The Vought Tower penthouse kitchen smelled like heaven. Chocolate chip cookies, just beginning to brown in the oven, filled the air with their warm, sweet promise. Flour dusted the marble countertops like fresh snow, and a bowl of leftover batter sat forgotten near the sink.

You were perched on the edge of the counter, your legs dangling, wearing nothing but one of Homelander's navy blue Vought-issue t-shirt and a pair of pale pink lace underwear. The shirt hung off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of your collarbone, and the hem barely brushed your upper thighs.

Maeve stood between your legs, her hands cupping your face, her thumbs stroking your cheeks. Her sports bra left little to the imagination, and those black lace panties—your black lace panties—clung to her hips like they belonged there. Which they did now. She'd claimed them with a smirk and a kiss, and you'd let her.

"You're so pretty" Maeve murmured against your lips, her voice low and rough with affection. "So fucking pretty, sweet girl. You know that?"

"Maeve-" you protested weakly, but you were smiling, your hands coming up to rest on her bare hips. "Your hands are covered in flour! You're getting it all over my hair!"

"Good," she said, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. "then you'll smell like cookies. Like the perfect little housewife you are."

"Maeve-"

"Shh." She kissed you again, softer this time, her lips lingering. "Let me have this. Let me have you."

You melted into her, because that's what she did to you. Maeve had a way of making the world fall away, of making you feel like the only person in existence worth looking at. When she looked at you with those sharp green eyes, you felt seen. Really seen. Not like one of America's heroes, not like the public figure everyone loved, not like the comforting face on a thousand lunchboxes and action figures. Just... you.

Your fingers threaded through her copper hair, tugging gently, and she hummed against your mouth. The sound vibrated through you, warm and possessive, and you arched into her touch.

"Those cookies are for John, you know," you said between kisses, your voice breathless. "You're helping me eat the evidence."

"Let him have the burned ones," Maeve said, grinning against your lips. "He'll be grateful for anything you make him. You could serve him sawdust and he'd thank you like you'd given him the moon."

"He's not that bad."

"He's exactly that bad." She pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes glinting with amusement. "But you have him wrapped around your little finger, sweetheart. You and me both."

"Maeve..." You ducked your head, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. It still made you shy, sometimes, the way she looked at you. The way both of them looked at you.

"Don't get shy on me now..." she said, tilting your chin up with a flour-dusted finger. "You're the one who suggested we 'welcome him home properly', sweet girl. Your words, not mine."

You bit your lip. "I just thought... he's been gone for three days. He always comes back so tense, and I thought maybe if we-"

"You thought maybe if we made him cookies and let him watch us make out, he'd calm down?" Maeve's smile was sharp and knowing. "You're too sweet for him, you know that? He doesn't deserve you."

"He deserves someone who cares about him," you said softly. "And I do. And so do you. Even if you pretend you don't."

Maeve's expression softened, just for a moment, before she covered it with a scoff. "I don't pretend. I make it very clear that I think he's a pathetic, preening, emotionally stunted man-baby."

"And yet you're still here. Still dating him. Still sharing me with him."

She was quiet for a moment, her hands dropping to your thighs, squeezing gently. "Because you make it work," she said finally. "You're the glue, sweet girl. Without you, it's just... him and me, and that's not—" She shook her head. "That's not good for anyone. Especially not for me."

You lifted your hand to her cheek, wiping away a smudge of flour. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She kissed you again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against yours, and you moaned into her mouth, your fingers tightening in her hair. Her hands slid up your thighs, under the hem of the shirt, and she squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter.

"God, I love you," she breathed against your lips. "I love you so fucking much."

"I love you too, Maeve."

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, I love you, I love you-"

The sound of the penthouse door sliding open cut through the moment.

Maeve pulled back, but she didn't move away from you. Instead, she turned her head, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face as Homelander stepped into the kitchen.

He was still in his suit, the red-and-white cape draped over one shoulder, the blue of his suit immaculate except for a few smudges of what looked like soot near his collar, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the two of you.

On you, specifically. Sitting on the counter in his shirt. With Maeve between your legs. In your panties.

"Well," he said, eyebrows rising, voice carefully neutral. "This is a welcome."

You smiled shyly, flushing a bit, trying to push Maeve away from sheer embarassment, but she just laughed, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before stepping back.

