That Boy is Corrupt…

❖ reader's POV ❖ 1950s societal expectations & sexual stigma ! ❖ dubious consent !! (SB once touches reader's panties without her consent) ❖ self-deprecating reader ❖ reader's a widow ❖ angst ❖ sex pollen (light) ❖ power dynamics ❖ jealousy ❖ possessive behaviour ❖ manipulation ! ❖ masturbation (f.) ❖ misogyny ❖ coercive SB ! ❖ aka Ben's an asshole, then makes up for it ❖ romanticized corruption ! ❖ smoking ❖ lots of manhandling ❖ implied threesome ! ❖ thigh humping / humiliation, degradation (it's SB y'all) ❖ Bombsight's probably OOC? ❖ no use of Y/N ❖ SB is his own warning tag ! ❖ pls lmk if I forgot smth ❖ English is not my native language

❖ Please make sure you've read the tags before you continue ❖

Main Masterlist ❖ Soldier Boy Masterlist

This is torture.

It's been torture before, but this time it's different. Because it makes panic creep up into your face. Panic that maybe they see what's going on – the truth spreading out on that perfectly made face that you're supposed to keep professional, sweet and innocent, burgundy red smile clicking into place and batting your long eyelashes at the lens that's pointed at you.

They, being the whole crew spread out around you, all eyes on you as you try your best to not slip off the cool metal of the sleek Cadillac's hood you're perched on. 

The worse they, being the incredibly handsome man next to you, leaned against the silver blue frame of the same car you've been assigned to pose on. The handsome man in a suit, who's really no man at all but the one and only America's Son, suit for once not green but charcoal grey, now merely dressed up as the role of the undercover agent he has played next to you.

As if you weren't nervous enough already, your luck was about to get worse. Fate would have it that only moments before the promo shoot began, you'd been unwittingly dusted in some supe's sex-inducing pollen. You didn't realize at that time, of course.

That is, until you started sweating buckets ten minutes ago.

And for once it's not the scorching hot stage lights that drives the sweat down your cleavage. It's not the corset that barely leaves enough room to breathe that makes you stutter with every exhale. Right now, you'd have to peel off every layer to get to the source of heat that's making you burn up like meat on a skewer.

This unsaintly concoction deserves a whole new category of torture.

"Please move a little closer, Miss,"  the man behind the camera instructs, gesturing with his hand towards your co-star. 

You lift yourself just enough to feel how the damp fabric of your dress sticks to your ass, then quickly drop back down, trying to cover up the wet mark on the polished silver blue. The photographer perks up from behind the lens, gestures for you to move closer together again. This time more pointedly. 

Soldier Boy pats the spot right next to his hip, "C'mon, darlin'. I don't bite," he whispers only for you to hear. It makes your clammy hands curl into your lap. You don't look at him – can't. Not with the horny bitch that's trying to claw its way out of your skin right now.

You scoot a tiny bit to your left, then smile back at the camera, hoping the jury of men in front of you are satisfied. 

Apparently not, because the photographer calls out "Closer!" again, and by doing so, induces Soldier Boy to sling his arm around your waist and pull you in until your thigh's pressed flush against him, and his palm settles right above your hip. You almost squeak. And instead of melting into his side, you go as stiff as a board. 

"You seem a little pent up today, doll," Soldier Boy comments under his breath without looking at you, his eyes and smile still flashing at the camera. 

The camera in question clacks – a flash of light blinding you as the flash bulb bursts within its casing. It sizzles softly, the familiar hint of a chemical smell curling up into your nose. But it does little to cover the strong cologne of Soldier Boy; its warm, spicy scent mixed with his personal musk ensnares you to lean in and sink your teeth into his delicious bicep, and the note of citrus amber is a perfect extension of his intense whiskey-emerald eyes and his gravel voice. All together, it's a hand between your legs. 

"'M alright," you answer through clenched teeth and a forced smile. Very convincingly, you must say. 

You keep your own eyes fixed in the same direction, drawing on every acting skill you have, while beating your hormones into cooperation. But it's difficult. Mind racing in and out of the gutter. Amped up senses overloading left and right. Your head spins. 

It's no help that Solder Boy's hand presses heavy into your waist now, his thumb subtly rubbing up and down your ribs and fingers so close to the underside of your right breast that you feel your nipples harden. Your core clenches – you swallow thickly. The sweat and whatever else is pooling between your legs sticks your skin together like glue. At least the many layered dress holds the barrier between the wave of heat that's rolling off your body and the insanely good looking man pinning you to his side with that charming smile of his.

The photographer disposes the hot bulb into a trash can, twists in a fresh one before he raises his hand to get your attention once more. "Let's try something more romantic next," he calls out. 

Your breath hitches at that – but it just gets worse. Because a deep voice next to you suggests, "We could go a little off script. Fuck with the audience," – his smirk turns mischievous and you really don't like where this is going – "Like reenact a kiss scene." 

There. That's it. Your core is screaming so vibrantly that you need to dig your fingernails into your palms to stop it from affecting the movement of your hips. 

"I need a break," you blurt out the announcement with your hand darting upwards. 

All heads turn to face you as you slide off the car rather gracefully, until the moment where your knees miss their cue and you almost keel over. A strong hand catches and steadies you — its touch alone sends a jolt through your body.

"Easy there, doll," Soldier Boy husks out and pulls you back to your feet in one smooth motion. "You sure you're alright?" He frowns when you quickly slip free from his supporting arm and scramble away a few feet.

"Yes!" This time your voice does turn into a squeak. You bet the beads of sweat slicking your skin isn't helping either.

The director shares a look with the rest of the crew, then shrugs and circles his index finger in the air above his head, signaling for a set change. "Alright, let's get ready for the next shoot."

You flee the scene before anyone can get another look at you. Especially the questioning eyes of Soldier Boy.  

All you want is to disappear. 

The curly letters on one of the many star wagon's doors forming your name, beckons you to do just that. 

As soon as the door clicks shut behind you, the busy sounds of crew shuffling around material and yelling across the unit base fade into the background. You take a couple of calming breaths. Steady your racing heart. The inside of your trailer carries a warm fragrance, a hint of fresh wildflowers thanks to the bouquet you'd gotten the other day, now sitting between the white vanity dresser and the record player, and more spicy flavors the further back you get, past the two lounge armchairs for hosting guests, closer to the dried cinnamon quills next to your sleeping space, hidden behind the curtain of shimmering beads that separates your trailer into two quarters.

You step into the soft light which pools down your vanity desk, turn to the large square mirror with the golden frame, circled with glowing bulbs. You suck in a breath, exhale it through your nose again. This is where everything went wrong. Where something put you under this infuriating spell. 

You begin to rifle through the products, trying to find the culprit. You pinch the powder puff between your fingers, bring it up to your nose to take a whiff. Would you even smell it? Probably not. You toss it into the trash under the vanity desk just to be sure, pick the next thing. Anger bubbles up as you weed out your favorite perfumes, quickly followed by an expensive boar bristle brush – its handle made of silver sterling, a precious gift you'd gotten by Hepburn who swore it was the secret to her perfect hairstyle. Your thoughts are drawn back to the person who'd sat in your safe space this morning, uninvited and polluting your place with their disgusting love pollen; Queen Bee.

You don't like the supe. 

That was an understatement. 

In your defence, she's the one who put you in this miserable situation. Wherever she shows up, spewing her pollen like some fucking love fairy, people start acting like horndogs, humping legs and random objects likewise. You wish you meant that metaphorically. Unfortunately, you don't. Most recent proof being last month's All For Love charity which she'd "accidentally" turned into a full-blown orgy after she'd been sidelined by Private Angel. Which, by the way, conveniently led to Soldier Boy discovering her potential for an actual planned supe-orgy. 

"My contribution to liberating women from hiding their qualities under five fuckin' layers of clothes," he'd boasted while signing a contract with the first issue of Playboy. 

You huff to yourself as you toss yet another piece into the trash can.

