back.

“I love you,” he said again, rougher this time, like repeating it would make it mean less. “That clear enough for you?”

Your mouth parted.

Nothing came out.

For once, you didn’t have the safety of a script. All you could do was stand in your quiet apartment, with Homelander’s flowers on your table and Soldier Boy’s heart in your hands.

------------------------------

Aaaand that’s a wrap on chapter 2. This was DELICIOUS to write. Chapter 3 will be out soon <3

As promised, tagging all the commenters on chapter 1: @1inacerulean @sammysweetheart @witch-of-letters @monkievonkie @spnfamily-j2 @mornixgstar18 @glowingtoenails @kathypellar @spookybitchdreams @chxrrybomb22 @calyyypsooo @audreybea @ladykitana90

If you want to be tagged on chapter 3, comment below!

Ever since Homelander pulled his father out of Cryo-freeze the both of you resumed what you both left when everyone thought he died. You included.

Ever since then, the both of you have been going at it. Homelander killed your last real lover. Figured it'd be best to go for his dad seeing as he's not someone he'd kill. But even if he did, it wouldn't matter to you. Not really.

It wouldn't matter seeing as every word out of Soldier Boy's mouth was like nails against a chalk board. You'd leave him, but the dick, unfortunately, is that good. But as the days pass, the more he loses his appeal.

Any comment about anything is like you're being thrown back into an era you're glad as fuck you weren't born into. You'd join in, but you're not a total loser so you're stuck smiling every now and then and setting alarms for excuses. Max of 10 minutes and then you dip. Something about leaving a lame excuse on the stove that you don't own.

Recently he's been talking more and more about some lady named Clara. Before it was Crimson Countess, now it's Clara? How many loves of his life did this dude have?

He's like 100, so maybe one for every 50 years?

You shuttered. A miserable thought entered your mind. He's got another 50 in front of him. What if you're next? Seeing as he confessed to killing Crimson Countess, and Clara is who knows where, you'd rather not end up like any of them.

In any case, you played the role of pretending to give a fuck perfectly. Now you've pulled up the sheets to cover yourself as you look up at him.

Fuck, what fucking face he had on him. He'd be so perfect if he just shut the fuck up. You laid there admiring his face as he smoked, enjoying the silence. He looked over to you and for a moment, it was just silence.

"What?" He turned away blowing the smoke.

"You're really pretty, you know that?" You murmured and he paused.

He looked back to you. It silent once more. He just looked at you. You looked at him. He shook his head. "I'm not a fucking woman."

You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself up. "You don't have to be a woman to be pretty." You straddled him and his free hand fell on your hip.

"What is this? Round five?" He went up to take another hit. You stopped him and angled his hand towards you. You took a hit from the joint his held all while he watched. You held it in for a moment before smiling and blowing out. He breathed in the smoke as you laughed.

You hand settled on his jaw brushing his facial hair. "I feel like if you shaved you'd go from pretty to beautiful." He made a face. You ignored it. "You sure you don't have any super old photos of you. Like when you were in your 20s?"

"Clara would."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Him and fucking Clara. Who the fuck gives a fuck about her? You sure don't. "I'll have to ask her when I see her."

"You want a picture that bad, just fucking take one." He set down the joint before rubbing up and down your back.

You shook your head. "No, I want younger you."

"20-year-old me would love 40-year-old you." He squeezed your hips hard. He was getting mad over you wanting him younger. He knows you're not 40. Close. But not yet.

"Just like how I like century-year-old you." You were careful to avoid the word love. A cold day in hell it would be when you would love him.

"You like me?" He asked to look up at you.

You smiled, wondering how you were gonna sweet-talk your way out of this. Luckily, you were saved by the bell of the five-minute alarm you set. You said nothing and got off him and looked at your phone for a bit, just to sell it. Not like he would know the difference.

You let a small curse go before standing up telling him you were needed elsewhere.

"Why is it you always get called after we've fucked."

You paused as you slid into your hero suit. "Uh, because I have a life."

Soldier Boy made a face. You turned away from him as you zipped yourself up. He scoffed and took another hit. "Y'know back in my day-"

"Back in your day people used to bathe in pesticides and the kids turned out slow as fuck. I don't think you were an exception." You cut him off walking out with your shoes in your hand.

Back in his day, that would've earned you a good beating from your husband.

But Ben is damned; he likes you too much to ever hit you. Likes you so much he doesn't just want to be around you to fuck anymore. You listened. Added in somethings, but mostly just listened.

(Or so he thought)

It feels good to finally just say it all. You seem like the only sane one around. You're not a good person, he knows that, you know that. You focus on you, and you focus on him. (you really don't) Nothing more. You're strong enough to not let Homelander scare you, and you're self aware enough to understand you're a terrible person for not leaving this whole god charade sooner.

He likes that about you. Ben likes you.

It's why he, more and more these days it seems, goes to your room and just lies in there while you're watching movies. It's why he sits next to you during meetings. It's why both of you make jokes behind Homelander's back and then pretend you both said nothing.

You make him act like a man in his early 20s instead of being a century old.

After one long winded rant from his unfortunate son about being god, he's mouthing 'what the fuck?' to you and you only shrugged and twirled your finger near your temple.

The both of you held in your laugh as you shook your head. The both of you stilled when Homelander turned. He grilled you on what was so funny.

"Of course not, my lord." You made a face, pleading your case. "How could I possibly dare to make a fool of god himself?" Soldier Boy closed his eyes, trying to hold in his laughter, all the while you're barely suppressing a smile. "Now, excuse me, m'lord. I have to go."

And with that, you walk out. He followed soon after. "Why don't we go out to one of those fancy restaurants you like going to so much?" He only knows you like to go out to them because there's always paparazzi pictures of you and other 'influencers.'

You stopped and raised a brow. "Yeah, right. Like I'd ever be caught out on a date with you on my arm. You're a sneaky link. Besides, I've already agreed to only see you for work, sex, or in hell." And with that, you turned around and walked off.

"I never said it had to be a date doll." It was supposed to be a date.

You scoffed, never bothering to turn back. "Whatever floats your boat, sweet cheeks."

You were so unlike any woman from any other time he was alive to witness. You occupied his thoughts in a way that hadn't been done since he wanted revenge on Payback. Since Crimson Countess. Since Clara.

It was getting bad. So whenever he could, Soldier Boy fucked off to do who knows what. So now, he's here, gambling on horse racing.

"So this is what I have to thank for my peace?" You appeared behind him, and it took everything in Ben to not jump out of his seat. "Horse racing."

"What? D'ya miss me?" Ben hopes you did. He looked up as you walked around, taking a seat next to him.

"You wish." You leaned back, putting your feet up on the seats in front of you. "Someone misses their daddy."

"Who? You?"

You only gave him a look before turning back as the race was beginning. "Y'know this whole gambling thing isn't gonna work out for you." He turned to you, and you only smirked. "Your intuition's shit." You pointed at a horse that had the coloring of chestnut and a pink saddle. "That one. Watch."

"You sayin' I should go into poker?" The race began, and Soldier Boy kept his eyes on the horses.

You laughed. "Even worse." You watched as the horse he bet on fell behind and yours stayed in the front. "You're not a people person. You suck at reading a room."

"And what are you? An expert?" Soldier Boy kept his eyes on the race. Lo and behold, the horse your pointed at kept it's lead.

You stood up and looked down. "I'm an an expert in everything I do." And as if on cue the horse you pointed at crossed the finish line. "And between me and you? You're not exactly someone cut out to make fast money."

Ben crushed the ticket in his hand looking over to you as you went to open the door to the balcony. "And how would you know that?"

You looked over your shoulder. "Because I'm a people person." And with that, you floated up before flying off.

You disappeared for a couple of days. It was after he told you about the Supe killing virus. It was during one of your talks, well, more like his talk. He goes into your room, and you're doing something, he talks, and you listen. You nod. You smile. You offer one of those looks that scream that you want him to fuck you. Strangely enough, he just wants to talk to you.

He's not gay.

He loves fucking you. It's just that he loves talking to you more.

In any case, he told you about the supe killing virus, seeing as you're a new gen supe. He saw the way you paused and the way uncertainty and fear, it looked like, entered you.

(And you say he can't read a room)

To soothe your fears, he told you about V1. Something to keep you safe. He told you he'd go and get it and he'd give it to you. After that, you only gave him a kiss before leaving.

You only returned when he went to take the V1 from Robbie. It was easy enough to get it from him with you there.

"She doesn't love you, you know." Robbie panted, and Ben held the V1 in his hand.

"Shut up, Robbie."

It's a shame he didn't see the small smile on your lips. Instead, Ben kicked him off onto the other side of the field as he turned to you.

You looked at him. There was a moment of silence between the two of you. He extended the box to you. You almost felt bad.

Almost.

"Thank you, Ben." It was the first time you've ever used his name. It was needed. This was the first time you ever needed him. This was worthy of using his name. And with that, you took it, and suddenly, the only threat to your life was gone.

Except for then, things only got worse. It's like he expected more from you. Some sort of repayment for what he did to you. It was starting to piss you off. What was it that he didn't understand? You and he were only ever fucking.

You listen to him bitch and moan about whatever went wrong in his life, and then you fuck, and then afterwards he starts bitching and moaning again. But recently it's been all bitching and moaning with no fucking.

You don't say anything just because he's the only man who could actually pose a threat, seeing as he can burn out all the V in you. But him calling you to his room only to once more bitch about Homelander, and Clara and how maybe he should've given it to Homelander for Clara, it's when you finally snap.

Putting whoever the fuck Clara was over your life. Putting a son you know he only puts up with because he's just like his sniveling, pathetic boy. Desperate for a family. Apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

In all honesty, you could give a fuck less about whatever weird family dynamic they have. So long as you're alive and rich, who gives a fuck about them?

For a second, you nearly regret taking the V seeing as you're gonna have to put with Soldier Boy for the rest of your life. And now with the V? That's a really long time.

You can't have yourself regretting that. You've made enough money over the years in the Seven. Suppose it's time you leave. But not before giving Soldier Boy something to really regret.

Giving you V1.

Well, that's only if he starts with his long-lost loves.

You smiled against his lips as you kissed him, your hand sliding down and resting over the bulge in his pants. His hands fondling your bottom all the while he nearly bucks into your touch. You look down, his cock straining visibly now against the fabric, a damp spot blooming at the tip.

You reached for his belt, unbuckling it deliberately slowly, the metal clink echoing in the quiet room save for one of his movies playing in the background.

He groaned as you tugged his pants open, freeing his thick cock from the confines. It was flushed, the head slick with precum that dripped in a slow bead down the side trailing the pathway of a vein that always made his cock look so pretty.

Slowly, you wrapped your hand around him. Your own cunt pulsed as you felt his dick throb against your palm.

He let out a string of curses as his hands grabbed the pillows around you both. And just as you were about to lose yourself he began with how much better you were than any other woman he's had and how Crimson Countess's hands were harsh and before he could continue you stood up.

"Oh my fuck, this is literally the like 20th time you've done this to me." You wiped your hands on the bed sheets before throwing them over his bottom half. It did nothing to hide him. "So if we're not gonna fuck, then what are we doing?"

Ben looked back up at you, and you back down at him. He said nothing, and you only raised a brow. "What? Do you think I'm here because I'm interested in you? Because I care about what you have to say, or what you think of things, because you're so fucking interesting?" You scoffed, shaking your head. "Fuck, are you dumb?"

Once more, Ben could only look at you in disbelief.