"Look what the cat dragged in.." she said, sauntering toward him. She grabbed the front of his suit and pulled him into a kiss, deep and dirty, her tongue sliding into his mouth before she pulled back with a smirk. "You're late."

"Mission ran long," he said, his eyes already drifting back to you. "Had to deal with a few... complications."

"Complications you could have handled faster if you'd stopped playing with your food."

"Maybe." He was still looking at you, but then his eyes diped down to the oven. "Did you—are those cookies?"

You bit your lip, nodding. "Chocolate chip. Your favorite. I thought-"

"She thought you'd be hungry." Maeve interrupted, grabbing him by the front of his suit and dragging him further into the kitchen. "So she spent all afternoon baking for you. Didn't you, sweet girl?"

"I just wanted to-"

"To be nice." Maeve interrupted again, pushing him down into one of the chairs at the kitchen island. He went willingly, his eyes never leaving you. "To take care of you. Because that's what she does. She takes care of everyone."

"Is that true?" Homelander asked, his voice softening. "You made me cookies?"

You nodded, sliding off the counter and walking toward him. Maeve intercepted you, lifting you off your feet to give you a spin and carrying you the last few feet before dropping you onto Homelander's lap with a playful grin.

You landed with a delighted squeak, your hands bracing on his shoulders as you settled onto his thighs. The suit was warm beneath you, the fabric smooth and unyielding, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders, the coiled strength in his frame, and the way he was... perking in interest.

"Hello, John." you said softly, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Hello to you too, baby." he replied, his hands coming up to rest on your hips. He looked almost shy with his eyes darting between you and Maeve.

"Don't just sit there," Maeve said, already turning toward the oven. "Thank her properly."

"Thank you," he said quickly. "The cookies, I mean. Thank you for-"

"I said properly." Maeve repeated, pulling open the oven door. She bent over to retrieve the baking sheet, deliberately slow, deliberately arching her back to show off the curve of her ass in those black lace panties. "You know what I mean, John."

You watched his eyes flick to Maeve's ass, then back to you. His hands tightened on your hips.

"Take off the gloves." you said softly, and he obeyed immediately, pulling off the red gauntlets and dropping them to the floor. His bare hands settled on your thighs, warm and calloused, and you shivered.

"Good boy." you murmured, and he let out a shaky breath.

You kissed him.

It started soft, just a brush of lips against lips, but then you tilted your head and deepened it, your tongue sliding against his, and he groaned into your mouth. His hands slid up your thighs, under the hem of the shirt, and you gasped as his fingers found your slick heat.

"You're already so wet..." he breathed against your lips, and you bit back a moan. "Maeve did that?"

"You know damn well I did."

"Maeve-!"

"Shh." He kissed you again, two fingers sliding inside you, and you arched into his touch. "Let me take care of you, babe. Let me make you feel good."

"Don't tell her what to do." Maeve said, her voice sharp as she set the cookies aside. She walked back to the two of you, her arms crossed, her eyes glinting. "You're not in charge here."

"I wasn't-"

"Oh, but you were." She reached down and grabbed his chin, tilting his face up to meet her gaze. "You're here to make her feel good. That's your only job. Understand?"

He swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good boy." She let go of his chin and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Now make our girl feel good. And if she doesn't come before you do, I'll be very disappointed in you."

"Not a problem-" Homelander scrambled to get out as quick as possible, his eyes sliding to you. "I've got her."

He curled his fingers inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. His thumb pressed against your clit, circling slowly, and you bucked against his hand.

"That's it, sweet girl." Maeve cooed, her hand coming up to stroke your hair. "Let him make you feel good. You've been so sweet for us today, baking cookies, taking care of us. You deserve to feel good."

"Please," you gasped, your hips grinding against his hand. "John, please-"

"Please what?" he asked, his voice breathless. "Tell me what you want, baby, c'mon."

"More- I want more—"

He added a third finger, stretching you, and you sobbed with pleasure, your head falling back. Maeve caught you, her hand on the back of your neck, and she kissed your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

"Thaaaat's it.." she murmured. "That's our good girl. You're so beautiful like this, sweetheart. So fucking beautiful."

"Please- I'm so close—"

"Come for him," Maeve said. "give him the satisfaction."

And you did, your body shuddering as you came undone on Homelander's fingers, your cries muffled by his mouth as he kissed you through it. His other hand wrapped around your waist, holding you steady, and you felt him trembling beneath you.

"John.." Maeve said, her voice low and dangerous. "Look at me."