She probably infested your whole damn trailer. Bitch, you curse out loud this time. Straighten your back, plant your palms on your hips.

Staring straight ahead – you pause. 

You look at yourself in the mirror, then let your gaze trail over to the many glossy prints hung on the wall. Each a testament of your life's work. Each capturing yourself in black and white, wearing glamorous dresses on the red carpet or frilly costumes reenacting scenes with your co-stars. The reflection in front of you shrinks as you find yourself curling up on the stool. Glancing back up, you sigh at how your other self's still wearing the dress of the character you're playing in The Big Heat. 

You feel like a fraud. And you feel the sweat still mold the dress to your skin, like even the movie's title is mocking you now.

You're nothing like Debby Marsh – she who flirts, backtalks and loves however she pleases, confident and sharp-witted.

Even before this incident, week after week you'd sit right here, in front of your mirror, sweating through your dress while reading the script, terrified of any scene you'd have to make eye-contact with Soldier Boy or Bombsight. 

The thought itself makes your core flutter. The feral thing Queen Bee has freed, howling for their touch.

You fell first for Soldier Boy and his sinful mix of eye candy, charming flirting, and his confident asshole attitude whenever another guy just as much as looked at you. Like when he'd overheard the studio tyrant Harry Cohn harassing you, repeatedly trying to lure you to his "casting couch", so Soldier Boy knocked his teeth out. All of them. And that was the end of the despicable White Fang. Coincidentally, Vought took over Columbia Pictures soon after.

And you fell for Bombsight harder, his calmer but no less self-assured demeanor, bright blue eyes always reading between the lines and cheeky comments in his very own sweet manner. He notices things about you which not even your assistant knows. And Patty's been with you for over 5 years. Bombsight's known you for a mere two days when he started to beat your assistant in offering you your morning coffee. Just the way you like it. Every day for the past months, without failure.

As a team, those two are the perfect counterpoint to each other. 

Yet you couldn't pick one even if you were in some fantasy world and given the choice. The key words being, in some fantasy world. Unlike the characters you embody in front of the camera, you don't live in those fantastical worlds where everything's possible. 

Picking yourself up from the wooden stool, you begin to peel off the many layers of your dress. One after the other. Then step out of the character because it feels wrong walking around like her once you're off set. You go over to your dresser. Hang your costume, toe off your shoes and reach for something more comfortable. Your fingers smoothen down the front of the dusty pink silk robe. The soft, cool fabric clings to your curves. It makes you look a lot more glamorous than you actually feel.

In this scenario, you're just a woman. 

Hiding her anxieties behind a shit tonne of make up and perfected acting skills. Whereas those two are the literal recreation of demi-Gods, worshipped by millions. Their acting skills may be shit (Soldier Boy's more so than Bombsight's), but in the greater schemes of things this fact seems to be irrelevant. What's not irrelevant is the fact that you're not only just a woman trying to survive in a world of men, but a woman who, against all social norms, still hasn't been remarried. You'd failed at that nuclear family once before. You will again. 

So, fancying two men at the same time? Scandalous at best. The world press would swallow you whole and chew you up. Not to mention your parents who would most definitely disown you. Whatever you do, whatever mask you let them see, defines you. Men will judge you and decide whether they like it or not – depending on their mood today. 

Your mood today is everything you've ever tried to ignore over the past four months, but jazzed up. 

Betrayal of your hormones in the highest form. 

A cunty treason. 

It breaks your will, little by little. Unsaintly desires rattling at the bars in the back of your mind where you keep them locked away. 

It lets the ghost of their touch slip under your robe. 

How Soldier Boy's hands slide down your spine, stop at your ass, squeezing it with his hot palms. It sends a shiver through you. Makes you gasp from the mere thought of how he would crowd you from behind, biceps made of steel wrapping around your mids and pinning you to his chest, fingers dipping down to find your pussy dripping. 

It clenches around nothing. But you need something. Anything for some relief. Your hand moves before you remember your manners. The pollen drowns out all the voices of all the people who ever made sure you'd feel bad for getting the itch. Those fancy-midnight thoughts only virgins and widows had – making them wanton. Undesirable. Revolting.

The unbridled need steers your fingers, leads them to grab the tortoiseshell hand mirror off your vanity desk. Tentatively, you brush the teardrop-formed end over your crotch. Just once. 

Fuck. 

Your knees almost buckle. You allow your mind to wander further than you ever have before; imagine what Soldier Boy's thick fingers would feel like inside you. Spreading you open while talking some filth next to your ear. 

You'd whimper – you do now. 

Shit, was that out loud? You look around. 

Making sure the curtains cover the small windows of your trailer, you tug the robe slightly aside, drag the hard, cool surface up your white laced underwear again. You sigh, shudder at the sight itself. It's soaked, been for a while. Does that make you a wanton thing? Probably. 

Guided by the urge for some form of friction, you angle the handle, press the end against your most sensitive part, let your hips rut into it and create more tremors in your belly. It even sends sparks of pleasure through your body. 

Your other hand travels up to your bra, toys with the laces there, the way you imagine Bombsight would do it. His fingers slip under the fabric, find your hardened nipple, rolling it between his calloused thumb and index finger to make you moan. Unlike the few men— including your late husband— you've had the displeasure of sharing a night with, you like to believe that he takes his time. Robbie worships your body like it's sacred. His head then dives down to suck on your other breast. 

You lift your leg, place the foot on the stool to roll your hips harder, faster, imagine how Soldier Boy would jerk his wrist to meet you while Bombsight showers you with praise for your beauty. 

It feels amazing. Liberating. Your imagination wildly dancing with your deepest desires. Eyes fluttering. You're feeling the knot tighten, more and more. When glancing down through your screwed up eyes, the hand mirror catches how your face contorts from pleasure. 

Fuck them, you think, Fuck them who say that touching yourself's a sin. If this is the look of hysteria, it's a damn good look on you. (At least as long as you're the only audience.)

You move faster. More deliberate. You can feel the tension snap any moment now, just a little more. Your hips roll again, and again, and–

KNOCK KNOCK.

The sound gives you a start, hand mirror slipping from your fingers and clattering to the floor where it cracks. You curse out loud. Instinctively reach for one of the shards, bite your lip at the sharp sting. Drop it with another shattering sound. Curse under your breath some more. 

"C-coming!" you call out, voice still strained, hands flying over your robe to cover yourself, then frantically tying the sash around your waist to keep it that way. 

The trailer's door handle's shaking softly under your grip. It cracks open, and the low evening sun blinds you for a moment before it's blocked out by a tall figure. A handsome pilot with his piercing blue eyes comes into view. He's got a hand in the air, adjusting it to the height of your eyes. You blink a couple of times.

"B—" you stop yourself, remembering the many times he'd insisted on his real name whenever you'd reverted back to the one Vought gave him and the world knew him by. It just felt appropriate to you to call him Bombsight. As so often, you fall back on his surname instead.

 "Lewis?" You greet him. A soft, almost melancholic smile brightens his face. "Just Robbie when the cameras aren't rolling, remember? I like hearing my actual name. Especially when it's coming from you." He winks. It's easy, so effortless. Robbie never puts on a performance for you – he's just got that boyish charm that instantly makes the room around you fade into the background.

You nod, smile sheepishly and try your best to ignore how his eyes flickered down to your still flushed cheeks. How he's standing there, fully suited up while you're in nothing but a dusty pink robe. It makes your thighs clench beneath the silk. Prompts your eyes to rove down his front. Bombsight hasn't changed into his costume yet. He's still wearing his iconic supe suit; Pilot's bomber jacket style, large leather gloves flexing with both hands planted on the hips.

"I just wanted to check on you," he says your name, and as always it sends butterflies to your stomach. Only that this time, the love pollen seem to have given them teeth as they nip at your core violently. His head tilts in concern. "Tony said you just bolted. Are you feeling sick?"

"Oh, thank you, sir. But I'm alright," you answer quickly. Robbie frowns in response. You know he hates it when you call him that. You try not to, but men's expectations have trained you well. It reminds you of how your mother always twisted her fingers into your lower back whenever you'd failed to address a man appropriately. You wince at the memory.