"You came onto me, remember? And ever since then, you show up, whine and moan about bitch 1 and bitch 2." You tilted your head at him as if trying to find out why he was in disbelief. To you, it was the most obvious thing. "At first, I could put up with it because I was getting something out of it. Now I don't even get that. Now all I get is this unwanted special about poor little Soldier Boy crying about his quote, long lost loves, one of which you killed by the way, and the other is god knows where."

Ben could feel his chest getting hotter the more you spoke.

"I mean, it's like every time you start talking, I think to myself, who the fuck does this dude think he is? You are so fucking boring!" You looked down, the small glow, and the heat. "Oh, what? You gonna fry me? You're not fast enough for that." You grabbed some water and threw it over him; that got him going, and you managed to jump out of the way as he let a beam of light out. You looked over to the wall. It was completely burned out.

All the while, Ben panted on the bed. The sheets burned away. You stood up and leaned on the bed, looking at him. "Look, I'm gonna be honest with you, because I don't think anyone else will." Ben looked over at you. You had that same face that you used to look at him with whenever he spoke of Clara or Crimson Countess. He thought it was sympathy. Now he can see it was always for mockery.

You were right.

He's not a people person.

"Anyone who says they're interested in you beyond just fucking you?" You gave him a small smile. Another small mocking smile, he thought, was sympathy. "Is full of shit, or has a real bad daddy issues, just like you."

He never told you about his dad, yet you knew. Ben never said a word.

His intuition was shit.

Yours was always spot on.

You turned around, ready to leave, but before you did, you paused and turned around. "Oh, and just a piece of advice, in good faith and as a thank you for the V1. You really ought to learn how to read people, cause this ain't the fifties anymore. I can fuck seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred men and within the same year marry a man, and within the next, divorce him and take 50% of what he owns and land on my feet and be welcomed back into society like nothing ever happened." Your lips pursed as you looked at him. "What I'm trying to say is that, you're expendable and replaceable, act like it. And for the love of god, when you're fucking someone, don't bring up your ex's"

And with that, you were gone and Ben was left, burning with humiliation and rage.

But it was fine. With the V1 in you, he'd have the rest of eternity to hunt you down.

Nav.

Relationship: Soldier Boy x Reader, Homelander in love with Reader. 

Note: I’m all plot, plot, plot, sometimes angst, and lots of religion, so my smut is not very… up there. But I tried? Let me know if you liked it, and maybe I’ll try more of it. 

-----------------------

Chapter 1- The Father of God

The alley smelled of blood baking in hundred-degree heat.

Copper-thick and sun-cooked into the concrete where three men had died a few hours ago in a “robbery gone wrong.” 

You stood under the fire escape, your tablet in hand, sweat gathering at the base of your spine. Homelander stood across from you, smiling perfectly for the cameras. The corpses behind him were almost decorative. 

“This is why, now more than ever, we need Supes in national defense,” he said. “Imagine how much safer America’s children would be from these immigrants polluting our good nation…” 

You sighed. The talking points were getting old and tired, but his fans never stopped eating it up. 

“Sir, don’t you think a nation run by Supes would make us no different from a fascist state?” one reporter asked. 

Homelander’s canines flashed. “Jessica from Metro News, right?” he asked, which made her visibly cower. 

“Uh… yes, sir.” 

“Jessica, why do you hate America?” he asked. 

You looked at your tablet… not that you needed to consult your screen to tell how Homelander was feeling. 

Vought hired you seven months ago. Your job, on paper, was to monitor The Seven for emotional triggers and thought patterns so they could be better managed for press and public events. Sometimes, the goal was to optimize user experience as well—the more loved the public felt by their heroes, the more they spent money on tickets, comic books, merchandise, and parks. 

But to the disillusioned, your job was obvious. 

You were running a fucking daycare. 

“I guess we no longer give a fuck about the liberal vote?” you asked Ashley. 

“I didn’t make Vice President because of the liberals,” she replied. 

“You didn’t make Vice President for any reason other than Sage,” you reminded her. 

She looked at you, barely containing her scowl. “Why did Sage hire you?” she asked. 

You knew exactly why, but you weren’t about to reveal that. Sage was a brilliant woman—but she constantly failed at one thing. 

Love. 

Love made things hard to predict. And being as pitifully human as you were, she hoped you’d be more in touch with your messy feelings, enough to be better at predicting what people might do driven by love. 

“Guess she needed a break from putting out your fires,” you told Ashley. 

“Listen here, you little shit—” she began before Homelander appeared out of thin air. 

“Heyyy! How’s my favorite analyst?” he asked you, grinning ear to ear. “Did you hear me out there?”

You smiled. “It was excellent. You covered all the talking points and you stayed so calm through the whole thing.” 

He preened, obviously thrilled by the praise. 

You turned your tablet to show him the data you had just manipulated. “Look at that steady line. Even when Jessica asked you that stupid question. That’s what I like to see.” 

His smile could have lit up New York City. It was more important to let him think he was doing a good job than to show him the truth. 

Next to him, Ashley rolled her eyes and walked away. 

“Sometimes it feels like these people don’t even want America safe,” he complained to you. 

“Good thing they have you, right?” you asked, and he nodded. “They don’t deserve you, but you still protect them. You know what that makes you?” 

He waited for the answer, knowing it would be a moment he’d replay endlessly in his head. 

“It makes you kind,” you said gently. “It makes you benevolent.” 

“Damn right,” he grinned. 

You knew to choose your words wisely. Homelander had just announced to the Seven that he was, without a shadow of doubt, God. That Vought was supposed to prepare America for it. It had been a fun couple of weeks at the Tower trying to make that happen, but as usual, you were the quickest to make that switch, so Homelander’s attention would remain on you while everyone else got their shit together. 

He looked around the alley. 

“Alright, let’s get out of this disgusting shithole,” he said, grabbing you by the waist without warning. 

You’d gotten used to it. 

He flew you right out of the bloody alley and back to Vought. 

***

“You were supposed to see this coming,” Sage yelled at you. 

You sighed. “I didn’t even know he had Soldier Boy’s chamber in his fucking penthouse. I can’t account for factors—” 

“What the fuck did I hire you for then?” she asked you. 

You looked at her. “I told you I work from information. It was obvious he would release Soldier Boy if he had him, but I didn’t know he had him.” 

Sage glared at you. 

“We don’t have time to fuck around,” she told you. “It’s hard enough trying to get a hold of Butcher for that virus, Soldier Boy is an uncontrollable variable—” 

“I have it handled,” you cut in, not wanting to hear the same drivel again for the third time. 

She looked at you. “You better,” she said. “You get only one more chance. After that, either I take care of you or I let Homelander do it.” 

She walked out, leaving you in your office. 

You tossed your tablet onto the couch. 

Seven months of this shit. 

Seven months of Homelander being very obviously in love with you, to the point where it was starting to piss off Firecracker. It also didn’t help that The Deep wanted, badly, to get the approval from you that Homelander was getting. 

And, of course, Sage being on your ass. 

The only person not being a problem was Noir. 

Knowing this place, though, it was only a matter of time before he joined them. 

“Alright then,” you said to yourself. “What fresh hell is Soldier Boy going to bring?” 

***

The Seven conference room was cold enough to preserve bodies.

Which, you supposed, was fitting.

The place looked less like a superhero headquarters these days and more like a mausoleum with mood lighting. The massive table gleamed black beneath the city skyline. Deep was nervously sipping something green. Firecracker sat with her boots on the chair beside her, scrolling through social media with visible delight every time she found a death threat directed at a journalist. Noir stood silently in the corner like a sleep paralysis demon in tactical gear.

Sage leaned against the glass wall, arms folded.

And Homelander—

Homelander paced.

Which was never a good sign.

“You are agitating yourself,” you told him from your seat.

“I’m excited,” he corrected.

Your tablet flickered with elevated dopamine markers and adrenaline spikes. It was wiser to stay quiet. 

“All of you, just fucking… behave,” he addressed The Seven. “As we prepare America for my ascension, having a full team is—” 

The doors opened.

Soldier Boy walked into the room like the building belonged to him.

He walked in without theater, without performance. Just heavy boots, the green suit, and the shield. 

Sage’s eyes sharpened with immediate calculation.

Homelander spread his arms. “Everyone,” he announced proudly, “welcome back the greatest American hero who ever lived.”

Soldier Boy glanced around once.

Disinterested.

Bored.

Then his eyes landed on you.

It was almost imperceptible. A tiny hitch. But after seven months in this building, you’d become frighteningly good at noticing microexpressions in unstable superhumans.

His gaze moved slowly over you—not in the polished, media-trained way Homelander looked at women.

No.

Soldier Boy looked at you like he’d walked into a warzone and a pocket of… peace. 

Silence. 

Homelander, of course, did not take kindly to his welcome going unacknowledged. 

“I am also proud to say,” he continued, trying to get Soldier Boy’s attention. “That he is the newest member of The Seven.” 

“What the fuck is that?” Soldier Boy asked, his voice gruff.

Homelander’s smile twitched ever so slightly. 

“The heroes of America,” he clarified. “We protect the greatest nation on earth.” 

Soldier Boy finally took his eyes off of you and looked at the room. 

“Even fish boy?” he asked, clearly referring to The Deep, which visibly offended him. 

“Uh—hi, sir, my name is The Deep—” 

Soldier Boy laughed. “The Deep?” 

He flinched, and Homelander glared at him to back off. 

“The name could use work,” Homelander said quickly. “The point is… you’re part of the most elite group of supe—” 

“Who is that?” he asked, pointing at you. 

That went about as well as a lead balloon. You stayed quiet as Sage’s eyes fell on you. 

“That?” Homelander laughed. “That’s, uh… that’s the analyst.” 

“The what?” 

“She analyzes our behavior to determine—” 

“She’s a shrink?” Soldier Boy asked with all the tact of a bomb. 

“She’s more than that,” Homelander said, immediately getting defensive. “She keeps us at the top of our game; she handles our image.” 

“Back in my day, you handled your own image,” Soldier Boy declared, looking directly at you. 

“It’s gotten harder to do that,” you said quietly. 

“What, being a person?” he asked you. 

“Pretending to be a person when you’re really a god,” you said. 

Oh, you were good. 

Just like Homelander knew his talking points, you knew yours.

“Is that right? Gods?” Soldier Boy asked you. “You believe in that bullshit?” 

You maintained a small, neutral smile on your face and kept your eyes locked on his. 

Soldier Boy looked at you for another second.

Then he held his hand out to shake yours. 

You put your hand in his. 

And Jesus Christ.

You’d shaken hands with Supes before. Homelander liked grabbing people too hard as a dominance thing. D-listers had twitchy restless energy. Deep always held on a second too long.

Soldier Boy’s hand felt different.

His thumb brushed once against your knuckles before he let go.

“You’re human?” he asked.

“I am,” you said. 

“Huh.”

That was it.

Just huh.

But something about the way he said it made your stomach tighten. It felt like, for once, a man wanted to be the solution, not the problem. 

Homelander stepped beside you immediately, hand landing on your lower back. Not aggressive enough to call out, but territorial enough to be noticed by Soldier Boy. 

“She’s human, but she’s brilliant,” he said. “You’ll see in time.” 

Soldier Boy’s eyes dropped to the hand on your back, then slowly lifted to Homelander’s face.

And for the first time since entering the room—

He smiled.

“I’m sure she is,” he said. 

He moved around the table to take a seat, clearly having decided something by himself. Homelander did not move his hand from your back until Soldier Boy had settled into his chair. 

Well. 

Fuck, you thought to yourself. 

***

The knock on your door came at 11:14 PM. Three slow hits against the wood.

You stared at it from your couch for a long second. Nobody visited you… not even Homelander, who was afraid enough of jeopardizing your relationship to keep a respectful distance. 

You got up carefully, setting your book aside.