He pulled back from the kiss, his eyes hazy, his pupils blown wide. "Yeah?"

"You've been such a good boy for us.." she said, her fingers tracing down his throat. "Helping our girl come undone. But I think you're close too, aren't you? I can feel you twitching under her."

He let out a shaky laugh. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" She raised an eyebrow. "Don't lie to me, John. It's not a good look on you."

"It's just- it's been three days," he admitted, his voice strained. "And she's so fucking beautiful, and she's sitting on my lap, and you're- you're wearing her panties too and- I can smell her on my fingers—"

"So you're going to come in your pants like a teenager?" Maeve asked, her tone mocking but not unkind. "Is that what you want, Homelander? To cream your suit like a pathetic little boy?"

"Fuck-" he breathed, his hips bucking up into yours. "Maeve-"

You started rocking down on him, mewling with oversensitivity, but deeming it a valid price to pay to hear the way his breath suddenly hitched on his chest and see the way his eyes struggled not to get cross.

"Come on." she said, leaning down to start pressing kisses to his neck. "Come for us, John. Be a good boy and come for your girls."

He came with a groan, his body going rigid as he spilled into his suit, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. You held him, stroking his hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

"Good boy." you murmured. "Such a good boy, John."

"Fuck," he said again, his voice muffled against your skin. "That was-"

"Pathetic and sad?" Maeve offered, but she was smiling as she said it, her hand coming up to ruffle his hair. "You're lucky you're cute, you know that?"

"Am I?" he asked, looking up at her with something like hope in his eyes.

"No." she replied flatly, deadpan. "You're really not. But she is, and she loves you for some reason, so you get to keep being pathetic in her presence."

"Hey!" you protested jokingly, a smile tugging on your lips. "That's not nice."

"A bit?" Maeve snorted. "He literally just came in his pants from fingering you, honey" she said, looking at you, before turning back to Homelander. "You're an absolute disaster of a man."

"Is that what that is?" Homelander asked, and Maeve actually laughed, a real laugh, bright and surprised.

You beamed at both of them, this strange, impossible set-up you'd found. Maeve, who wrapped herself in armor because she'd been hurt too many times. Homelander, who hid behind a mask because he'd never learned how to be anything else. And you, sitting in his lap, in his shirt, between them like a bridge.

"I love you both," you said softly. "You know that, right?"

Maeve's expression softened. "I know, sweetheart."

Homelander's eyes widened, just for a moment, before he ducked his head. "Yeah. Yeah, we know. We love you too, babe."

"I'll prove it," Maeve said, heading back to the cookies. "I saved you a few, John. The ones that didn't burn."

"Really?" He perked up like a child.

"Really." She grabbed two cookies and tossed one to him. He caught it easily and took a bite, his eyes fluttering closed.

"These are amazing," he said, his voice muffled around a mouthful of cookie.

Maeve took a bite of her own, then picked up a third, leaning over you to press it to your lips. "Open, sweet girl. You need to eat too."

You bit into the cookie, the chocolate melting on your tongue, and Maeve kissed the corner of your mouth, licking away a crumb.

"Perfect," she said, and you weren't sure if she meant the cookie, or you, or all of it. Probably all of it.

"This is really good," Homelander said, finishing his cookie in two bites. He looked at you, his expression almost soft. "Thank you. Really."

"Of course, John," you said, cupping his face in your hands. "Anything for you."

"You know," Maeve said, leaning against the counter with her own cookie, "if you keep spoiling him like this, he's going to get insufferable."

"I'm already insufferable," Homelander said, grinning. "It's part of my charm."

"Your charm is a very long list of things that are not charming," Maeve said. "But you've got a few points in your favor. Mostly because of her."

"I know." He turned to kiss your forehead. "I know."

The penthouse suite of the Vought-owned hotel in midtown Manhattan was supposed to be a safe house. A place to lay low after the chaos of the past few weeks. The endless scheming had left Ben's jaw tight and his temper shorter than a gnat's lifespan.

But here you were, seventy-two hours into what was supposed to be a "strategic retreat" and the safe house had become something else entirely.

A battlefield.

Your battlefield.

The room was a wreck: lamps overturned, sheets twisted, a crack in the wall where Ben's back had connected earlier when you'd first shovedpinned him. That was two hours ago. Maybe three. Time had dissolved into a haze of sweat and skin and the wet, rhythmic sound of your hips meeting his.