"You want to make me feel old again, miss?" he jabs with a corner of his lips twitching. You huff a chuckle, shake your head. "Sorry." 

Robbie's eyes crinkle at the corner. They then trail to the insides of your trailer. "So, just before…" You stiffen. Please, please, please don't tell me he heard me.

"I heard noise," he points out right as he spots the source of it. Your breath hitches. He moves before you can, swiftly slipping past you. That man may be able to hurl a bus through a wall if he wanted, but, unlike Soldier Boy who's rigid and built like a brick wall, he is still remarkably agile. 

You close the door behind him, follow him closely and try to block his way with your hands raised, sputtering, "It's alright–really." But he's already guiding you aside in the narrow space. His hands on the side of your arms, solid but gentle. He's suddenly close enough for you to breathe in the worn leather, and a crisp, cedarwood note which you recognize as his favorite cologne. 

Next thing he's dropping to a knee in front of you.

"Aw man… that was Monroe's gift, wasn't it?" he asks, taking in the damage. He knows it is. He's attentive like that. "Let me do it," he says while wiping the broken pieces of the mirror with the length of his right palm into his other. "I don't want you to cut yourself." 

Right, the shards do nothing to his bulletproof skin. Could you dent it with your teeth? 

Stop it you outrageous feral thing, you hiss to yourself under your breath – then bite the inside of your cheeks. 

If he heard you, he didn't show it. 

Robbie continues to carefully collect all the shards, then dumps them into the trash. You have to look the other way, hide your panic behind a hand when he reaches for the broken tortoiseshell hand mirror. His covered fingers curling around the very same handle you'd just rubbed yourself with – Praying to the Gods that it's not slicked with the traces of your arousal. 

Robbie may have raised a brow at it, but you wouldn't know, because you're still not looking and he slowly placed it back on the vanity dresser without a word. 

"Really… you mustn't…" you protest some more. You hover nervously behind him. The way he's dropped to one of his knees, Robbie could turn around and press his nose right to your crotch. His strong arms would wrap around the back of your thighs to hold you still while inhaling you and groaning into your heat. Your eyes flutter at the thought.

Once Robbie straightens up, he turns to face you again, offering, "Can I get you something? Or uh, do you want me to–"

"Fuck." — wait. That wasn't supposed to come out loud.

"What?" Bombsight blinks at you.

"I, uh, I mean – Fuck, it's really hot in here today, isn't it?"

"It…is?" His brow arches, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that is robbing you of your breath. It's that look he always gets when he's searching your eyes for the truth. You noticed it for the first time last month, at the Vought Gala. You're instantly taken back to the moment Bombsight had escorted you away from a crowd of gawking producers and handsy B-list supes. He guided you out to the terrace, checking in on you every few steps. For the next half an hour you both watched the night sky in silence while the chattering, the clinking of champagne glasses and the music of the live band continued behind the glass doors.  

You like to believe that he reserves this special look just for you and the sky.

Without a word he lifts his right hand, gripping the leather of it with his teeth to pull it free. Your breathing almost stops at the unexpected, rugged display. He clamps the glove under his arm and then reaches out. But stops midway.

"May I?" he asks, back of his hand hovering in front of your forehead. He's always this careful when touching you, as if terrified his inhuman strength might accidentally break you. 

You find yourself hum a "yes". Although you're not entirely sure what you agreed on. Not that you'd care. You're lost in the bright, calm ocean of his eyes. It makes you want to sink your fingers into his perfectly slicked back, golden locks and just make a mess of them by pulling him in and taste his— No. Bad. Don't, you scold yourself.

Robbie nods, closes the distance. His hand could bend steel, you've watched him dismantle a fighter jet with the very same ones before when shooting an action sequence. Yet, his knuckles are surprisingly soft, feather-light as he brushes a stray lock of hair away from your temple before resting the back of his hand against your forehead. Every nerve ending inside you is wiggling in excitement. If it wasn't for the surprise making you suck in a breath, you're sure you would've melted right into his touch.

Robbie furrows his eyebrows, "You're burning up. Maybe you've got a fever…" he pulls his hand back and you fight the whine at the loss of contact. "You want me to call the doctor? I'll go get him–"

"No!" you blurt in an octave higher than your usual voice. Robbie stops, his brows pushing wrinkles onto his forehead. "I'm fine," you keep lying, fingers toying with the sash's knot without your consent. "Really. Totally fine." You smack your own hand away, quickly cover up the action by clearing your throat. "I'll just take off the rest of the day. Queen Bee's taken the next slot over in Studio 4 anyway, promo pics for Love Pollen II."

Robbie slips the glove back over his wrist, pauses to interject, "Actually, she's scheduled for tomorrow. We'd be up next. I mean, if you're feeling better by then." 

"What? But she told me this morning, while infest–," you stop yourself, rephrase it politely, "using my vanity dresser." Robbie's brows pinch together, eyes flitting back and forth as if he's trying to put together two pieces.

Right as Robbie's about to say something, he is cut short. Another knock on your door. 

He turns his head. You curl your fingers into the knot at your stomach when you hear a familiar, gravelly voice use your name — and you wonder how much more your hormones can take.

"Soldier Boy," you stifle a whine. One of despair. Of overextension. As if your plate of sin wasn't already full enough, rest assured that Soldier Boy's going to add a whole load of filth to it.

"Benjamin, doll," Soldier Boy corrects you with a charming voice. It's not the first time he has to remind you of it. You got the suspicion that he heard you call Bombsight by his real name some time ago, but as with him, you struggle to do so. He licks his lips after a small pause. "Unless you're screaming it. Then Ben'll do just fine." 

He steps up the first ladder to your trailer. You don't move aside. Soldier Boy smirks at your poor attempt to block him, then adds a wink as if his handsome face was excuse enough to push past you without waiting for an invitation. The pastel-colored confines of your trailer shrink as he steps inside it.

"Well, Benjamin, Robbie just checked on me, so I really am quite alright," you call after him. Soldier Boy suddenly stops in his tracks. You almost knock into his back. His cocky expression slips from his face when his eyes land on the other supe. "Robbie, huh," he grits out.

"It's still Robert for you," Robbie deadpans over at Soldier Boy. 

You roll your eyes. It's always the same with those two. It's not that they're enemies, and you've seen them more than once enjoy a drink or a cigar together after a late-night shoot. It's just that their personalities are so vastly different that they clash over the smallest things – or mainly, over you.

"Well," Soldier Boy clicks his tongue as he saunters up to him, "'m here now. So you can go get fucked–" he thumbs vaguely towards the door behind him, a sly grin spreading his lips, "– by, what's the pesky girl's name again? Tootsie?" Robbie's jaw ticks at the insinuating tone.

"I'm not interested in that girl," the pilot retorts sharply. Soldier Boy's grin widens.

"Oh yeah? Didn't fuckin' look like it when you hurled her ass over your shoulder the other day," Soldier Boy keeps prodding. 

Robbie rolls his eyes and scoffs, "That was part of the scene, you fucking dimwit."

A muscle in Soldier Boy's jaw twitches with irritation. He takes a step closer, chest puffed out. Robbie straightens up too, squares his shoulders. The narrow space is dwarfed by their presence. They're all broad shoulders and inhuman power wedged between your trailer's walls. Both staring each other down like two dogs over a bone, while you're watching the whole thing from the sideline — vehemently rejecting the creeping idea that you could be the bone.

"There ain't enough space for the two of us here, so get fuckin' bent, buddy," Soldier Boy threatens, but Robbie doesn't flinch. Clearly, he's used to his teammate's macho behaviour. 

The air has thickened in the narrow space. Neither's backing down. You secretly pray for them to not start a brawl in the middle of your quarter. They would take down the trailer like it's made of cardboard. 

Robbie suddenly raises his chin, his voice firm and protective when he looks at Soldier Boy first, then at you. "I'm not leaving you alone with him."