The second you opened the door, Soldier Boy leaned one shoulder against the frame and looked down at you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“You took forever,” he said.

“Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting anyone because I didn’t invite anyone,” you said flatly.

He grinned but stayed silent. 

Your eyes moved over him without meaning to. No visible injuries, civilian clothes instead of the suit. Dark green jacket. Henley. Boots.

“How did you get my address?”

“I’m Soldier Boy.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“Used to answer enough.”

You sighed.

Nobody in your building knew you worked at Vought, and you wanted to keep it that way… so you moved aside quickly to let him in before any prying eyes saw. 

And the moment he walked in—

You watched it happen.

The tiny shift.

Soldier Boy looked around your apartment in complete silence.

Your home was quiet in a way Vought Tower never was. Warm lamp lighting instead of sterile LEDs. Soft music low in the background. Bookshelves overflowing. Blankets thrown over the couch. Plants by the windows. 

Actual color. Actual life.

The whole place smelled faintly like sandalwood and coffee.

Human.

After the endless glass and chrome and ego of Vought, it hit him strangely hard. You could tell.

Soldier Boy wandered farther inside, slow and deliberate.

“Huh,” he muttered.

“What?”

He looked around once more.

“This place feels…” He frowned like he hated needing the words at all. “Good.”

You blinked at him.

Then laughed softly despite yourself.

“That sounded physically painful for you to admit.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re the one here at 11 o’clock in the night, uninvited. I’m making it weird?”

“Yeah, well.” He looked toward your bookshelf. “The tower feels like a dentist office designed by Nazis.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. That seemed to genuinely delight him.

“There she is,” he said. “Thought maybe you were a robot for a second.”

You crossed your arms. “What do you want, Soldier Boy?”

“Ben.”

“What?”

“My name,” he said. “You can call me Ben.”

That surprised you more than it should have. But, as always, you covered it well.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He looked at you for a second. Then he shrugged and sat down on your couch like he belonged there.

“I got bored.”

“You got bored.”

“Yeah.”

“New York is supposedly the greatest city on earth. Loads to do here. You can go anywhere.” 

“I did,” he said. “Didn’t like it.”

You stared at him.

Soldier Boy leaned back against your couch cushions with a low grunt, eyes scanning the room again. Then they landed on you.

“So,” he said. “You seriously enjoy babysitting those airheads?”

You walked toward your kitchen. “I’m good at it.

“I didn’t ask if you were good at it.”

You opened your fridge. “Want a beer?”

“Hell yeah.”

You tossed him one. He caught it easily without looking.

“You know,” he continued, watching you carefully now, “the fish guy spent twenty minutes trying to explain NFTs to me.”

“My condolences.”

“And Homelander—” he laughed once to himself. “Jesus Christ.”

Your shoulders stiffened instinctively. Of course, he noticed. Soldier Boy noticed everything. That was becoming rapidly apparent.

“You scared of him?” he asked bluntly.

“No.”

“Bullshit.”

You cracked open your drink. “Fear isn’t useful in my position.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

You looked at him carefully.

Then took a sip instead of answering.

Soldier Boy watched you over the rim of his beer bottle.

“You know what I think?” he asked.

“I can’t wait to know,” you said dryly. 

He ignored the tone. 

“I think you spend all day managing everybody else so they don’t fucking explode.” He gestured vaguely toward you. “But nobody’s taking care of you.”

You almost laughed.

“I don’t need taking care of.”

“Oh, I beg to fucking differ.”

His voice dropped lower then.

Rougher.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you haven’t had anyone fuck you well in years, and you’re wound so tight you could crack diamonds between your teeth.”

The vulgarity, you had expected. The soldier out of time, the crude misogynist with no filter. You… did not seem to mind it. 

“Do you say things like that to shock people,” you asked, “or because you actually believe it?”

Soldier Boy grinned. God, that grin was dangerous.

It wasn’t polished or media-trained like Homelander’s. There was no vapid hollowness, no hunger behind it. It was genuine, pure delight. His grin looked earned through bar fights and bad decisions and cigarettes smoked in motel parking lots.

“I think,” you continued carefully, “you like getting a reaction out of people.”

“I like getting a reaction out of Homelander,” he admitted immediately. “But you?” He shook his head once. “Nah.”

“No?”

“I think people test you enough.”

Something in your expression shifted before you could stop it.

“We just met,” you said quietly. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know Homelander wants you like he wants a mommy.”

You hid your disgust well… years of practice. And yet, you could tell, his eyes sharpened slightly like he caught it anyway.

“But me?” he said, standing now.

He walked toward you without hurry.

“I want you like a man wants a woman.”

Your breath caught despite yourself.

And God… that was embarrassing. Because part of you immediately relaxed.

Soldier Boy stopped in front of you.

Close enough now that you could smell smoke and leather and something warm beneath it.

“Doesn’t that relieve a tiny part of you?” he asked softly.

You hated how much it did.

Homelander’s obsession felt consuming. Childish. Needy in a way that made your skin crawl some days. Everything with him felt like an emotional hostage negotiation.

But this?

A man looking at you and wanting you without needing you to save him first?

Soldier Boy watched the realization happen across your face.

“You’re absurdly confident,” you said quietly. 

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m observant.”

He lifted his hand slowly and brushed his knuckles lightly against your jaw. Gentle enough that it almost hurt more. He leaned in, his breath hot against your face. 

“Wanna know what I thought the second I saw you?” he asked, his voice low. 

You almost closed your eyes and leaned it when—

BZZZZZ. BZZZZZZZZ. 

The sound shattered the moment.

Soldier Boy’s hand was still against your jaw, warm and impossibly careful for a man built like artillery.

The screen lit up.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

It was obvious who was calling. 

Soldier Boy followed your gaze toward the phone, then looked back at you. Something in his eyes changed, and it didn’t escape you. 

“Don’t pick it up,” he said.

Your eyes stayed on the phone as it buzzed again.

“I have a job to do,” you replied quietly.

You moved to reach for it, and Soldier Boy caught your wrist.

It wasn’t rough or possessive… it was almost gentle, like coaxing a baby away from an electric socket. 

The contrast of it nearly killed you. Homelander had a habit of grabbing things—objects, people, it didn’t matter. He was possessive and jealous and far too quick to claim things he believed were his. 

But this… this felt like someone asking you to reconsider.

Your pulse stumbled traitorously beneath his fingers.

“It’s almost midnight,” Soldier Boy said. “You off the clock yet or does he keep you on a leash twenty-four seven?”

“He doesn’t like it if I ignore him too long.”

“That supposed to make me sympathetic?”

“No,” you admitted. “Just informed.”

The phone buzzed again.

Again.

Again.

Rapid now.

Homelander was spiraling. Probably pacing, wearing a hole in the marble floors of his glossy penthouse. 

You could practically hear him already.

Where are you?

Why didn’t you answer?

Did I do something wrong?

Need wrapped in threat. Threat wrapped in need.

Soldier Boy watched your face carefully.

“Let go of me, fucking war relic,” you said firmly. 

His eyes widened at that, and obvious delight crossed his face. He let go of your wrist. 

You grabbed it off the counter.

The second the call connected, Homelander spoke.

“Hey!”

Too bright. Way too bright. You closed your eyes briefly to muster the strength you needed. 

“Hi.”

“Where are you?” he asked immediately. “I thought we were going to go over tomorrow’s event. Managing triggers and all that. I got us dinner, too, I thought—” 

“Homelander, my job is to analyze you AFTER an event; there’s really nothing to talk about before an event,” you reminded him. 

“Don’t we want to preempt and prevent?” he asked in the voice used to give pep talks to policemen.

Your eyes flicked toward Soldier Boy. He was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite survive.

“I know you’ll do well,” you said. “You’ve been consistent the last few events, you listen to my notes and always apply them so well—” you cooed. “Hell, if you stay on this track, Vought might not even need me anymore.” 

“I should probably laser a few people then, just so there is a reason to keep you around,” he laughed. 

You laughed back because it was the right thing to do. There was a pause on the line, heavy enough to crush. 

“Hey…” he said softly. “Can I… ask you something?” 

Your eyes flicked to Soldier Boy again. 

“Anything,” you replied. 

“Is Sage having you… integrate… Soldier Boy?” 

“Integrate?” 

“Assimilate. I don’t know. Prepare him for a life in front of the cameras. Be part of The Seven.” 

Sage had, indeed, asked you to do that. You knew her motive without her even telling you, of course. But what she hadn’t accounted for and wouldn’t be happy about was the fact that you were losing your mind in his presence. 

“She did,” you said honestly. “They chipped him this afternoon, I think, and I have to start monitoring tomorrow.” 

Another pause followed. You knew Homelander, every last bit of his damaged, childish self. 

“I don’t want you to,” he said finally. 

Soldier Boy’s mouth twitched instantly beside you. You shot him a warning look, but that only delighted him. 

“Homelander…” you said carefully. “It’s my job.”

“I’ll have someone else do it.”

“Why?”

He exhaled sharply.

“I just don’t want you to.” His voice tightened. “I always do what you tell me to. Can’t you listen for once?”

God, that awful childlike sincerity.

Across from you, Soldier Boy leaned against the counter with folded arms, watching the entire thing unfold like he’d just discovered reality television.

You turned away from him slightly.

“Homelander,” you said gently, “you know I’m good at difficult personalities.”

“That’s exactly the fucking problem.”

Your stomach tightened.

On the other side of the kitchen, Soldier Boy’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You think I don’t see the way he looks at you?” Homelander continued quietly. “I’m not stupid.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

No… unfortunately, he wasn’t.

“He’s newly out of containment,” you said. “He’s looking at everyone strangely.”

“Not like that.”

Your silence answered too much. Soldier Boy noticed immediately. His smugness faded into something far more dangerous. 

“He’s old,” Homelander said suddenly, grasping now. “He’s unstable. He’s an asshole. He’s—”

“He’s your father,” you interrupted softly.

The line went dead silent. So did the room. Soldier Boy slowly lifted his eyebrows.

Homelander spoke again after a moment, quieter this time.

“It’s complicated,” he said. 

“I know,” you said. 

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

You leaned against the counter. Suddenly, you felt very, very tired.

“He’s curious,” you said softly. “That’s all.”

“Curious men are dangerous.”

You knew that all too well. You felt it, and you hated how much you liked it. 

“I can handle myself,” you told Homelander.

“I know you can,” he replied instantly. “That’s not the point.”

There was genuine emotion in his voice now. Open and raw in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. And despite everything, part of you still pitied him. Homelander loved like a starving thing. Sage knew what you would mean to someone like that. That was, to her credit, one of the few things she truly understood about love. 

“I just…” He exhaled shakily. “I don’t like the idea of him near you.”

Soldier Boy looked like he was having the time of his fucking life. You rubbed your temple slowly.

“Alright,” you said at last.

Soldier Boy’s eyes snapped to yours.

You ignored him.

“I’ll come in tomorrow morning,” you continued into the phone. “We’ll talk before the event. And…” You hesitated.

Soldier Boy went still.

“I won’t meet with Soldier Boy until I meet with you first.”

The effect was immediate. Relief flooded Homelander’s voice so fast it almost made your chest ache.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

Soldier Boy actually scoffed under his breath. You shot him another look.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “I promise.”

A long exhale came through the speaker, like a storm settling.

“Okay,” Homelander murmured. “Okay. Good.”

You could practically picture him now, decompressing. Re-centering himself around your reassurance like a plant turning toward sunlight.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” he said softly.

Of course you knew. It was your fucking job. 

“Not at all,” you said. “I think we just understand each other, you know? It’s rare to find that in this hellhole.” 