You had him on his stomach now, one hand twisted in his hair, his face shoved into a pillow that muffled most of what he was trying to say. Most, but not all.

"Fucking—" he grunted "—bitch, when I get you-"

The silk sheets were tangled around his massive frame, sweat-slicked skin glistening under the dim amber glow of the now-broken bedside lamps. His broad shoulders heaved with each ragged breath, the muscles in his back bunching and flexing as he tried—and failed—to push himself up from the mattress.

"Get the fuck off me-" he snarled, voice muffled by the pillow his face was currently being ground into.

You tightened your grip on his dark hair, the strands coarse between your fingers as you yanked his head back just enough to make him gasp. The angle pushed the strap-on even deeper inside him, and the sound that escaped his throat was caught somewhere between a growl and something far more humiliating.

"Off you?" You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his sweat-slicked back, your lips brushing against his ear. The motion drove the silicone deeper, and you felt the way his entire body shuddered. "But Ben, baby, I'm not done with you yet."

"The fuck you're not—" His protest was cut short when you shoved his face back into the pillow, hard enough that his nose and mouth were pressed into the downy fabric.

One.

Two.

Three.

You counted the seconds as his body tensed beneath you, the muscles in his back rippling as he instinctively tried to buck you off. But your super-strength held him pinned, your weight distributed just so that he couldn't get any leverage, couldn't throw you off no matter how hard he thrashed.

"You were saying?" you cooed, releasing the pressure on the back of his head just enough that he could breathe again, could suck in that desperate lungful of air.

"Fucking bitch." he spat, turning his head to the side just enough to glare at you over his shoulder. Those forest-green eyes were wild, pupils blown wide with a heady mix of rage and something else, something he'd never admit to. "I'm going to-"

"Going to what?" You punctuated the question with a sharp thrust of your hips, burying the strap-on to the hilt, which caused him to choke on a gulp of air. "Blast me with your chest beam? Go ahead, baby. Show me what you've got."

His jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grind together. The red glow began to flicker beneath his sternum, warming the sheets, that deadly radiation that could level buildings and melt steel. But it sputtered, died, because you both knew he wouldn't use it. Couldn't use it. Not against you.

Not when his traitorous body was already arching back against you, hips rolling in a rhythm that had nothing to do with escape and everything to do with chasing that delicious friction.

"That's what I thought." You reached around with your free hand, fingers finding his back and pressing against the curve of his spine. "My big, strong Soldier Boy. So powerful. So dangerous."

You pulled out almost all the way, watching the way his muscles clenched, the way he tried to push back against you, chasing the fullness. Then you slammed home again, hard enough to make the headboard crack against the wall.

"All that power," you continued, voice dropping to a syrupy sweet whisper that was at direct odds with the brutal pace you were setting. "All that strength. And here you are, baby. Taking it. Taking everything I give you."

"Fuck. You." he gritted out, but the words were choked, strained. He was losing control, you could feel it in the way his hips were moving without his permission, meeting your thrusts with increasing desperation.

You laughed softly, the sound light and melodic: the sound of a doting girlfriend, not the woman currently fucking him stupid. "Oh, honey. I think we're past that point, don't you?"

You reached around, fingers finding his jaw and forcing his face to the side. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, chest heaving with ragged breaths. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow, and his lips were parted, swollen from biting them to keep from making sounds he'd never forgive himself for.

"Tell me what you want," you whispered, your voice soft as a lover's caress. "Tell me, and I'll give it to you."

"I don't want-" he started, but you cut him off with a sharp thrust that had him gasping.

"Liar.." you said, still sweet. Still kind. "Such a pretty, pretty liar. But we both know the truth, don't we?"

You shifted your grip on his hair, tugging just enough to arch his back, changing the angle of your penetration. Ben's eyes rolled back for just a moment, a split second of unguarded ecstasy that he'd deny until his dying breath.

"There it is." you crooned. "There's my good boy."

"Don't call me that, bitch" he snarled, but his voice cracked on the last word.

"Such a mouth on you." You grabbed a handful of his dark hair again, using it as leverage to pull his head back while you continued to fuck him. The exposed column of his throat was slick with sweat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard against the groans that were fighting to escape. "What happened to the big, scary Soldier Boy? The man who's been alive since World War Two? The man who's killed more people than I've had hot dinners?"