You blink at that. Open your mouth, close it again. Because apparently you don't get a say in the whole matter; Robbie's already claimed one of your two lounge armchairs opposite to the vanity dresser. He leans back into the striped velvet upholstery, loosely crosses his arms over his chest, elbows poking the burgundy tones.

"You got a problem with that, Jealous Boy?" Robbie challenges the other supe with a self-assured smirk. 

"I'm not—" Ben growls, "this is my fucking plan." 

"You call that a plan?" 

"You weren't meant to be here." 

"You mean like Queen Bee?" 

Soldier Boy glares down at him. Upper lip twitching. They share a look which makes you wonder whether they know something you don't. 

Whether maybe you are the bone.

Soldier Boy curses under his breath, "Fuck, whatever. I ain't gonna miss out on this just cause there's another dick in the game—" He leans down next to Bombsight, continues muttering, "–so just sit there and watch how a real man does it, pal." Robbie merely lets out a mocking huff of laughter. Slowly, he turns his head away from Soldier Boy. Completely unfazed.

Your breath hitches when Robbie's eyes suddenly lock onto you. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. The weight of his gaze is enough to make your heart skip a beat. It's the same longing look he gives the sky. Like it's the only thing that matters. 

Soldier Boy then turns to face you too. Makes your heart skip for an entirely different reason; The corner of his lips does something dangerous when he hums in mock-sweetness, "How you feelin', sweetheart? Anything you wanna tell us?" 

With the attention suddenly shifted to you, you instinctively take a step back, bump into the dresser behind you. That's when it clicks; You are the bone. Your core sings in delight at the revelation. And it wants them to devour you. It wants more – more, more, more.

Yet, you once again swallow those pathetic primal needs back down and, "What?" is all you manage. 

"Don't play coy," Soldier Boy scoffs. He steps closer, you have to crane your neck back to hold his unyielding gaze. "You know what I'm asking." His head tilts slowly to the side when he sees the confusion still on your face. His lips curl up into a knowing one. "We both know you're itching to get fuckin' ruined." 

For a moment you're not sure whether you're having a wet dream like the wanton widow you are. Frankly, your mind's still grappling with the idea that your trailer's occupied with two of the strongest heroes of the world, while you're backed up against the wall, slick like a slug, presented in a silk robe that fully depends on the loose tie around your waist. And sure, Soldier Boy's known to flirt openly, never sparse with the filth either. You'd always giggle, avert your eyes with the heat pooling in your face. 

But he never looked at you this way before. This raw hunger. Pupils blown wide, swallowing the vibrant green in his eyes and only leaving the dark glints, while his hulking frame's shadowed by the soft lights of your mirror. 

"C'mon, the way you've been looking at me? Bet you've been dreaming of this cock," he continues, and drops his hand down his front where he fondles his crotch. You follow the motion with your eyes, but his never leave yours. 

"Language, Ben," Robbie suddenly chimes in from the seat. "Don't scare her. Where are your damn manners?" You almost forgot about him. He's been silent for the most part, like a spectator. Your eyes dart past Soldier Boy's broad shoulder, seeking the calming weight of his presence. 

You don't answer Soldier Boy right away. Wait for some form of reaction of Robbie's. He doesn't fail to pick up on the way you helplessly shift on the spot, fidgeting with the silk ribbons of your robe as you twist them around your fingers. He's got his elbow propped up on the armrest, chin dipping once in a reassuring gesture before resting it on his gloved palm again. 

"It's alright," Robbie blinks at you slowly. A soft smile aimed at you. "You're safe." 

Bombsight watches you calmly then. Expectantly. It's that thing he does when he knows exactly what's going on in your head, just waiting for you to voice it. You swallow thickly, force your eyes back on the supe in front of you.

"I–" the next words catch in your throat. You want to say them. You want to look each of them in the eyes and tell them. The heart beating like crazy inside of your chest, urges you to do just that, but–... your fears are bigger.

You feel your body tremble. You can't tell anymore whether it's due to the pollen in your system or the dread of getting exposed. You avert your eyes.

If they knew, if you ever let them see just a glimpse of your true feelings, they'd think you're a joke. A desperate widow looking for love, or sex. Your hopes of them reciprocating, ridiculous.

They'd laugh you off the set. 

This suddenly feels like a trap. Maybe they even made bets, expecting you trying to sleep your way up. You can hear Soldier Boy's condescending tone as he'd chuckle about your pathetic confession between takes with the other actors. You don't need to imagine how it sounds, you've heard it before, like a couple of days ago when he'd elbowed one of the assistants and made fun of Queen Bee and her cow's udder. Something tells you that Bombsight would keep it to himself. But he, too, would never look at you the same again after politely turning you down and probably awkwardly look away whenever you'd enter the same room.

Your chest stings – you don't want that. Never.

So, you take a sharp breath. Meet Soldier Boy's eyes with newfound confidence. You're not a star actress for nothing.

"You're delusional as fuck if you think I really want anything from you. Like Bombsight said, that was part of the scene. It's called acting. Not that you'd know what that is," you answer flatly. And you regret it at the same moment. Soldier Boy's eyes narrow. Fingers twitching into a fist at his side. He looks pissed.

"So I'm guessin', all this—" Soldier Boy's hand shoots down, roughly pushes it under your robe and rubs two fingers over your damp spot, "is just acting too, hm?" Your eyes widen. While your cunt wants to latch onto his fingers, you smack his hand away.

"Stop that–" you yelp. He removes his hand, slowly brings his two fingers up to his lips where he makes a show of sniffing it. The heat rushes to your face. "Ben!" you yell, but all it does is amuse him.

"Ah, screaming my name won't help you now, sweetheart," his lips curve into a suggestive smirk. "You always dripping down your thighs like some needy lil' bitch in heat then?" he pushes on.

"I don't–" you begin but then realize you've got nothing left to argue with.

"Thought so," Ben widens his lips into a self-satisfied smile. "Acting. My ass," he snorts, the sound of it condescending, "Only time you're actin' is when you're playing fuckin' dumb. Like right now." 

Soldier Boy steps in a half circle around you, ravenous eyes locking onto every sliver of exposed skin between your parting robe. It should probably worry you, but the fact that he looks at you like you're his next meal, without any cameras in the room and no director advising him, makes something like pride bloom in your chest. You crave it. You know it's wrong. A lamb that feels like the chosen one when the lion picks it from the herd. 

Yet you can't deny the effect he has on you.

Ben's lips twitch into a smirk when he spots the small shiver he's caused. Once he's behind you again, he leans in, hot breath next to your ear when he says, "You have any idea how much I've been holdin' back? While you were playing shy all this time." 

"I’m not–That's bullshit,"  you say fiercely. You stand your ground. Tell yourself this is just a scene you're acting out.

"Stubborn as always," Soldier Boy huffs a laugh while taking some steps back and giving you space again, "C'mon, tell'er." His gaze suddenly falls on Robbie, gesturing a dismissive hand his way. 

Robbie's got the tip of his thumb pinched between his teeth, quickly averting his eyes when you look at him.

"C'mooon," Soldier Boy keeps going, "You must've smelled it too." 

"Smelled what?" you ask, shifting slightly as your eyes flicker back and forth between the two men. 

The leather slips off his lips, then flattens his thumb against them when he pauses to think. "You know that we can smell and hear more than other people?" he tests carefully. Your frown just deepens.

"I know that you're supes. What’s your point?" 

Robbie now shifts in his seat too, knuckle of his finger tapping his lips while his eyes are flitting around the room – anywhere but close to your confused look. "Like, a lot more," he adds. 

"What pretty boy's trying to tell you, is that we can hear how your heart's racing like a damn rabbit's." Ben has no problem holding eye-contact and watching with a smug smirk of his how the panic on your face slowly grows. "And we could smell how your cunt's dripping with need."

Your eyes widen, heat flushing to your face. "It's Queen Bee's fault," you blurt in a panic. "She came in here this morning, infected–"

"For over three months." Soldier Boy cuts you short. Your heart stumbles.

