FREAK!

it starts the way it always does with him—quiet. his body heat at your back, big frame boxing you in against the mattress, the smell of leather and soap lingering on him. you can feel the faint rasp of his breath against the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, like he’s waiting for something.

his hand is already between your thighs. gloved at first, the drag of the fabric over your inner thigh making you twitch. then he peels it off—slow, just to make you wait—and that bare hand slides back in. fingers finding you without fumbling, pressing into the heat between your legs like he’s been thinking about it all day.

the first touch is barely anything. a slow sweep through your folds, knuckle grazing your clit just enough to make you jolt. you hear the little hum in his chest—approval, amusement, something in between. “sensitive, huh?” low, rumbling. the kind of voice that doesn’t ask questions so much as remind you who’s in control.

he settles in behind you, one thick arm curling over your ribs to keep you still while the other works lower. his fingers slide against you again, slower this time, spreading your wetness before dipping one inside. just one. he sinks it in all the way, curling it slightly until your hips twitch against him.

“stay still,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “lemme work you up proper.”

the second finger joins the first before you can brace for it, stretching you in that perfect, almost unbearable way. the heel of his palm presses against your clit with every push, and it’s too much already. your breath’s coming quicker, your thighs trembling against the steady grip of his hand.

you feel it building fast. too fast. every curl of his fingers drags you higher until you’re biting your lip hard enough to taste copper.

and then—he slows. not stops, just slows. his fingers ease to a lazy pace, the kind that keeps you balanced right on the edge but won’t push you over.

“not yet,” he says, quiet but sharp, his mouth close enough that the words scrape over your skin. “you’re not ready.”

you try to move against him, chasing it, but his arm tightens around your ribs and keeps you still. the burn of it is maddening. you’re right there and he’s holding you in place like it’s nothing.

every time you get close again—every desperate little twist of your hips—he drags you back down. slower. shallower. making you whimper and curse under your breath until your voice cracks.

he stays there for what feels like hours, building you up, tearing you down, until you’re shaking in his arms, soaked and aching and begging without words.

“that’s it,” he finally murmurs, almost like he’s rewarding you. “hold on for me. i’ll let you come when i say.”

it’s close to one in the morning when the front door shuts.

you’re already in bed, lights off, curled on your side with the blanket pulled up to your shoulders. the house is quiet except for the low creak of floorboards under his weight—those slow, careful steps he only makes when he’s trying not to wake you.

he doesn’t turn on the light. you hear the muted clink of his watch landing on the nightstand, the low scrape of fabric as he pulls his shirt over his head. his breathing is even, but there’s something in it—a heaviness, like the day’s still clinging to his ribs.

the mattress dips when he sits down beside you. for a moment, you think he’s just going to leave it at that: a soft kiss to your temple, his fingertips brushing a stray piece of hair from your face.

but then he shifts. slides down slowly, easing himself flat on his stomach beside you until his face is level with your small bump.

his hand comes first—warm, steady—resting just above your navel. his thumb traces lazy, almost unconscious arcs against the thin cotton of your sleep shirt.

he breathes in. holds it.

“hey, little one,” he murmurs, voice low, almost shy. “it’s your dad.”

the words feel heavier than they should, like he’s not used to hearing himself say them.

“i don’t know if you can hear me yet. or if you’ll even care, later. but… i figure i should start somewhere.” his head tips forward slightly, forehead brushing your stomach. “i’m not good at this. talking. and i wasn’t supposed to be a dad. me and your mum… we didn’t think it was for us.”

his palm spreads wider, protective, almost possessive.

“then she told me about you, and—” he breaks off with a short exhale. “—and suddenly it’s all i can think about. you. her. what it’s gonna take to keep you both safe.”

his voice hardens for a moment, just enough to hear the soldier in him. “there’s a lot out there i don’t want anywhere near you. things i’ve done, things i’ve seen. they stay with me, but they won’t touch you. not while i’ve got breath in me.”

he pauses, long enough for the quiet to fill in.

“truth is, i’m scared.” the admission is almost a whisper. “scared i won’t be enough. scared i’ll go out there one day and… not come back.”

his breathing stutters—just slightly—and you feel the first warm drop of a tear sink through the fabric into your skin. then another.

“but i’ll try,” he says, voice breaking soft. “every time. i’ll come home. i’ll be here.”

he leans in, pressing his lips to the curve of your stomach. it’s not just a kiss—it lingers, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it.

“love you,” he whispers. “both of you.”

when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. he pushes himself up the bed again, curling in behind you, one arm sliding snugly around your waist. his hand comes to rest over your stomach, warm and grounding.

you keep your breathing even, eyes closed, letting him believe you’re still asleep.