"Shut-" He choked on the word when you hit that spot inside him, the one that made his vision go white and his entire body lock up. "Shut the fuck up..."

"Oh, does that feel good?" You rolled your hips, grinding into him, watching the way his fingers fisted in the sheets. "Did I find your sweet spot, baby? Is this what you needed?"

His response was a sound that was halfway between a snarl and a moan, and even as it escaped his throat, you could see the mortification flash across his face.

"Don't." he warned, the single word rough and broken. "Don't you dare."

"Don't what?" You were relentless, keeping that same angle, that same pressure, watching his composure shatter piece by piece. "Don't notice how hard you're breathing? How your hips are moving on their own?" You leaned in close again, teeth grazing the shell of his ear. "Don't mention how wet you are for me? How your dick is practically dripping?"

"Fucking-" His entire body shuddered, a full-body tremor that wracked his massive frame. "You're dead. When I get my hands on you, you're fucking dead."

"Big talk for a man who's currently getting his insides rearranged." You bit down on his earlobe, tugging gently, and the sound he made was obscene—a broken whimper that he would deny to his dying breath. "But we both know you don't mean that, don't we, Ben?"

"m'gonna fucking k-"

"You're gonna what? Gonna blast me with your little chest beam?" You cooed, sweet as honey. You punctuated the question with a particularly hard thrust that had his fingers curling into the ruined sheets. "You could've done that hours ago, Benny. But you didn't."

"Don't call me that-" he snarled into the pillow, the words muffled but the venom unmistakable.

You tugged his hair, pulling his head back just enough to let him breathe, and watched the flush that crawled up the back of his neck. "Aww, does my big strong man not like his pet name?" Your free hand slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle, feeling the way he shuddered under your touch despite himself. "You know what I think? I think you love it. I think you love being my good boy."

He made a sound of protest, but it died in his throat when you pulled out entirely. The sudden emptiness made him gasp, and he tried to push himself up, tried to turn and see what you were doing.

You didn't let him.

Your hand in his hair shoved him back down, face pressed into the pillow while you repositioned yourself. "Uh-uh-uh. I'm not done with you yet."

"G't t'fuck 'ff me-" he snarled again, but the words were muffled, barely intelligible.

"Beg me." The words came out sweet as honey, a stark contrast to the vice grip you had on his hair. "Ask me nicely to put it back in."

He managed to lift his head, looking over his shoulder to you before spitting: "Fuck. You."

You shoved his face into the pillow again, hard, holding him there for a long count of five in which he couldn't get oxygen into his lungs. His body bucked beneath you, but he wasn't trying to escape—he was just reacting, his hips thrusting against the mattress as if searching for something to fill.

When you finally let him breathe, you tugged his head back again and forced him to arch his spine, to present himself to you like the filthy, desperate thing he was trying so hard not to be.

"I said," you repeated, voice still so goddamn sweet. "beg me."

His jaw worked, muscles clenching and unclenching as he fought against the words. You could see it in his eyes—the war between his pride and his need. The part of him that wanted to maintain this illusion of control even as his traitorous body betrayed him at every turn.

"I'll fucking kill you," he finally ground out. "When this is over, I'm going to—"

You didn't let him finish. You drove back into him in one smooth motion, burying the strap-on to the hilt, and the sound he made was everything you'd been waiting for.

It was a broken moan, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, something that was equal parts pain and pleasure. His head dropped forward, his forehead pressed against the mattress, and his entire body went rigid.

"There it is," you purred, starting up a brutal rhythm. "There's my good boy. There's my big, strong Soldier Boy, taking it so well."

"m'not-" he gasped, "your good- nngh—"

"Shh." You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his sweat-slicked shoulder. "Just let it happen, baby. Let me take care of you."

The words seemed to short-circuit something in his brain. For a moment, his body went slack beneath you, and he stopped fighting. Stopped snarling. Just let you take him, let you use him.

But then the moment went as quick as it had come, and the fight came roaring back.

"Fucking hate you-" he snarled, even as his hips pushed back against you. "Hate you so goddamn much."

"I know you do, baby." You fucked him harder, faster, with a hand on the back of his neck, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the penthouse. "That's why you're clenching around me like this. That's why you can't stop moving."

"Shut-" His breath caught when you angled your hips, hitting that spot again. "Shut the fuck up."

"You want me to shut up?" You yanked his head back again, forcing him to look at you, to see the smug smile on your face. "Make me."