"Wh–what?"

Soldier Boy's lips crack into a wide grin. He looks like he's reveling in the guilt that's crashing down over you. "Don't act so surprised, sweetheart. Did ya think we wouldn't notice? Whenever I just as much as looked at you, you got so fucking wet I could practically taste you on my lips."  

"You–… all this time, you both knew..?" you trail off, voice small. You can't get yourself to finish the sentence. You knew how desperately I longed for your attention.

Soldier Boy's smirk widens. You look at Bombsight, who's trying to busy himself with combing his hair back. 

"Is that… true?" You whisper his way. Soldier Boy chuckles from the sideline, Robbie's cheeks take a faint pink, he finally meets your eyes, lips pressed into a soft smile. "Yeah."

"See? I'm practically a saint," Soldier Boy quips. "No surprise he didn't make a move." Robbie shoots him a glare. Ben just laughs. Deep and raucous.

You're silent. The air is thick and pumped with the tang of your arousal which even you can't deny anymore now.

This torture has just peaked into absolute humiliation. 

Something inside you desperately waits for the "Cut!" where everyone drops their acts and you get applause for your great performance. You'd blush, smile and thank them, then slip away to take the chance and peek at your script, preparing yourself for the next scene. 

But that chance never comes. No relief on that end. And no relief on the other either. 

Traitors, you think, glaring down at your restless thighs which keep rubbing together like they're trying to say; Hey, don't forget about me! How could you forget about the heat that's been pooling between your legs for hours now. 

Soldier Boy suddenly saunters past you, almost taking down the flower vase while navigating through the cramped space, then drops into the other lounge armchair next to Bombsight. Both now facing you like they're the new directors of their movie.

"What are you doing?" you ask warily.

"Gettin' comfortable," he answers matter-of-factly and goes on to unbutton his charcoal grey jacket, shrugs it off and drapes it over the velvety armrest, then roughly loosens his green tie. His right ankle settles on his other knee. 

Ben jots his chin out towards you, as if he was giving you permission, or rather, a call for you to do something. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna stop you," he muses out loud while he reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out an expensive Cuban cigar.

"Stop me?" you echo.

"Go on. Make yourself nut," he says casually after biting off the cap, his voice muffled briefly, then spits the piece into the ashtray of the smoker's table wedged between their seats. His eyes look you over expectantly while yours widens again in shock. Ben then reaches into his trousers, lightly thrusts his hips up for better access, fishing out his gold zippo while he continues off-handedly, "And feel free to beg me for a hand."

"Ben…" Robbie warns him calmly.

"What?" Ben barks. "She's into us. She's fucking dripping with need. What more does she need?" His sharp tone's accentuated by the metallic clink of the zippo's lid being flipped open.

"I don't need — I can't do it," you interject. 

The cigar's rolled between his two fingers as Ben puts it to his lips and brings the zippo flame close to the tip. Watching the practiced motion elicits your thighs to clench some more and your thumbs to subtly rub into the silk of your robe. It makes your words sound like another desperate excuse.

Ben takes his time. 

Like for once, he's thinking. Considering your words. 

Or maybe it's just that he's focused on taking short puffs. Get that cigar smouldering.

After a good ten seconds, he snaps the zippo lid shut before lowering his hand, tossing the metal piece onto the smoker's table. Only then he shifts his focus back to you, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke. 

"You need me to tell you what to do? Hm? That it?" he prompts with half-lidded eyes that drift back up to fix onto you through the smoke, "You need a man to order you around, give you a fucking play-by-play?" 

Robbie gives him a pointed look, exhales sharply through his nose. Then lifts his gloved hand to scrub the frustration off his face.

"That's not what I said, I– I'm just not feeling like it," you snap. It's a big fat lie. You know it. Ben knows it. And judging by the way Robbie's brow suddenly arches behind his stilled hand, even he knows it.

Ben's amused expression sours, eyes narrowing at you. He leans back against the velvet, the poor armchair groaning under his large, angried body, dark grey slacks creasing around his crotch as he lets his shoe slip off his knee, dropping it to the floor with a thud that startles the silence. Legs spread wide open now.

"C'mere," Soldier Boy orders and pats his left thigh once, pointedly. "Sit." You just stare. His voice deepens an octave. "Sit. Down. Don't make me say it again."

This time your feet move before your anxieties can root them to the spot. You shuffle over to them, a mixture of excitement and dread spreading through you. But once your body slots between Ben's spread legs, you’re not sure how to proceed. Ben just watches with darkened eyes while taking an extra slow draw of his cigar. Suddenly, you feel unsure what your role is in this entire scenario and your mind spirals with the appalled voice of your mother; 

How can you ignore the fact that he's in his suit, while you're in a damn robe with nothing but your underwear beneath it? Revealing yourself to them like this feels utterly wrong. Ben's not your husband, neither is Robbie. Then again, he didn't ask you to take off your clothes, so maybe they don't even want to see your body. Maybe he just expects you to get him off. Why would they be any different than your dead husband or any other men out there? 

"Christ on a stake – stop using that head of yours. You're giving me a fucking migrain," Ben grouches, blows out a cloud of smoke that makes you squeeze your eyes. His words snap you out of your thoughts, just as his free hand grips onto your hip and he roughly guides you down on his leg. Your spine goes rigid when your thighs straddle his thick one. Your bare skin, slick with heat, sticking to the fabric and robe parted at your crotch, your ass now pressed against his trousers. 

"There ya go," Ben huffs, satisfied with your compliance. He jerks his knee up, just once, and your hands fly to his upper thigh to steady yourself with your tiptoes barely brushing the floor now. The jerk of his made your crotch lift off his thigh and slap back down on it. The involuntary grind of your aching clit against his hard muscles sending sparks through your body. Before you can stop it, your lips part. You gasp. Almost moan. It's enough for Ben's lips to curl up into a sly grin.

"What's the matter, kid?" he asks mockingly, "Can't even sit still?" He does it again. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his trousers. Your thighs clench around his. They tremble. Ben jerks it again. And again. And again– until your back's hunched over with your head dropped low to hide your face. Desperately trying to hold on. Desperately trying to ignore the way your hips have started to follow his rhythm. Trying to hide what it does to you. But it's futile. The heat between your legs has become unbearable. 

Your resolve is getting swallowed whole by the feral thing that's been pacing up and down inside you ever since the pollen has released it from its cage. …For the first time you wonder whether your mother was right when she’d caged it. Whether it was never meant to be shunned into the corner of your mind.

Ben sees how you're fighting for control. Robbie too.

"Go easy on her," the pilot comments. But Ben's not having any of it. Not his motherhenning and not what he interprets as your stubbornness.

"Oh stuff it," Ben snaps back, "She ain't said no, has she?" 

He hooks his index finger under your chin. It's firm, but surprisingly gentle as he guides it up, making you meet his eyes. "C'mon, look at me, doll. You wanna get that fuckin crap outta your system, don't ya?" he coaxes. You look back at the intense green in his eyes. And you whine. You fucking whine like a dog. He grins in return.

And then your hips move on their own. Roll once. Just a shy drag of your covered heat across the length of his thigh. Your hips stutter. Hesitate. You wait for a reaction. Ben doesn't say anything, cigar still idly hanging from his two fingers, but he drops his other hand from your chin, rubs along your side with his palm like a silent praise. You like to believe it is. You test your theory. Rub yourself on his trousers with two quick strokes. A shudder goes through you – Ben's palm catches it. Squeezes the soft flesh at your hips. 

Suddenly, a stifled sound from beside you shifts your focus; Robbie's watching the whole scene. The usually bright sky in his eyes has been swallowed by a storm. Is that arousal? Your breathing turns ragged.

"You want him to watch? Hm?" Ben prompts close to your ear. His words elicit a shiver. He goes on, "You like havin' an audience?" You bite your lower lip. You're not sure what it is, but you cannot deny the excitement that's coursing through your body when Robbie looks at you like that. How it makes you feel desired in a way that you've never felt before. You don't understand why he's not off put by the entire display, why the hell he's still here in the first place. But you like it. You hope he stays. So, "Yeah," you murmur softly. 