He made a sound like he agreed. 

“Get some sleep,” you told him gently.

“You too.” A pause. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ended.

Silence filled your apartment again.

Soldier Boy was looking at you like he’d just won an argument you never realized you were having.

“You done proving my point?” he asked.

You hated the heat that climbed your neck.

“You sound like a fuckin’ exhausted wife talking down a drunk husband at two in the morning.”

You tossed your phone aside. “I think it’s time you left,” you said. 

He laughed softly, the knowing in his tone infuriating you by the second. Somehow, his smugness felt less suffocating than Homelander’s need. Your careful words were now second nature, and somewhere… you had lost your real self. 

The realization made you feel sick.

“Well, do you?” he asked suddenly. 

“Do I what?” you asked. 

“Know what I thought when I first saw you?” 

Your pulse stumbled.

“What?”

He looked at you.

“I thought…” He smiled faintly. “She’s quiet. Not in a shy way but just… very controlled.” 

You had no idea why he was telling you this or what it was supposed to mean, until he added—

“Made me want to be the one to make you scream.” 

“Jesus Christ, Soldier Boy!” you exclaimed. 

“Exactly like that, just more breathy and with less clothes…” 

“Get the fuck out of my house,” you demanded, unable to hold your shocked laughter back, which delighted him. 

“Night, sweetheart,” he called as he left your apartment. 

***

You stepped out of the elevator with your tablet pressed to your chest, your face arranged into the calm, unreadable expression that had kept you alive for seven months. The morning staff moved around you in nervous little currents. Everyone felt the shift in the building. Soldier Boy’s presence had disturbed something fundamental in Vought Tower, like a dead king waking up beneath a palace.

But Homelander was the immediate problem in front of you.

And he was waiting in the Seven meeting room.

He stood by the windows, hands clasped behind his back as he looked down at the city. The room was otherwise empty. 

That alone put your senses on edge.

When the door slid shut behind you, he turned.

He smiled.

“You came,” he said.

“I said I would.”

His eyes flicked over you, absorbing the blouse, the skirt, the hair, the lipstick, the tiny human details you suddenly hated him noticing. You had dressed carefully this morning. Professional enough to create distance. Soft enough not to provoke rejection. Neutral colors. Low heels. No sharp edges.

Everything about you was a strategy.

And yet, after last night, you felt like your whole body had become a confession.

Homelander walked toward the table but did not sit. “Coffee?” he asked.

You glanced down.

There were two cups on the table. One black. One exactly the way you took yours. Homelander didn’t drink coffee, but he had made a habit of feigning humanity around humans. 

Your stomach twisted.

“That’s very thoughtful, Homelander.”

His face warmed immediately at the praise. The leash you held in your hand was made of compliments, and every day it felt thinner.

You sat down slowly, placing your tablet on the table. “We should go over the event brief.”

He did not sit across from you… He sat beside you. Not touching, but close enough that his presence crowded the air.

“Already read it,” he said.

“You did?”

He smiled, pleased by your surprise. “Twice.”

“That’s good,” you said carefully. “Really good.”

His smile broadened, then faltered almost immediately, like even praise couldn’t hold him steady today.

“You still going to meet with him?”

There it was. No warm-up.

You unlocked your tablet with deliberate calm. “I told you last night. I’m meeting with you first.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked up at him.

His eyes were fixed on you, impossibly blue and terribly empty in that way they became when he was waiting for someone to fill him up.

“I have to meet with him eventually,” you said. “That was Sage’s instruction.”

“Sage isn’t in charge of you.”

That was factually untrue in almost every way that mattered, but you did not correct him.

“Maybe,” you said instead. “But I do have responsibilities.”

His jaw worked once.

“Responsibilities.” He said the word like it disgusted him.

You waited. Sometimes silence worked on him. Sometimes it made him worse.

Today, you could honestly not tell which. You would normally look at your screen to monitor his levels, but you can’t really do that with him right next to you. 

He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with a kind of wounded focus. “Are you blind or just wilfully ignorant?” he asked. 

“Excuse me?” you asked. 

“Your screen can’t tell you what’s going on here?” he asked. 

You weren’t sure what it was supposed to tell you… But no, you hadn’t been blind. A dead person could tell, by this point, what you meant to Homelander. 

“Are you really so blind that you can’t see how much I love you?” he finally confessed. 

The room seemed to contract around you.

Hearing him say it—hearing him finally drag the thing into the room and lay it between you—felt like watching a match fall into gasoline. You had, of course, prepared for many variations of this conversation. You had contingencies. Detours. Delays. Soft refusals. Strategic praise. Gentle ambiguity.

None of them felt safe right now. 

So you did the only thing that came naturally.

You told the truth, but not all of it.

“I know you do,” you said.

Homelander froze. 

The change in him was immediate and almost frightening. His shoulders went still. His face emptied. His mouth parted slightly, not in shock exactly, but in disbelief so raw it looked childlike. For a moment, all the terrible arrogance went out of him, and what remained was the boy beneath the cape, staring at a door he had expected to be locked forever.

“What?” he asked.

You held his gaze.

“I know you love me.”

He stared at you.

Nothing moved in his face except his eyes. They searched yours desperately, greedily, like the sentence had split open some starving part of him and he was trying to crawl inside it before it disappeared.

“And?” he asked.

The expectation dripped from the word, thick and hopeful. You felt your heartbeat in your throat.

“And…” You swallowed. “I love you too.”

It punched him in the gut.

His lips parted further. His eyes flashed with something bright and helpless. His breath caught so violently, his chest rose beneath the suit. The muscles in his face lost their practiced arrangement one by one: the smile, the superiority, the polished confidence, all of it broke apart into naked astonishment.

For a second, he looked almost beautiful. Not good or safe, that was wishful thinking, but beautiful in the catastrophic way a fire looked beautiful from far away.

“You do?” he asked.

His voice was smaller now, almost reverent. You forced yourself not to look away.

“Not in the way you do, maybe,” you said softly.

And there it was… the falter. The light dimmed.

“But,” you continued quickly, carefully, before the hurt could sharpen into anger, “I believe in you. I have faith.”

His brows drew together.

“Faith?” he scoffed, but the sound was weak. Defensive.

“Faith,” you repeated. “Faith in your goodness. Faith in your desire to protect this country. Faith that you are everything you say you are.” 

His eyes stayed on your face.

You could tell it was not enough. Not remotely. You had given him a church when he wanted a bed, and the safest thing for you to do was to keep talking until that altar started looking homely. 

The silence stretched. 

So you turned the blade.

“Why do you love me?” you asked.

He blinked. The question threw him.

“What?”

“Why do you love me?”

His throat moved. For a moment, he looked offended by the question, as if love should explain itself by existing. Then his expression shifted again, softer and more uncertain.

“You see me,” he said.

The words came out rougher than he intended. You stayed completely still.

“You’re not scared of me,” he continued. “You don’t treat me like a fucking bomb about to explode.”

A deep, sick ache opened in your chest… because he was wrong. He was wrong, and he had never been more wrong, and every single thing you did around him was built around the knowledge that he was exactly that.

A bomb.

You looked at him and let your face soften into something almost tender.

“It is because I have faith,” you said quietly.

His eyes searched yours.

“Your desire to protect far, far outweighs whatever you think makes you a monster.”

It didn’t. God, you knew it didn’t. But he needed to hear this.

Homelander nearly broke at that.

His face changed again, crumpling in tiny, controlled increments he could not fully stop. His lower lip tightened first. Then his nostrils flared as he drew in a breath through his nose. His eyes grew glassy in a way that made your entire body tense, because emotion made him unpredictable.

“You really believe that?” he asked.

“I do.”

His hand shifted on the table, inching toward yours.

You let him cover your fingers. You noticed, for the first time, that he had taken off his gloves for this conversation, like he was ready to be vulnerable with you. Like he had fully planned to lay himself bare to prevent you from spending any time with Soldier Boy. 

His skin was warm.

For a terrible second, you remembered Soldier Boy’s hand around your wrist the night before. The difference was so sharp it almost made you dizzy.

“Then why don’t you love me?” Homelander asked.

Your blood went cold.

You looked at him.

His voice had cracked on the question.

He heard it too. You could tell by the flash of humiliation in his eyes, the quick anger that followed, then the way he swallowed both down because he wanted the answer more than he wanted pride.

“You know what I mean,” he said, forcing the words out. “Why… why isn’t it enough?”

For the first time all morning, you were genuinely thrown. Your mind ran through options with brutal speed, but none of those answers would leave your head attached to your body.

And you had already disappointed Sage enough times.

This was supposed to be your forte, wasn’t it?

Love.

The one thing Sage could not reliably predict. The thing she had hired you to understand. And here you were, standing in the middle of it like a fool with a tablet.

“I’m scared,” you said.

The words left you before you fully approved them. Homelander went still… You could see it hurt him more than if you had slapped him. The hope in his face collapsed first. Then came the wound. Then disbelief. Then something small and devastating that made your stomach twist despite everything he was.

“You’re scared?” he asked.

His voice was barely above a whisper. You could feel the temperature of the room change.

“Of… me?”

There it was. You had stepped onto glass and heard the first crack.

You thought, absurdly, childishly, of the door opening. Sage walking in. Deep doing something stupid. Firecracker causing a scene. Anything to interrupt this moment. 

No one came.

You had to think fast.

“No,” you said softly. “Not you.” 

You leaned closer, just enough to make the correction feel intimate rather than strategic.

“I’m scared of what this means.”

He watched you, uncertain now.

You continued carefully. “I’m human.”

His expression flickered at that.

“I don’t mean weak,” you added. “I mean temporary. Limited. Small in ways you are not. And you…” You let yourself look at him with the kind of awe he craved. “You are the most powerful person on the planet.”

His breathing slowed slightly.

“I know what people want from you,” you said. “I know what they take. I know how they pray to you when they need something and hate you when you don’t deliver. That’s the curse of being God. And I am scared that if I let this become more, I’ll just become another person asking more of you.”

He frowned.

That was not the answer he had expected.

“I don’t want to take from you,” you said. “I don’t want to become one more need. One more demand. Your ascension is around the corner, you cannot have… distractions.”

His fingers tightened around yours.

“You wouldn’t distract me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” you said gently. “Because love does that to people. It makes them selfish. It makes them hungry. It makes them want reassurance every hour, every minute. It makes them forget that the person they love has a duty larger than them.”

He stared at you.

You could see him trying to follow the path you had built for him. He wanted to reject it, but there were enough words in it he liked: “duty,” “larger,” “love.” 

“You think you loving me would… distract me?” he asked.

“I think being loved by you would make me forget what I’m meant to do for you.”

His face changed. The wound remained, but pride began to creep around its edges. You had given him something noble to suffer for.

It was horrible how well it worked.

His eyes flicked between yours, hungry for more. So you gave him more.

“You need someone who sees America with you. Someone who believes in the mission.” Your voice softened. “Love… will make me want more. More time, more attention, more softness. Parts of you nobody else gets to see.”

His lips parted.

You saw the desire move through him, not just sexual, not even primarily romantic, but emotional. The unbearable seduction of being hidden and precious and known.

“If I love you,” you said, “then I have to deal with sharing you. And you’re too fucking important to hide away.”

His eyes glistened again.

“You really think that?”

“I do.”

Again, the lie. Again, the survival.

He looked down at your joined hands. For a second, he seemed almost young.

“You love me,” he said quietly, like he was testing the words in his mouth.

“I do.”

You sat there long enough for the moment to feel meaningful. 

Then you slowly withdrew. 

“We should focus on today’s event,” you said gently. “You have a strong messaging window if you stay calm through the defense questions. Don’t engage if someone mentions Soldier Boy. Smile, redirect to unity, say America honors its heroes while building toward the future.”