The challenge hung in the air between you. He could try. He could summon all that power, all that strength, and throw you off. He could blast you with his radiation, could use his super-strength to flip you onto your back and take control.

But he didn't.

Because for all his snarling and threats and bluster, Ben didn't want to.

He wanted this. Wanted you. Wanted to be held down and used like this, to be stripped of all that power and control and just be taken.

The realization made him burn with shame, and the shame made him angry, and the anger—well.

"Bitch." he spat, the word venomous. "Fucking bitch, I'll-"

You shoved his face back into the pillow, holding him there while you fucked him through his struggle. His body bucked and twisted, but your grip was iron, your strength matching his. And when you finally let him breathe, when he sucked in that desperate lungful of air, you took the opportunity to whisper:

"Say it again. I dare you."

"Fuck—" He was panting now, his body trembling with the effort of holding on. "ing bitch."

"Wrong answer."

You pulled out and flipped him over so fast he didn't have time to react. One moment he was on his stomach, the next he was on his back, staring up at you with wide, furious eyes.

"What the fuck do you think you're-"

You settled yourself over him and drove back down into him in one smooth motion. His head fell back against the pillow, a choked groan escaping his throat as you bottomed out inside him.

"Muuuuch better." you cooed, starting a new rhythm. "I like seeing your face when you fall apart."

"I'm not falling apart." The words were defiant, but his voice was shot, wrecked. "I'm not—fuck, I'm not anyt'ng."

"You're my good boy.." you cooed, reaching down to stroke his chest. The radiation glow was flickering beneath his skin, but he wasn't using it. Couldn't use it. Not when you were fucking him like this, taking control, taking everything he had to give. "You're my best boy, and you're going to come for me."

"No." He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. "I'm not-"

"Yes you are." You leaned forward, planting your hands on either side of his head, and fucked him deeper. His breath caught, his hips jerking back to meet yours. "You're going to come for me, and I'm going to watch you fall apart, and you're going to remember this. Every time you try to act tough, every time you try to pretend you don't want this—you're going to remember."

"I hate you," he gasped, even as his hands came up to grip your hips. "I fucking hate you."

“Hate me?” you laughed, a light, tinkling sound that was so at odds with the filthy act you were committing. “I think you love it. I think you love that your girlfriend can pin you down and make you feel like this. You think the guys at Vought would believe it?” You gave a particularly brutal thrust, making the whole bed frame groan in protest. “The one and only Soldier Boy, a moaning, whimpering mess for his girlfriend?”

His only response was a strangled, desperate sound as his body clenched around you, a beautiful, helpless surrender. The fight was gone. He was yours.

"And yet here you are, letting your girlfriend fuck you senseless. Letting her make you feel so good." You punctuated each word with a deep, grinding thrust. "And you love every second of it, don't you?"

"Go t'hell-"

"Mm, that's not a very nice thing to say to the woman who's about to make you come so hard you forget your own name."

"No-" he gritted out, even as his hips rocked back to meet your thrusts. "Not—fuck, not gonna give you the- ngh- the satisfaction—"

"Yes, you are. You're going to be a good boy and come."

He shook his head, his teeth gritted, but you could feel it. Feel the tension building in his body, the way his hips were starting to stutter against yours, the way his breath was coming in harsh, desperate gasps.

"I know you want to," you murmured, your pace never faltering. "I know you're so close. Just let it happen, baby. Let go for me. Come for me."

"Fuck," he gasped, and there was something almost broken in his voice. "Fuck, I—fuck-"

"Come on." you encouraged, your voice sickly sweet. "Be a good boy. Let me see you fall apart."

He fought it. You could see him fighting it, his pride warring with his body's desperate need. But it was a losing battle, and you both knew it.

And, as expected, he lost.

His whole body arched off the bed, a sound torn from his throat that was half-groan, half-sob. He came harder than he had in weeks, maybe months, his release painting his stomach and chest in hot stripes.

You fucked him through it, never stopping, watching his face contort with the intensity of it. Watching the great Soldier Boy completely and utterly undone.

"There we go," you soothed, your pace finally slowing to a gentle rock. "There we go, sweetheart. See? Was that so hard?"

He was breathing like he'd just run a marathon, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his body trembling with the aftershocks.

"Fuck you." he managed, but there was no venom in it. Just exhaustion. Just... surrender.

You laughed softly, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. "Maybe later. Right now, I think you need a minute."