An amused, gruff laughter slips Ben. "Go on then, give us a show." Your body moves on its own. 

The eyes of the feral thing inside you darken, mirroring your spectator's. You begin to rut against his hard muscles. Think of how you did it before, how you'd canted your hip to find a better angle. You do so again. Experiment until you've found the perfect spot where his thigh presses right into your covered clit. Your lips part for a shy moan. Another when the coil in your stomach begins to tighten once more. More. More. Your walls are fluttering – so, so close now. 

Ben's charcoal grey trousers begin to darken where you rub yourself, glistening with your arousal. You don't care, you don't look down anymore. Your head angles to the side, eyes fixed on Robbie's. Let him watch when your orgasm crashes down on you. Hips stuttering, thighs clenching and nails digging into Ben's trousers while relief floods your system – before your body goes slack and Ben's hand, which has moved to the small of your back, makes sure you don't slip away.

And that's when your mind's thrown back to its original state.

Now that the height is over, you become painfully aware of the position you're in; Half naked, perched on Soldier Boy's leg. As the haze around you lifts, the crass contrast pulls your deepest fears into the open again.

You've never done this before – humped a man's leg like some desperate bitch in heat. 

And the way Robbie was watching you? You suddenly wonder how any of this could not be… wrong. So, so wrong.

They'll laugh at you, that scolded child inside you whispers into your ears.

Your eyes turn glossy, you look away in shame. 

Soldier Boy, who's painfully unaware of your inner turmoil, slides his large palm further down, pats your ass. "Wasn't so fuckin' hard, now was it?"  No, no it wasn't. And that's the problem.

"It was pathetic," you murmur. Voice small, hoarse.

You wait for the condescending smiles. For the humiliation. For the shaming.

"No, no it's not. It was–" Robbie's fast with his reaction, but your mind shuts it out. 

At the same time, Soldier Boy's hand pauses on your ass. "What?" he asks gruffly, completely oblivious to the way you're desperately trying to blink away the first tears. You just shake your head, overwhelmed with everything. The loss of control over your emotions somehow fuels Ben's irritation even more. 

"Hey, I'm talking to you. What the fuck's wrong?" He lifts his free hand to grab your jaw – but Robbie's hand intervenes. 

"Ben. Back off," Robbie says firmly. Ben stares at him, a scowl forming on his face. But after a beat, his hand drops back down into his lap. Robbie's eyes flicker to your face, still averted from both of them, then lock back onto Ben's. "Just give us a minute," he says and while doing so, holds out his hand towards you, palm up. "It's alright, angel," he whispers to you.

You take it without a second thought. Latch onto him as he helps you get to your feet, legs shaking. Before your knees can give in, Robbie coaxes you into his own lap. You follow him, sinking into his arms with such ease that it triggers another wave of shame. You burrow your face in his shoulder, back facing Soldier Boy. He lets you. He doesn't expect you to answer, just slowly rubs a hand up and down your flank. 

You're sniffling. Caught in your mind. Neither of them dare to startle you with more words.

The trailer fills with a heavy silence. It's only disrupted by Soldier Boy's annoyed nipping at his Cuban cigar while blowing smoke into the air like an angered dragon. The smooth smoke pools at the trailer's ceiling, where its bittersweet aroma of spices and freshly roasted coffee beans waft down again, enveloping the musk of your arousal. It reminds you of your dead husband and how he'd lit a cigarette every time the deed was done. 

After some minutes, Bombsight pulls you closer, cradles you in his strong arms and whispers into your ear as he tries again, "It wasn't pathetic. It was beautiful." His voice is so soft, so genuine. But the voice of your guilt is louder. 

You expect the humiliation, which never comes. And somehow that makes it worse. The tension sinks its claws into your ribs and you cannot take it anymore.

"Please," you plead as you shake your head against his shoulder again, still avoiding their eyes. You don't want to see them. "Just laugh already." It must sound so pathetic. It sure feels so.

You hear Soldier Boy suck in a sharp breath and you flinch – the words die in his mouth. 

Robbie stopped him with a lift of his hand. But his eyes never left you. Robbie sighs, then gently curls a strand of hair behind your ear. He whispers your name, once. Twice. He pauses. At the third time you lift your head enough to meet his eyes. He smiles down at you, explains, "There's nothing to be ashamed of." You frown, and as if challenging you, his eyes glint with something like awe in return. "You looked so goddamn pretty just now. All flushed and trembling… beautiful."

For a moment, you're silent. Stunned by his words. Your mind's scrambling to find a similar memory which it can twist and use against you. But it comes up empty. You don't remember any man ever calling your orgasm beautiful. In fact, you don't remember anyone ever commenting on your pinnacle of pleasure at all. They weren't supposed to, because it wasn't about you. It never was; Sex isn't supposed to be pleasurable. Not for you anyway. Not only were you painfully aware of that fact whenever a man finished before you even felt something close to pleasure, but also everyone who shaped your young life made sure to internalize the guilt if you ever did. 

You pull your robe tighter over your chest, suddenly feeling exposed. "But I shouldn't–" you begin, protest falling flat at the shake of Robbie's head. When you shift in his lap to lean a bit further back, your face finally in full view for him, a gruff voice behind you pipes up. 

"Can I say something now?"

Robbie tilts his head, gaze moving to the other supe behind you. You follow his eyes. Fully turn in his lap so that you're perched on him sideways again, but now facing Ben, just when the latter grunts. 

"Why the fuck would I laugh?" He sounds annoyed, but it lacks his usual cruel edge. It sounds like a genuine question. Something which, judging by the way he frowns at you, truly confuses him. "You think I went through all that fucking trouble with that spunk o'pussy to get you to admit you're into us, just to make fun of you?" 

It takes you a moment until it clicks. When it does, your eyes widen. "Wait– that was you? You had that bitch jack up my hormones with her supe pollen?!" Ben blinks, seemingly a bit taken aback by your sudden change of attitude.

"I thought you wanted to fuck me!" he snaps back.

"By getting me doped up?" 

"What the hell? You're just more horny! That's all." 

"But I'm not supposed to be horny!"

Silence.

"What?" Soldier Boy's face scrunches up, bewildered. He just stares at you for a good three seconds. "Why the fuck wouldn't you wanna be horny?"

You bite your lip, then look away. Shoulders trembling. Bombsight's hand squeezes your side. You feel him hold you together with his arm slung around your back. He lets the question hang in the air, like he's giving you the choice to say something. But you don't. So Robbie looks at Ben and answers for you. And by doing so, lands the answer to the million dollar question.

"Because she's learned to feel ashamed of it," Robbie says slowly. 

There. 

He slammed the last nail through the coffin's lid. 

You want to cry, embarrassed for what's out of your control. You want to disappear. You want to scream. You do none of it. And for the first time, the knot inside your throat lifts. Their voices drown out, as Bombsight goes on to explain it so that even an emotionally constipated man like Soldier Boy understands. 

Your mind wanders off to all the times you'd been told off that women simply don't talk about sex. All the times your dead husband had scoffed when you'd told him that you didn't come. It feels oddly relieving. Because for once, it's not wiped under the rug.

You're not being dismissed. Not called crazy. Not a wanton whore just because you have desires of your own.

By the time you blink yourself back into the moment, you get to witness how the gears inside Ben's thick skull are spinning. He nervously rolls his cigar between his fingers, until he stops. The same hand shoots up to rub the heel of his palm against his forehead. "Fuck – Never meant to make her feel that way," he mutters. His anger has completely deflated.

Some more silence follows. It's the good kind. Heavy, yes, but only because the weight has finally left your shoulders and everyone in the room's carrying it now.

It's only broken by your name, muffled by your trailer's walls. Followed by a succession of quick knocks. Your head perks up, panic written all over your face. 