He watched you for another second, visibly reluctant to leave the emotional territory he had just forced open.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Unity,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“America honors its heroes while building toward the future.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled then, small but real. 

Pleased with himself.

He walked you to the door, which was unnecessary and therefore terrifying. Before you stepped out, he caught your hand again.

“You’ll come see me after?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded, satisfied.

You left the meeting room without rushing.

You walked past the assistants, past the glass corridor, past the security desk, past two Vought employees whispering too softly to be anything but terrified.

You did not breathe properly until you turned the corner.

Even then, you waited.

Homelander could hear too much.

So you kept walking.

Only when you reached the elevator bank and the doors slid shut behind you did you let your shoulders drop. The sigh that left you was nearly silent and still too heavy.

You pressed the button for your floor with a hand that did not quite shake.

By the time you reached your office, you had reconstructed yourself.

Mostly.

You opened the door, and Soldier Boy was sitting behind your desk.

Feet up, grinning ear-to-fucking-ear. 

Your entire body went cold.

“What the fuck are you doing in my office?”

He held up one finger. Then pointed lazily at your computer.

On the screen was a live feed of the Seven meeting room… the place you had just come back from. The place where, currently, Homelander was also sporting a shit-eating grin as he sat at the head of the table. 

Your blood turned cold. 

You always had a direct line to the security cameras and microphones in the Seven conference room, but you didn’t think anybody, least of all Soldier Boy, knew how to get to it. 

“Were you listening in on a private conversation?” you asked. 

His grin widened.

“Wasn’t private if it was broadcastin’, sweetheart.”

You slammed the laptop shut. The sound cracked through the office. Soldier Boy did not flinch.

“You are unbelievable,” you snapped.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“You had no right.”

“No,” he agreed easily. “But I did have a really boring morning.” 

You stared at him, fury rising fast because fury was easier than humiliation. He had heard everything.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like I caught you naked.”

You hated the heat that climbed your neck.

“In a way, you did.”

That wiped some of the amusement from his face. He lowered his boots from your desk and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. For once, he did not throw a vulgar joke into the space between you. For once, he seemed to understand that there were some wounds even he should not prod with dirty fingers.

“You’re good,” he said quietly.

You laughed once, humorless.

“Congratulations. You’ve discovered why I’m employed.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You’re really good.”

Something about the emphasis made you look at him.

His expression was frustratingly unreadable now. Rough, yes. Amused, still. But beneath that, there was something like respect.

“He was ready to crack,” Soldier Boy said. “You gave him a whole church to kneel in instead.”

Your stomach twisted.

“Don’t make it sound beautiful.”

His gaze held yours.

“Even I almost bought it,” he said. “The god shit.” 

You looked away.

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” you said. 

“Didn’t say it should.”

Silence settled between you, thick and unpleasantly intimate. Your office suddenly felt too small.

“What did you want?” you asked him. “Why are you here?” 

“Thought we’d pick up where we left off last night,” he said. 

Your pulse betrayed you first.

Not your face. You still had control over that, mostly. Your expression stayed annoyed, cold, and professional in all the right places. But your pulse? Your stupid, human, treacherous pulse kicked hard beneath your skin, and from the slight sharpening of his grin, he knew it.

Of course he knew it.

Soldier Boy rose from your chair like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t move like Homelander. Homelander floated, appeared, vanished, invaded space with the eerie smoothness of something unnatural. Soldier Boy moved like a man. Heavy. Certain. Boots on carpet. Leather creaking faintly. Body taking up space without apology.

It was worse. So much worse.

“Last night ended with you leaving my apartment,” you said.

“After you told me to get the fuck out.”

“I stand by the sentiment.”

“Sure you do.”

Every step he took toward you felt like a countdown. You held your ground.

“That was not an invitation to try harder.”

“No?” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “Because you keep lookin’ at me like you’re mad I’m still dressed.”

A hot, humiliating rush moved through you.

You hated him.

You hated the bluntness. The absolute lack of poetry. The crude confidence of it. There was no careful circling, no psychological chess, no elaborate dance of subtext dressed up as morality. He said things plainly, brutally, almost offensively, and some buried part of you—some exhausted, overmanaged part of you—rose toward it like oxygen.

Because with him, you did not have to predict the next emotional collapse. You did not have to calculate the safest sentence. You did not have to polish every word.

You could look him right in the face and say things like, “Arrogant bastard.”

So you did exactly that, and it earned you a grin. 

“There she is.”

And God help you, that did something to you. Funnily, it wasn’t his voice or the grin or even his body and the dangerous warmth of it. It was actually you. The version of you that came out around him. Sharp-tongued and angry, for once not managing emotions and egos.  

With Soldier Boy, your irritation had somewhere to go.

With Soldier Boy, your desire did too.

“Look at me,” he said.

Your eyes snapped to his.

Not because he commanded it… You weren’t so obedient. But right now, it felt confusing… looking at him felt like defiance, even if it was technically what he wanted. 

His mouth curved.

“You like being told what to do?” he asked. 

“You are not in charge of me.”

“Never said I was.”

“Good.”

“But you like thinking I might try.”

The words hit low in your stomach. You went still.

Soldier Boy saw it. His eyes darkened, and this time, he did come closer. One step. Then another. Still slow. Still giving you every chance to move.

You didn’t.

Your back touched the edge of your desk.

His gaze dropped to the contact point, then lifted again.

“Funny thing,” he murmured. “Woman like you, sittin’ in this tower all day, telling gods and freaks and psychos how to behave…”

“Careful,” you repeated, but your voice had lost some of its edge.

He heard that, too.

“…and all it takes is a guy saying one honest thing, and suddenly you don’t know where to put your hands.”

Your fingers curled against the edge of the desk.

“Like that,” he said, like he’d caught you doing something obscene.

You hated the heat in your face.

He smiled again, but there was no mockery in it now. Not really. He looked pleased, yes. Insufferably pleased. But underneath it was hunger. Plain and unvarnished, adult in a way that made your entire body feel too aware of itself.

Homelander wanted you like he was starving and thought you were the thing that had denied him food. Soldier Boy wanted you like appetite was a normal fact of being alive.

You wished you could stop comparing it. Strangely, it just made things better. 

“Stop enjoying this,” you said.

“No way.”

“At least pretend to be ashamed.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re in my office.”

“So?”

“Anyone could walk in.”

His eyes flicked to the door. “I locked it when you entered. Safety button under your desk, right?” 

Your breath caught. His grin returned.

“Since when are you so tech savvy?” you asked. 

“Didn’t want anybody interrupting while you yelled at me.”

“I’m not yelling.”

“No,” he said, eyes dropping once more to your mouth. “But I’d like it if you would.” 

Your office was not large. You had always liked that. It was one of the few rooms in Vought where the scale almost felt human. Small couch, a reasonably sized desk, and books stacked near the window because you had run out of shelf space. A lamp you brought from home because the overhead lights gave you headaches. There was even a small throw blanket folded over the armchair for late nights when the building AC turned vicious.

You’d made it livable.

That, probably, was one of the reasons the place felt quiet to Soldier Boy. 

“Are you gonna yell at me?” he asked, inching closer. 

“You shouldn’t have been listening,” you said, a weak attempt at admonishing him. 

“That the best you got, little lady?” he murmured against your lips. 

“You’re a presumptuous, arrogant bastard.”

“Been told.”

“Crude.”

“Obviously,” he laughed. 

“Old-fashioned.”

His grin flashed. “Careful. You sound turned on.”

You should have slapped him. You really should have. Instead, you stared at him for one suspended second, all your good sense burning down around you, and then you grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was a catastrophic decision.

You knew that instantly.

You knew it in the way his entire body went still for half a heartbeat, shocked despite all his swagger, as if some part of him had not expected you to be the one to close the distance. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck, firm and hot, and he kissed you back.

Your desk dug into the backs of your thighs. You didn’t care. His mouth was warm, demanding, rough without being careless, and the sound he made when you tugged him closer went through you like a match struck in the dark.

There was nothing elegant about it.

Thank God.

No polished seduction, no careful choreography. Just heat, breath, fingers curling, your body remembering it was a body and not a crisis management department.

He pulled back first, barely, to look at you. His eyes were dark, his breathing heavier than before.

“Well,” he said roughly. “That was impolite.”

A laugh broke out of you, helpless and shocked.

Your back arched as he stepped closer, his body crowding yours, not trapping but surrounding. You felt the desk behind you, him in front of you, the absurd danger of the locked door, the tower humming beyond the walls, Homelander somewhere above or below or too close with ears that could hear too much if either of you forgot yourselves.

That should have cooled you.

It didn’t.

It made the whole thing feel better.

Your hands slid into his hair, and the texture of it beneath your fingers sent another rush of heat through you. He groaned when you tugged, and that sound—God, that sound—did something irreversible to your brain.

“You like that?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He pulled back enough to look at you, shocked by the question. 

“Listen to you, darlin’!” 

Your face heated, but you didn’t retreat.

Soldier Boy lifted you onto the edge of the desk like you weighed nothing.

The motion stole the air from your lungs.

You pulled him between your knees, and his hands landed on the desk on either side of you, caging you in. His eyes darkened, and the air between you changed instantly, heat folding in on itself until the entire office felt too small.

Then his hand came up, caught the back of your neck, and his mouth was on yours.

His kiss was hard enough to make you forget the conversation in the Seven conference room. He kissed like a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had finally been told he could take it. You grabbed at his jacket, dragging him closer, and the low sound that tore from his throat made every thought in your head scatter.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth. “Knew you’d be like this.”

“Like what?” you breathed, because apparently you had become suicidal.

His hand slid to your waist, firm and hot through your blouse. “Hungry.”

The word should have embarrassed you.

It did. But it also made your fingers tighten in his jacket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

“Shut up,” you said, but there was no force in it.

“Make me.”

You kissed him again.

It became thoughtless quickly after that.

Papers slid. Something fell. A pen cup tipped over and scattered across the carpet. Soldier Boy did not look away from your mouth.

“Your office is a mess,” he said.

“You did that.”

“Yeah.” His grin flashed. “Gonna do worse.”

The crude promise sent a shock of heat through you so sharp your knees nearly gave.

He caught it, of course.

“You like it when I talk dirty,” he said.

You swallowed.

He leaned closer, mouth brushing your ear. “Don’t bother lying. You’re bad at it when I’m this close.”

“I’m excellent at lying.”

He laughed into your mouth. “Not to me.”

The sound dissolved into something rougher when your teeth grazed his lower lip. His mouth moved down your jaw to your throat.

You made a sound.

“Told you,” he murmured, mouth at your neck, “wanted to be the one to make you scream.”

The heat that went through you was obscene. You tugged his hair hard enough to make his head lift.

“Careful,” you whispered. “Homelander can hear too much.”

His eyes locked on yours.

“You worried about him hearing me?” he asked. 

“I’m worried about him hearing me.”

That did something to him. The flare in his eyes, the way his breathing changed. 

“Then you better bite down on something.”

Your face went hot.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Like that.”

His mouth was back on your neck before you could answer, and this time his hands were less careful. He tugged you off the desk and separated your thighs with his knee gently, then, rudely, thrillingly, shoved his thigh between your legs. 

“Grind,” he commanded. 

Your body hesitated. Your mind wanted to fight it, to protect some imagined pride.

“Grind down on me,” he said again, slower this time. “Stop using that brilliant brain and just do as you’re told.” 

You shuddered. Then moved. The first roll of your hips was cautious, almost questioning. He rewarded it with a soft growl.

“Good girl.”

The second one was more confident. And the third—hungry.

You could feel the rough press of his thigh through your soaked underwear, the friction catching just right. Your breath hitched as pleasure bloomed—fast, hot, like wildfire catching.

“Eyes open.”

You hadn’t even realized you had squeezed them shut.

“Look at me,” he said. 

The intensity in his gaze nearly undid you. The satisfaction, the hunger, the patience, the promise. 

It was all there.

His hand slid up your back.

“Arch.”

You obeyed again, breathless, and the angle shifted—everything deeper, tighter, more exposed. The noise you made was half-sob, half-moan.

“See?” he murmured against your mouth. “No thinking. Just follow orders. Let your body feel.”

You did.

Every grind brought you closer to madness, to the edge of something blinding and unbearable. Your hands clawed at his suit, your mouth gasping against his.

“Faster,” he murmured, voice molten. “You’re so close, I can feel it.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders. Your forehead dropped against his. Your moans were caught behind bitten lips, but he could hear them anyway. Feel them, in the tremble of your thighs, the way your rhythm faltered and then picked up again.

His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you. The sound of your heat dragging against him, the small, filthy friction of cloth-on-cloth, filled the room.

“You hear that?” he whispered. “That’s how wet you are. That’s how much your body’s begging to come.”

You were gasping, whining low in your throat.

He tilted your head, forced you to look at him again. “You were going to walk away from this,” he murmured. “You kicked me out yesterday. Look at you now, getting off on my leg like a bitch in heat.”

“Soldier Boy—” you panted.

“Say you want to come.”

Your eyes fluttered. Your hips jerked.

“Say it.”

“I— I want to— I want to come,” you whispered, nearly sobbing with it.

He dragged you harder against his thigh. 

“Please,” you breathed, collapsing into him. “Please let me come. Please—”

His mouth crashed into yours, and he let you. 

Your body broke apart in silence, shaking against him, your moan buried in his kiss. Your thighs clenched, your back arched, and you shattered on his thigh like a woman possessed.

He held you through all of it. 

When it was over, when your hips had stilled, and your breath was nothing but small, broken gasps, he pulled his mouth from yours and dragged his lips to your ear.

“That,” he whispered, rough and reverent, “was just from grinding.”

His fingers found the waistline of your trousers and tugged at them. “Let’s do the real thing, shall we?”

___________________________________

The last thing you remembered from the mission was the room exploding in a flash of gold, and Thor’s cloak catching the light as he found you lying in the Hydra space station hallway, orbiting over the Arctic Ocean.

Every breath dragged heavier than the last, and a metallic tang clung stubbornly to the back of your throat. You pressed a hand to your temple, attempting to will away the effects of whatever this was, but the spinning only deepened.

Steve’s hand clamped firmly around your arm, pulling you out of the fog suddenly.

“Y/N, can you tell me what you’re feeling?” His voice was calm, comforting. And suddenly, your whole body felt aflame with signals, too many to focus on, too sharp to put a name to. You blinked against the lights smearing into watercolour streaks above you.

“My skin’s on fire” you managed to huff out.

Steve crouched down to your eye level, taking in your blistered appearance.

“I’m hot.. and dizzy and my clothes feel-” your breath splintered as your words failed you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the sight of Steve’s deep azure eyes in front of you had just knocked the voice from your throat.

Tony cut in, pacing across the cabin, scanner in hand. “Temp’s climbing fast, oxygen saturation’s tanking. We’re dealing with a classic mystery toxin- Banner, tell me you got eyes on this feed? Don’t make me play doctor here, I look terrible in white.”

“I’ve got it” Bruce answered, voice taut.

“Cap, keep her talking. Thor, don’t let her slump forward- airway needs to stay open.”

Thor bristled at the command, already at your other side. He pressed a steadying hand between your shoulder blades, thumb hooked around your neck, and the skin beneath exploded into chills.

“Fear not, comrade. I will bear your weight. No poison born of cowards shall claim you while I yet draw breath.”

“Fantastic” Tony muttered, his tone sharper than playful.

Typically you would have laughed at Thor’s grandiose bravado, or maybe even appreciated the sentiment considering the current state of affairs- instead, something deep within your stomach lurched at the feeling of his large, strong hand pressing into you. The effects of the mystery toxin had become suddenly clearer to you, as a familiar throbbing began in your cunt. You bit your lip, hard.

“Med bay, her heart rate is ramping up over here, Banner says we’re running a two-hour clock ‘til touch down. You might want to clear the crash carts and prep for something ugly.”

“Two hours..” Helen’s voice hardened. “Keep her conscious, that’s priority one. Banner you’ll have full lab access when she’s ground-side.”

“Copy that,” Bruce replied, his voice steady, but you could hear the whir of calculation underneath.

“Is this chemical makeup becoming any clearer to you? From what I’m seeing, this compound is based on Bremelanotide, some kind of Terpenoid and… Meth? It’s reminiscent of a back-alley viagra.”

“Give me a minute” Helen’s voice rang out after a short pause.

“Y/N” Tony snapped, eyeing Bruce.

“I need you to slow your breathing- Inhale for four counts.. yeah that’s it..

Hold..

Exhale.

Good, just like that. Again.”

The ship tilted around you as your mind raced, attempting to follow Tony’s commands. You were unable to focus on your breath with the feeling of your suit clinging to your hot skin, it was suffocating.

“I need this off” you spluttered out, finding Tony’s face above you.

“You need… what off?” He questioned, shoulders tensing into stone as he looked into your tearful eyes.

Your head tilted to the side as a ragged breath escaped you, chest rising unevenly. Your fingers circled into fists, nails biting into your palms as your eyes squeezed shut. Slowly, your back arched off the seat, hips tilting forward, chasing a relief you couldn’t quite grasp. The nausea that had churned your stomach earlier had shifted, twisting into something heavier. Heat bloomed beneath your skin, prickling like a relentless fever. It rolled lower, coiling tight in your belly, spreading out in sharp pulses impossible to ignore. The primal, unshakeable urge to be filled, stretched open, left you dizzied and undone beneath its grip.

Focus had always been your greatest strength. On missions, you were always the quiet one- sharp, trained to hold fast to discipline and drown out distractions. But all those lessons in detachment and control offered no help here, not when you were confined to the steel belly of the Quinjet, hours away from reprieve, with four men as your only companions. Four men whose presence pressed in on your every thought. Each formidable. Each admirable. Each unbearably handsome in their own right. It was pure torment.

With your body becoming harder and harder to control, all you wanted to do was get up and run.

“Fuck-“ you gasped, “my suit.”

Tony and Steve glanced at each other, the thick tension between them shifting from concern to urgent realisation. Tony cleared his throat, turning to Bruce who had been having a quiet and brisk conversation with Helen.

“What was that you were saying about back-alley viagra, Banner? ‘Cause I, uh, I think we have a situation over here.”

Bruce looked back at Tony for a beat, sighing as he chose his next words.

“Well it’s confirmed, this isn’t just an irritant. We’re looking at systematic damage if this isn’t neutralised fast… but it’s manageable.”

The words punched harder than the drilling in your ears- and the pulsing in your cunt.

Life-threatening. The phrase hung heavy and unspoken, but you read it in the lines deepening across Steve’s brow. He was upright now, broad marble shoulders flexing under his suit. You brought in a ragged breath.

“Understood” he answered firmly.

Tony exhaled sharply, pushing both hands through his hair before stabbing at the scanner again. It clicked back to life with a sharp zip.

“Manageable, huh? Manageable by who, exactly?” He questioned, words clattering over a tension he couldn’t quite disguise. Still, his eyes kept darting to you, sharp and calculating, like he was measuring every flutter of your chest.

It was apparent he knew exactly what was unfolding inside of you, and panic slingshotted through the back of your neck like a whip. You wanted the floor to swallow you up.

Thor shifted beside you, restless as a caged storm. His jaw clenched, knuckles whitening around Mjolnir.

“I shall manage it! If it’s poison, then give me its name and origin right now, and I will strike it from the nine realms!”

Tony sighed, shaking his head. “Banner, can you let the rest of the team in on what’s going on, like, now?”

“Yeah.. yeah uhm- I’ve run a partial analysis. It’s not a natural compound, it’s engineered. Hydra designed it to destabilise the body at a cellular level. Essentially to preoccupy the contaminants, make them vulnerable and unable to defend themselves.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Can you get to the point, Banner?”

Bruce exhaled. “It’s a hybrid neurotoxin. It piggybacks into the bloodstream through the lungs, not designed to kill outright, but to hijack the nervous system.”

“Hijack? Meaning what?” Steve frowned, he crossed his arms over his broad chest, beneath them you could see his hands clenching into fists.

“Meaning I’ve been watching her dopamine levels go through the roof since we strapped in. Banner, tell me I’m wrong” Tony answered.

“You’re not,” Bruce admitted, voice taut. “The compound -hypothetically- targets neurotransmitters, specifically those linked to arousal. It pushes the body into a hyper-stimulated state, essentially it’s an aphrodisiac- times one hundred.”

Tony let out a low whistle, eyes narrowing onto his scanner. “Called it. Spiked heart rate, blood pressure increase, system going into overdrive. Reads like a businessman at a strip Club.”

Thor straightened, finally catching onto the situation. His confused expression darkened into disgust, but not with you.

“They would force such.. urges? Drive a warrior into madness with lust?” His tone rumbled, indignant. “Vile sorcery.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to you, then away just as quickly, visibly unsettled.

“So, is this thing lethal or not?”

“Not immediately,” Bruce said. “But the strain on her cardiovascular system alone could be fatal if it continues to run unchecked. And psychologically…”

“Hydra always did love their party tricks,” Tony muttered, though his voice was tight. He adjusted the scanner again restlessly.

“Guys, this is serious. At this rate, she isn’t going to make it back here without intervention. She needs stimulation” Helen said, her words sharp.

The feeling had swallowed you now, you were unable to contain it any longer. Your breathing was coming out in short sobs as you twisted within the chair.

“Well, I can probably whip up a better-than-average vibrator, just need a decent motor and some batteries” Tony mumbled.

“No. That’s not gonna cut it.” Helen sighed. “She needs male DNA, which is available through saliva or.. ejaculate.”

The tension had reached its crescendo now, all parties aware of what that meant.

You shifted in the chair, trying to press your knees together, but the movement only stoked the fire. A gasp slipped out before you could stop it.

Steve noticed instantly, his hand pressed onto the armrest next to you.

“Easy” he murmured.

Tony’s eyes flicked from his scanner to your flushed face, his usual smirk didn’t come, instead his jaw ticked.

“Well, banner, your neurotransmitter theory has already left the hypothetical stage.”

“That’s the compound, it’s overstimulating her system. Her heart rate is elevated way past safe levels. If she keeps reacting it could tip into arrhythmia.”

Thor growled, the sound thunder deep. His hand hovered near your shoulder, but he hesitated, unsure if his touch would soothe or worsen.

You squeezed your eyes shut again, breathing in uneven gasps. Every inhale felt too shallow, every exhale a struggle against the pulse roaring through your blood.

“Y/N, you’re going to be okay, just hang in there” Steve said.

At the sound of his gravely voice, your mind betrayed you, spinning out pyretic visions you couldn’t hold back. You could almost feel the weight of his hot mouth pressing to your throat, his tongue dragging slow, wet lines down the delicate curve of your neck. Licking stripes lower and lower until his warmth ghosted over your peaked nipple. Closing his lips around it, sucking hard enough to make your back bow and strain, tongue flicking until you whimpered. You imagined him flicking against your swollen, aching clit instead. Sucking, licking gently until you could feel it bone deep and dragging languidly through your every nerve. The phantom pleasure was so vivid it hollowed you out, left you fluttering around nothing.