Soldier Boy's moving before you can. 

The door flies open with Ben blocking Tony's view into the trailer. There's talking. Louder talking. Until Ben's booming voice shuts the director down. "Which fucking part of she's not feeling well didn't you get? I said, she's done for today." The door slams so hard that you fear for the hinges. But you're grateful you didn't have to face Tony and stammer some excuse. 

Ben returns but slows down halfway, then stops entirely. He begins to shift his weight, canting his hip one way, then the other. A hand rubbing down his mouth. Jaw muscle ticking. For once, Soldier Boy doesn't look like he owns the room he's stepped in. He hovers there between the dresser and the vanity table, awkwardly, throat working and eyes trailing along the floor. 

After a frustrated grunt, Ben's eyes suddenly snap up to meet yours. "Listen to me," he grits out the words, "You didn't do shit wrong." The supe holding you in his lap nods in agreement.

"You did amazing," Robbie adds after a beat.

"That was fucking hot," Ben doubles down.

"Such a good girl for us," Robbie praises and squeezes your side again, a crooked smirk on his face. 

"And those needy little sounds of yours? Jesus," Soldier Boy chuckles, licks his lips as he's getting riled up again. "I'm tellin ya. I ain't done with making you cum, doll. Not by a long shot." Robbie shoots him a look at that. Ben rolls his eyes. Huffs. His voice takes a slightly softer tone when he grumbles, "'Course, only if you're in the mood."

"You know… We've been thinking about this for a while too," Robbie admits and makes your head turn back to face him. Your eyes must show the lingering anxiety, because he quickly assures you. "We just want to make you feel good, darling. That's all."

Their words take a moment to settle in your mind. Maybe, even more so in your heart. For a while, you just stare down at the floor between Robbie's shoes. Ben has chosen to go back to his abandoned cigar which he'd perched on the rim of the ashtray before. He slumps back into his seat. Takes some silent puffs.  

While your mind is still chewing on their words, your heart only wants to know one thing. You shift with your legs still draped off Robbie's thighs sideways, press your knees together to keep your robe from parting, then break the silence.

"Why me?" The question comes out so small. But it's so heavy that it carries all of your remaining insecurities.

Sure, you had a name. But you were no supe. Unlike them, you won't keep your looks forever. You're not immortal. You're not strong. You're not delusional enough to believe that you're anywhere up there with all those female supes they could have. Vought makes sure to throw them at your face wherever you look – be it Queen Bee looking down at you from billboards, tits each the size of a Caddy, or Private Angel talking on the news with her velvety voice and impeccable skin, or Liberty and her smug, painted smile that is taunting you no matter where you turn, be it the front page of Life or Vought's newsreels played before any movie you've ever been cast for. 

They're omnipresent. 

And in a world like this, where actual superheroes exist? There's no way to compete with them.

"Christ, how can someone so fucking perfect think so little of themselves," Ben growls at no one in particular. He drags a hand down his face, gaze roaming the many glossy photo prints on the wall of your trailer.

Robbie is silent for a moment, his eyes searching yours, even though you try your best to avoid them. He lifts a hand, the leather of his glove smooth against your skin as he gently cups the side of your face and turns your focus back to him. "Can you look at me for a second?" He asks gently. When you angle your shoulders, he guides your leg over his so that you're straddling him now, fully facing him. 

Once you've settled in his lap, he collects both of your fumbling hands in his. It's grounding, his thumb rubs over your knuckles while he talks again, voice huskier than usual. "Let us show you."

Your brows pinch. You're not sure you understand.

"Will you let us?" Robbie gently pushes on.

Your head turns briefly, eyes flickering over your shoulder back to Ben who's now glowering at every object in your trailer like it's responsible for this mess. You look back at Robbie. Then nod. 

Robbie's eyes glint with joy. He raises his right hand to his lips to pull his glove off again, leather pinched between his teeth as he does so. He drapes the leather glove over the armrest. His movement slow and deliberate. With the back of his bare hand, he gently swipes some of your hair off your shoulder. His fingertips linger there then. He lets them ghost along the slope of your exposed skin, from below your ear all the way down to the border of your silk robe. Slow. Reverently. Leaving a trail of goosebumps.

When his eyes meet yours with a silent question, you find yourself nodding again. Almost imperceptible.

𝙽𝙴𝚇𝚃 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚂. . .

"You good?" Robbie asks next to your head. His bare hand has returned to its exploratory journey. Fingers drawing soothing circles along your collarbone, to the delicate dip at your throat where he feels your pulse flutter. It elicits another wave of shivers down your spine and right to your core. "Yes," you sigh. The words just spilling now. "Please, don't stop." 

Bombsight nuzzles the sensitive spot behind your ear. "We won't." His hand finally dips down your front. It slips beneath the silk that's still clinging to your chest and finds the laces of your bra. Another gasp escapes your lips. 

Something touches your covered core, almost making you squeal. Ben looks up at you from under his long eyelashes, a wolfish grin spreading his lips. He does it again – rubs his thumb along the damp fabric. "Not till you're a sobbing, shakin' wreck b'tween us," he promises with darkened eyes. 

BEHIND THE SCENES A big thank you to my very first, wonderful beta reader, @bettystonewell . Your feedback was such a confidence boost! 🧡 Now that we’re about to dive into the fun part; Which of the two would you pick? Or would you take both? 😉

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his stubble catches against sensitive skin and your leg twitches.

“easy,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “’s just me.”

as if that helps. your hands tigthen in the sheets when he kisses higher, closer, your whole body going stiff with anticipation before he’s even really done anything.

his mouth is right at the edge of you. he breathes you in, then looks up, eyes are dark and steady. “look at me.”

you do. barely. your face is hot.

you stay quiet. you always stay quiet. it isn’t even something you mean to do anymore. every little noise catches somewhere between your chest and your mouth and gets swallowed before it can escape, embarrassment arriving faster than pleasure ever gets the chance to.

dean leans in and drags the flat of his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke.

you jerk.

he does it again, slower this time, tasting you properly. “fuck, baby… you taste so good.”

he settles in, hands spreading your thighs wider. he licks you open, tongue circling your entrance before sliding up to your clit, sucking gently, then harder, then soft again. every time you try to stay still he just keeps going, patient and filthy.

“you don’t gotta be quiet,” he says against you. you can hear the smile in his voice. “nobody’s here but us. let me hear you.”

you bite your lip. a tiny sound still escapes. barely a breath. dean’s eyes flash.

“that’s it. just like that.”

he slides two fingers inside you, curling them carefully until he finds the spot that makes your whole body go tight. he rubs there in slow, steady circles while his tongue works your clit.

the wet sounds are loud in the quiet room.

he doesn’t rush. he just keeps licking, sucking, fucking you open with his fingers.

“so pretty like this,” he murmurs between strokes. “all soft and shy and taking everything i give you. you feel how wet you are? drippin’ all over my hand.” he curls his fingers deeper. “gonna make you come on my tongue, honey. but i want a sound first. just one. can you do that for me?”

you shake your head, but your hips are rolling against his mouth now. he chuckles low, the vibration shooting straight through you.

“stubborn.” he sucks your clit harder, fingers pumping a little faster. “come on. i know it’s in there. let me hear how good it feels.”

your thighs start to tremble. he kisses the soft skin on the inside of one, then the other, never stopping the steady rhythm of his tongue and fingers.

“that’s my girl. so quiet but your body’s tellin’ me everything. clenchin’ around my fingers like you don’t want me to stop.”

he flattens his tongue and licks you in long, filthy strokes, then focuses back on your clit, circling, sucking, teasing. the pressure builds slow and heavy. you can feel it coiling tight in your stomach.

dean lifts his head just enough to speak, breath hot against your soaked skin. “gonna keep eatin’ this pretty pussy until you give me something. a moan. a whimper. my name. anything. i’ll wait all night.”

he dives back in, more determined now. his fingers curl harder. his tongue works you with precision. the praise keeps coming.