“Do we have any kind of protocol to run off here? I mean, this can’t be ethical. How would we even..” Tony trailed off quietly.

Your body jolted like it had been shocked. Heat flared then drained so fast it left your teeth chattering. The whiplash left you gasping, you clutched Steve’s sleeve like it was the only thing tethering you down.

Desire licked through your veins, prickling your skin like fire ants. You yanked at your suit, desperate for air, the feel of it clinging to your skin becoming unbearable in the isolated cabin. You ripped the zipper down, fabric popping open to reveal your bra.

“Okay, guys, we really need a plan here” Tony said quickly, swivelling around so his back was to you. Thor’s eyes widened, and he began to spin around as he followed Tony’s movements.

Steve shifted then, sliding one arm beneath you and the other behind your shoulders. You sucked in a gasp, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Steve-“ you began to protest, but he shushed you, lifting as though you weighed nothing. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed ahead, remaining far more composed than could be said for the rest of them.

Tony twisted half around, eyebrows raised.

“Well isn’t that a wholesome picture, Rodgers. Doing the full bridal carry. And, although I know you’re big on procedures, I sure hope you’re not planning on consummating this marriage so soon. We haven’t signed off on anything yet.”

Steve didn’t even glance his way.

“She needs privacy right now, that’s all.”

“Sure, sure, just saying. You’ve set the bar real high for bedside manner.”

Before Steve could answer, Thor stepped forward, solemn and classically dramatic. His gaze rested on you, then on Steve, as he pressed a broad hand to his chest.

“Captain Rodger’s bears you with honour. Fear not, Y/N. No harm, nor shame, shall touch you today. By my oath, you are protected.”

Steve adjusted his grip, bringing his hand further down towards your knees as he felt the wetness that seeped down your thighs.

“Let’s just keep the focus on getting her stable.” He said firmly.

“Aye-” Thor said, smiling humbly as he bowed his head in assent, “-yet the vow still stands.” His voice rumbled through your pussy like a distant storm.

Steve walked steadily toward the Quinjet cabin quarters, shoulder sliding open the door slowly. He placed you down on the bed, his hand lingering just a second too long on your shoulder- meaning to steady you.

“Breathe with me, gonna be just you and me for now.” He straightened up, eyeing you intently.

You tried, the air clawed at your throat with every inhale, your body felt like it wasn’t yours anymore. Like an enemy- it spun, it ached, it begged, every urge fighting against your own mind.

“I’m burning” you sobbed, fingers curling into the soft sheets below you.

Steve hated the way you trembled below him, every sense coming undone. His usually composed demeanour strained within him. You had always been quiet, a steady pair of eyes. He always trusted you to keep your attention on the job, in a way, you were the one he had come to rely on the most.

“I know” he answered simply before lifting his hand, palm falling flat against your arm.

He shifted around from beside you, blue shadows bled across the cabin walls as he moved, flicking on a lamp with a muted click. The light framed him in a gentle glow as you drifted in the electric hum rattling your bones, preventing you from finding your words. You squeezed your eyes shut as your fingers found the edges of your suit instead, tugging weakly.

Steve was back beside you then, crouching down steady and capable as you writhed. His fingers found yours, coaxing your trembling grip down to your side.

“Let me help” he murmured, catching your eyes as they fluttered open. You wanted to relent, insist you were trained for this- but the words dissolved somewhere, and all that remained of your argument ceased as you gave a fragile nod.

He exhaled slow, shoulders loosening as he shifted forward. His presence folded over you, seeming to hit you like gravity. A forceful pull ricocheted through every limb. You shivered under the pressure building within you, your efforts to force the toxin to yield.

He peeled back your suit slowly, each touch precise, almost reverent. Cold, large hands traced down your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake, sending sparks scattering through your veins. The sensation swelled, crashing over you, ebbing and flowing through every inch of your body until you were just a floating thing lost somewhere deep in the flame.

“Better?” He asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead, letting his hand fall to the back of your neck.

A shaky breath escaped you, more whimper than anything. The knowledge of what loomed between you both pressed in heavy, too much to comprehend. Steve Rogers, the most honourable man for the job, would be the one to see you through this- it couldn’t be anyone else. And after, somehow, you’d have to stand at his side on missions like nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t watched you lose yourself on his cock, gasping and writhing, breaking apart in helpless waves. Like he hadn’t steadied you through it all, while you sobbed and clawed at his shoulders.

He was going to see every crack in you, hear every desperate sound his cock pulled from you, every shiver that tore through your body as it shattered around him. He’d carry those memories in his hands, his mouth, they’d be behind his eyes every time they found yours from across the room. That invisible, dangerous pull of tension would follow you everywhere he was.

You were too far gone for embarrassment to reach you yet, but you knew it was coming. The emotions within you buckled around each other, bitterness lingering somewhere under the toxin. You silently cursed the universe for subjecting you to this. But yet, maybe it was for the best, maybe it had to be you. You couldn’t imagine the chaos if it had been Thor, or worse, Bruce.

Steve adjusted the air system overhead, his chiselled arm stretching out long above you, muscles taut beneath his suit. Cool air began to float over you, peppering onto your fevered skin. His other hand was still at your neck, thumb circling against the tense muscle there. The motion was slight, soothing. You couldn’t help but wonder if he knew how it burned, how every graze of his skin against yours ignited the well in your stomach. If he was subtly accustoming you, weaning you onto it for what was to come.

“Focus on me” he ordered softly, voice low and commanding. You tried, eyes locked onto his, breathing with him.

The cool air should’ve soothed you more than it did. Instead, it ghosted over you in the most unbearable way, every waft over your overheated skin felt like electric to your nerves, feeding the fire.

His hand steadying the back of your neck should’ve felt clinical, like a soldier caring for an injured comrade, but each time his thumb grazed against your skin a shiver bolted through you. Heat pooled lower and lower in your stomach, spilling out in heavy waves.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to focus on the sting, willing the sharp edges of your teeth to drown it all out. But the sound that broke from you was no sob from pain, it was a breathy moan, erotic and needy.

Steve didn’t falter, his grip became firmer, holding you grounded to him as your vision fizzled again. The clean lines of his face blurred into something too sharp, too consuming.

The sheets clung suffocatingly to your sensitive skin, the feel of your underwear unbearable. You twitched restlessly, pulling your legs tight one moment, straining to stretch them the next. Steve saw the shiver that ripped through you, the instinctive arch of your spine.

He kept his face calm, but the heat churned under his ribs too. He knew he had no right to think about the hot flush he felt creeping up your neck, about the tremors that rippled through your legs, about the wet slick that was flowing down them, about how much you needed him.

He could feel your pulse stammering beneath your neck, and it settled the havoc building within him.

“I’ll be right outside” he said softly, getting up to move toward the door. “You’ll be okay, I’ll make sure.”

The door slid shut behind him, and for the first time, the room fell into silence. Your heart thrummed like a drum within your chest. Somewhere beyond the wall you heard the voices bleed in, muffled and airy.

“She shouldn’t be in there alone right now” Tony snapped. “I don’t care how noble it looks. She needs help. Now.”

Thor rumbled low in response, words catching in the air heavily. “But who among us can endure such a trial without dishonour? A weaker man would falter.”

“That’s exactly the point” Tony cut in, sharper. “She needs someone who won’t falter. And that rules me out.”

Silence pressed back in for a moment, then Steve’s voice broke through, resolute.

“I know, trust me, I know she does” he breathed. “And I know it’s got to be me. Just, give me some direction.”

“Banner? Care to give our soldier a manual?” Tony prodded, pausing to look back at Steve. “Wait, what are we talking here Cap, you need to know how to make her cum? Or are you just tryna gauge what’s off limits?”

“No need to be crude, Tony” Steve cut in quickly, tone dropped, edging on warning.

Bruce exhaled heavily before answering, voice taut in its reluctant authority.

“I can’t tell you how to handle this. It’s between you and Y/N. What matters is keeping her system stable. She needs release, stimulation, your DNA in her. Whatever way that works.”

“So, it's decided” Tony hummed.

The heavy silence picked back up, then the door slid open again.

Steve stepped back inside, shadows cutting across his face. His eyes were already on you, and you couldn’t quite identify what was behind them.

He shut the door with deliberate care, effectively sealing you both away from the outside world. He found his place back at your side, allowing his hand to find yours.

“Are we both on the same page? Do you understand this is the only option?” He questioned slowly, head bowed as if he daredn’t look at you until he knew.

Your chest stuttered with a sharp inhale, tears pricking at your lashes as you managed a shaky “yes.”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

The words carried more conviction than question, like an affirmation he needed to ground himself in. His thumb traced soft, steady circles on the back of your hand as his eyes lifted to yours.

“I do” You breathed out.

“Good.”

His voice gentled, coming out like a quiet vow, “I’ll guide you through this, one step at a time.”

With practised care, he shifted you, strong hands gripping your fleshy hips toward the edge of the bed where he towered over you. He placed a pillow beneath your head, bringing his touch to wipe the corner of your eye, then to cradle your cheek lovingly. The small motions had you quivering, leaning your face into the sensations.

“Tell me what you need” He murmured.

The room swam around you, edges blurring. His presence, his husky voice, the warm smell of spice and amber clinging to him, they all cut through your haze like an anchor. This felt right. It had to be him. Salvation seemed to pour through every part of him, a divine guidance that soothed even as the ache enveloped you more intensely than ever.

The heat within you twisted at the surrender, surging into a fresh wave of ache, twisting through your veins with every reminder of his presence. Every pass of his thumb to your skin, every firm squeeze to your hip.

You turned your face toward him, eyes glossy, plump lips parted delicately. God, the way you looked at him, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. It hit him harder than any blow he’d ever taken in combat. He swallowed, jaw clenched tight. His historical resolve tore and trembled within him, giving way to something else. Something stronger than responsibility, more consuming than duty. Something he’d never allowed to surface until now- with you lying below him, lost in lust, your perfect, round tits heaving below your bra.

You felt it too, that slip in the air. The toxin didn’t just force urges upon you, it cradled them, pulled them together, forced them into shape from the very edges of your mind.

It sharpened them until they exploded with every forceful heartbeat.

Your body arched toward his, a sob catching in your throat. His eyes flicked down toward your soaking heat, and when they snapped back up to yours the blue in them was darker. Storm laced and determined.

“I just need you” you whispered, pleading. “Need you to fuck me.”

Steve’s hands steadied you, one sliding from your face to unclip your bra with practised ease. He swallowed thick as his eyes settled on your tits, breath deepening. He leaned closer, letting his hand trace around from your back, down your body to tug your soaked underwear slowly down your thighs, letting them land somewhere below him. He parted your legs gently, pulled them out wide as he brought them closer to your chest. His eyes were locked onto your glistening pussy between them. His voice came in a low murmur.

“I’ve got you… make you feel all better, yeah?”

For a heartbeat, the stretch of your legs left you feeling raw and fragile, every nerve trembled under the exposure. But a pulse of relief swept through you too, stable and certain, as though Steve was the only reprieve left. You let out a breathy hum.

His fingers moved to his own clothing, working quickly to tug at the seams of his uniform. The fabric slid down over his broad chest and shoulders, cut from years of discipline, serum forged perfection. Each new inch of skin made the air feel thinner, left your skin buzzing with want. Muscles rippled as he shrugged the suit down, and you could barely think past the rush in your veins, the way your whole body was clenching down in raw need.

His gaze never left yours as he worked his pants open, that unyielding blue seeming to hold you in place, promising stability as your body trembled. Then his cock sprang free, solid and heavy, thick with veins that throbbed in the same restrained urgency written across his face. Heat flared through you like wildfire, the sight of his length had your hips jerking upward, a wordless invitation.

“God…” the word cracked from him as he looked down at you- spread wide, trembling, eyes glossy and pleading. His hand wrapped around the base of himself, pumping twice before guiding his swollen head to your entrance. The first brush against your slick hole made you jolt, unbearable and perfect all at once. He held himself still, letting you steady- then he began to press in, slow and deliberate. You gasped, body seizing tight around him, pulling him deeper with every shallow thrust forward.

“Jesus, you’re-“ he cut himself off, teeth gritting as his breath shuddered. His fingers dug into your hips as he breathed measured exhales through his nose. “You’re so damn tight.”

Inch by inch, he pushed in deeper. The stretch was overwhelming, every nerve screamed, every muscle pulled taut, straining to accommodate him. It was too much- the stretch of him splitting you wide, filling you to the hilt until there was nothing left for you to give, but still he took more.

Your nails clawed at the sheets, unable to ground yourself against the flood of sensation as he bottomed out inside of you. A broken moan ripped from you, whiny and desperate. Steve stilled, eyes screwed shut.

“Just breathe honey” he rasped after a second, voice as wrecked as you. His thumb traced soft circles at your waist as his chest rose and fell in heavy pulls.

“That’s it, let me in.. nice and deep. We don’t have to rush a thing”

A low rumble vibrated from him, the sound raw, as if the molten heat of your pussy threatened to undo him. He bit down hard on his lip, exhaling rough, forcing back his urges. The ones to take you completely, to pound you into the mattress, give you everything he had all at once.

He pulled back only slightly, then pushed in again, hard. His rhythm was controlled, slow measured thrusts, but still threaded with need. Each movement sent sparks licking up your spine, hot pleasure searing up your abdomen, tightening low as his balls slapped lazily against the round of your ass. Each drag of him inside you stroked every tender, explosive nerve, the friction had your mouth falling open, breathing in ragged sobs.

The feel of your soaking cunt, clenching, scorching, swallowing him whole had his control fraying with every pound. He ground in deeper, his blunt head pressing against that devastating spot, tearing another cry from your throat. Pleasure flooded you, so sharp, so consuming it bordered on pain.

“Can’t hold back when you sound like that” he groaned, his words almost a growl.

His hand slid down, thumbing roughly against your clit, the harsh circles a wicked contrast to the slow, heaving rhythm of his thrusts. Your vision blurred, every sensation folding into the next until you were sobbing, body arching helplessly into him.

His eyes flickered, darkening as his hips began to snap harder, faster, each stroke punctuated with a guttural moan torn from his chest. He bent to your ear, voice low, heated.

“You feel that sweetheart? Your tight little pussy shaking around me? Tell me how it feels.”

The words sent lightning through your spine, walls clamping around him so violently he swore aloud. Wet, obscene sounds filled the air as his body hammered into yours with punishing precision, pleasure breaking over you in dizzying sputters.

“Feels so good, I can feel you everywhere” you blubbered, gaze dropping to where your bodies connected, the squelch of it filthy, undeniable. Your body trembled, hips chasing his with every ragged slam.

“Look at me” he ordered, his hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face back toward his, forcing your eyes to meet his burning stare.

The heat of his skin, the weight of his body pressing into yours, the deep stretch splitting you apart and remaking you around him, it overtook you. You sobbed again, clutching at him, tidal wave cresting higher with every thrust.

Steve groaned, low in his chest, unravelling with each broken sound you made. Your cries cracked his resolve. “Open your mouth for me” he rasped, pulling into excruciatingly slow grinds that forced you to feel every inch, every ridge, every pulsing throb of his cock as it bullied into you.

You parted your lips, and his spit fell onto your tongue, warm and filthy. The sound you made had his cock twitching deep inside you. He kissed you, swallowing the taste of himself on your tongue.

“Good, baby. Taking what I give you so well” he muttered against your lips, humming back into a kiss. The rhythm that followed was brutal, you felt him claim you with each wave of hot pleasure, each stroke branding you inside out. He kissed along your throat, sucked at the hollow beneath your jaw until your skin was raw.

Each thrust dragged against the tenderest places tucked deep within you, coaxing whines from your lips that he shushed gently, thumb brushing over your wet cheek as his hips drove mercilessly deeper.

“Shh, I’ve got you. Told you I’d make it feel better. Wanna take it slow, I want you to feel all of it, want you to know it’s me.”

The intimacy laced with filth, the drag of his cock, the lingering feel of his spit down your throat all tangled together until your body shook beneath him, ready to snap.

He dragged back until only his tip was pressed inside you, then pushed in again, achingly slow, savouring the way your walls clenched and fluttered. You whimpered, fingers twisting in the sheets.

Another shallow thrust, another moan caught in your throat. His hand still cradled your jaw, thumb pressing in softly.

“That’s it, just look at me” he whispered.

You tried, lashes fluttering, but heat swamped every nerve, dragging your focus away into a dulled floaty delirium. He huffed a low laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. He steadied your hips against the bed as you tried to buck for more.

“Not yet” he breathed, voice firm. “Wanna hear every sound you can make for me first.”

A sharp, deliberate thrust knocked the air from your lungs, your cry echoing through the room, desperate and drawn out. He groaned in response, forehead pressing to yours.

His pace stayed maddening, slow enough to torment, hard enough to wring pulse after pulse of need from your slick pussy. You were soaked, trembling, your whole body begging for release.

“Please, please… I wanna cum” you whimpered, voice breaking.

“Shh, it’s okay” he cooed, kissing your temple, “I know-” he kissed over your throat again, leaving open mouthed heat across your skin.

“I’ll give it to you, sweetheart, just hold on for me a little longer, yeah? Can you do that?” He said, words broken by heavy breaths.

The world narrowed to the press of his body and the cadence of your breath, the molten coil tightening inside of you. “Anything you want, I’m yours” you gasped.

He hummed, half grief and half hunger, the sound wound straight into your cunt. “That’s my girl. So good for me, taking me so well. You’re so beautiful like this” he breathed against your temple.

Towering up over you again, his palm pressed flat to your sternum, feeling the frantic drum beat beneath. His hand slid lower, cradling your fleshy tit as he pinched your hardened bud between two fingers, rolling it until your thighs shook. He soothed with his thumb in gentle circles over the peak, then pinched again, teasing until you were stuttering.

“You gonna cum baby? I know how bad you want it” he purred, his other hand gripping hard into your thigh as his pace snapped sharper. “So good… let go sweetheart, wanna feel you fall apart, milk my cock, it’ll fix you right up” his voice broke on the words, low and rough, praises spilling from his lips in an endless flow.

Your release wasn’t sudden so much as inevitable. The mark of him was everywhere, invading your every sense until you shattered. You gasped, breath hitching as the coil in your stomach finally broke free, pleasure springing outwards, up to the top of your tummy, down the length of your legs, warm and tingling.

You let out little sobs as he kept driving into you, unrelenting, his hand stroking the hair back from your damp face. Every punch from his cock dragged your orgasm out, clamping you tighter around him on the verge of overstimulation.

Steve’s jaw dropped as he felt it, the way your cushiony walls fluttered desperately around him, wringing him from base to tip. He slowed just slightly, breath shuddering, eyes locked on the way your body seized around him. His control buckled at the sight, hanging over you on trembling legs.

“Fuck-“ he spluttered out, “I’m gonna cum in your pussy. Keep me just like that- yeah that’s it… you’re gonna take every drop, you hear me?”

You blinked up at him through wet lashes, glassy eyes struggling under the weight of your climax. You clung to his arm, words tumbling out softly. “Wanna feel it all, want you to fill me up.”

Every muscle in him folded, every restraint unspooling with the flutter of your pussy. He poured himself into you in hot spurts, buried deep, moans tearing out in deep rumbles.

The storm ebbed slowly, leaving only the sound of breath- yours ragged and shallow, his heavy and uneven above you. Steve pressed his forehead to yours for a fleeting second, grounding himself before shifting carefully. His thumb brushed the salt from your damp cheeks, tugging the blanket from the bed’s edge and pulling it around your shivering frame. When you squirmed at the sticky pull between your thighs, his jaw flexed. Moving with quiet efficiency he reached for the tissue box at the nightstand and dabbed you clean as best he could with gentle touches.

He slid in beside you, tugging you against the breadth of his chest. His palm caressed over your back lightly, a simple and grounding lull as your heart still thrummed frantically beneath your ribs. Silence hung between you for a few moments, heavy but not uncomfortable. It was dense with unsaid sentiments you both wanted to linger in a while longer.

Then he exhaled a long breath, as if he was collecting pieces of himself. “How are you feeling?” His voice was careful, controlled, still frayed at its corners.

Your brain still felt scrambled, the heat echoing around the edges of you. “I’m okay” you breathed, though your brows knit together faintly, your body not yet catching up with your words.

Steve’s chest tightened at the answer. For the first time in a long time, he felt lost. Lost to his feelings, to the gentle, honey-dripping warmth that still cluttered around in his chest.

You swallowed, shifting against him. Part of you wanted to press in closer, soak in the heat of his body. The other part recoiled from every biting stab of fondness that furled around Steve’s very presence.

“You should rest for a while” he murmured, voice quiet. “I’ll.. check in with the others.”

You hummed in response, the sound small in the hush. His warmth lingered as he pressed one last reassuring squeeze to your side before untangling from you. He sat on the bed’s edge, shoulders hunched, jaw tight as he pulled his uniform back together. For a moment he sat still, broad back falling and rising as if he was zipping up more than just his clothes.

“We should talk, after” he said, looking back at you, not cold, but his gaze was heavy with an unreadable steadiness.

Your lips parted, but you couldn’t find words to fill the space. What if he didn’t mean what you wanted him to?

When he finally stood, he didn’t meet your eyes again, just flexed his hand at his side restlessly. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

The door sealed shut behind him, leaving you back in the quinjet’s quiet hum. Silence wrapped around you, heavy and disorienting. As if on cue, you heard Tony as he clapped his hands together.

“Well” he said, drawing out the word like a verdict, “looks like our gamble paid off. She’s alive, you’re still standing. Nobody… faltered?” You could hear the smirk threading through his tone. “Although, judging by your rosy disposition, I wouldn’t say you came out untouched.”

Even through the door, you could hear the weight that dragged in Steve’s silence. A long exhale, clipped and even, proved how Steve was holding himself together by a thread.

Bruce’s voice came quieter, a gentle counterweight. “She’s stabilising already, she’s okay. That’s what matters. He did exactly what needed to be done.”

“Exactly!” Thor’s voice boomed. “He selflessly placed her before himself, as an honourable warrior should. Many men would’ve been consumed, lost to the storm. Steve Rogers was not.”

“Was not?” Tony countered. “‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like our fearless leader very much.. was.” The vague hand gesture that surely followed needed no translation.

Your cheeks burned hot. Steve made a low, incredulous sound in his throat- something between a huff and a sigh.

“I’m teasing” Tony added, a shade softer. “Any of us could’ve- hell I probably would’ve- made it about ourselves. Cap, he kept it about her. That’s the difference. That’s why Boy Scout here gets the gold star.”

In the silence that again followed, you couldn’t picture what expression could’ve painted Steve’s face at those words. What happened between you, the lingering flutters that seemed to swim around you, it all felt like more.

Bruce cleared his throat then, redirecting. “Med bay’s ready, we’re clear to land. Once we’re on the ground she’ll be fully stabilised. Just keep her comfortable until then.”

“Comfortable, huh?” Tony said, whistling low. “Well. Pretty sure Cap’s got that covered.”

//