“so good for me. taste so fuckin’ sweet. look at you tryin’ so hard to stay quiet. but i got you, baby. just let it out.”

your breath hitches. your hands fly to his hair. when the orgasm finally hits it’s quiet at first—your whole body locking up, thighs shaking around his head—then a soft, broken sound slips out of you. half-moan, half-gasp. barely anything.

dean groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. he keeps licking you through it, gentle now, fingers slowing until you’re trembling and oversensitive.

he kisses your clit once more, soft, then presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh. “knew you had it in you.”

he crawls up your body and kisses you slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you stay quiet against his mouth, but your arms wind around his neck and hold on tight.

dean smiles against your lips. “next time i’m gonna get more than that. but that little sound? fuckin’ perfect.”

@violets-library requested ⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂　 a Dean version of ‘soft sounds’

//

‘My heart is heavy now, it’s like a hundred pounds.’

The song played on a loop in her ears. Sabrina seemed to know how she felt, how every woman felt in her situation. She had tossed her phone out of reach to keep herself from pouring out a heartbroken text to Butcher. He doesn’t want to talk to her. Not when he has someone new.

Going back to the shitty apartment/safe house to get her stuff, she’d witnessed a woman leaving. It didn’t take a detective to figure out why the strange woman had been there: messy hair, smeared makeup, half on clothes, heels in hand. She didn’t even have the nerve to go inside, just turned around and swallowed the lump in her throat.

A sob escaped at the memory. Frenchie and Hughie had kept in contact after their break up a month ago. They had been shoulders to cry on, but it was becoming too much. She hadn’t even told them she knew about Butcher’s other woman or whoever she was. They’d been urging her to go out with them until she cut contact. It was too painful to listen to them try to talk her through getting over him. They wouldn’t get it, and she didn’t want to be a burden. She was an adult, and should be able to handle this on her own.

What a fucking lie.

Remembering everything they had kept her locked in a state of emptiness. The happiness, the sadness, the anger, the passion, the lust…the love. Her emotions would well up until she felt like she was choking, almost hyperventilating on her own sadness. She’d had terrible breakups in the past, but this one felt like she had her heart ripped out.

The phone ringing replaced the music in her ears. She thought about ignoring it. On the third ring, she decided to bite the bullet, picking up the discarded phone and answering the random number.

She sniffled, “Hello.”

“‘Ello love.”

Her stomach dropped to her feet. “Butcher.”

There was an awkward pause, both trying to think of what to say.

“How ya been?” he finally asked.

“O-okay, I guess. How are you?”

“Ya know me. Could be betta’.” His tone was light hearted.

It wasn’t lost on him how sad she sounded. Billy heard it the moment she answered. He couldn’t stop the pain in his chest knowing it was his fault.

After a long pause, she spoke, “Why’d you call, Butcher?”

“Billy, love,” he corrected. “Been inside ya for fuck’s sake. Think ya can call me Billy.”

His attempt to lighten the mood was not effective. His voice was killing her, emotions welling up and threatening to spill. What did he want? She felt more tears burning as she heard him sigh. “I just wanted to uh…check up on ya, darl’. French and Hughie been worryin’ themselves sick ova’ ya.”

“Well, I’m fine so you guys don’t need to worry about me.” Her tone was clipped. “I know you don’t.”

“W’at’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

Biting hard on her lip, she closed her eyes to will the tears away and voice to remain steady. “Nothing.”

Cutting him off, she mumbled out some excuse about having work and needing sleep before quickly hanging up. The song continued where it had left off, the feeling in her chest growing. Talking to Billy was not making this easier. Did he call her to just torment her? Hughie and Frenchie had probably badgered him to check on her. He didn’t have any other reason to call her, check on her, act like he cares. Why would he?

//

She’d gone to bed hours ago. Sleep was a small reprieve to her pain, but that peace was startled awake by banging on her front door. She checked the time.

3:48 a.m.

She stayed still in bed in hopes the person would go away, but they didn’t. Her resolve broke to finally go answer it for fear of upsetting her neighbors. Goosebumps broke out across her skin as she left the warmth of her bed, shuffling out into the living room. She winced as the banging got louder and louder. By the time she reached the door, she was ready to bark at her tormentor. She angrily swung it open to reveal…him.

Billy leaned in the doorway with a hard look on his face. “Ya hung up on me.”

She blinked a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “W-what?”

“You’s. Hung up. On me. I didn’ like that,” Billy said slowly. “Especially didn’ like your lil’ shite comment. W’at’s that all about?”

“N-nothing.”

“Liar,” he said sharply.

“Damnit, Billy! Just leave me alone!” she cried. “Go back to the safe house, fuck whoever your fucking, and leave me alone.”

She tried to slam the door, but his boot blocked it. His large hand pushed it open to back her into the dark apartment. “Get out,” her voice cracked.

“Nah. Not ‘til ya tell me w’at’s up ya fuckin’ arse.” Billy shut the door behind him.

“What is there to talk about? You made it clear you didn’t want me around anymore.” Her tears blurred her vision. “And you obviously didn’t have a hard time moving on.”

“Now that righ’ there. W’at’s that supposed to mean?” Billy had shoved his hands in his coat pockets, brow creased in confusion.

She turned away from him, trying to hide her devastation. “Like you don’t know.”

“I’m a pretty thick twat, love. Gotta be specific,” Billy admitted.

Setting her jaw, she discreetly wiped fallen tears away. He was suddenly standing behind her. The heat of his body warmed her back, and his breath fanned over the top of her head. She choked down a whimper. She felt so pathetic being devastated over a man that didn’t care about anything. Not even himself.

Billy heard her sniffles, resolve breaking as a sob slipped out. He didn’t know why he was there, but he was banging on her door before he could think twice. He wanted to wrap his arms around her until she stopped crying, hold her until the pain went away.

“I ain’t moved on,” he mumbled.

“D-dont bullshit me. I saw that w-woman leaving the safe h-house. I’m not an i-idiot,” she choked.

“It ain’t w’at ya think, dove.” He pressed his mouth to her hair.

The use of the nickname made her heart twinge. “Then what is it? Because it looks like you fucked someone two weeks after we broke up.”

Billy sighed, “I’m a right cunt. Ya know that, but not that much of one.“

He heard her shudder, felt it against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and she whimpered. “‘ey now, don’ cry,” he whispered. “Don’ cry over me.”

She made a weak attempt to pull herself from his hold, but she couldn’t. His arms held her tighter as he groaned, “I wouldn’t ‘ave touched that skank even if she ‘ad four tits and a cunt that tasted like a fuckin’ birf-day cake.”

She shook her head weakly, not wanting to believe him, not wanting to fall back in and be hurt. “You’re lying!”

Billy held her tightly as she fought against him, knowing if he let her go she’d collapse at his feet. “I know I hurt ya, love, but I promise m’not lyin’.”

When she started to break down, he picked her up with a grunt and carried her to the couch. He sat with her in his lap, crushing her to his chest. Tears soaked his sweater as her fingers white knuckled the lapels of his coat. All he could make out was her asking ‘Why?’ over and over again.

A part of her found so much comfort in him: his gentle touch, his familiar smell, his gravely voice. But, she knew the hurt would be worse once he left. She soaked it all up while preparing to be thrust back into depression. It all welled up in her chest and spilled out as pathetic sobbing. She didn’t want to be this weak in front of Billy, but it had been too long.

“I love you.”

Her body went ridged before pulling her tear stained face from his chest. His heart cracked as she looked into his eyes. She slapped him, pelted him in the face and chest.

“You fucking bastard!” She cried as he let her explode. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!”

“I know. I know. M’sorry,” he mumbled before wincing. “Ow! Fuck!”

Billy bear hugged her, forcing her against his chest once again and repeatedly whispering an apology. After a moment of struggling, she had calmed down. Small fingers ran through the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck, an action that use to comfort them both. Without thinking, she hesitantly looked into his eyes.

Billy loosened his hold enough for her to sit up and see her properly. Her beautiful eyes were full of longing, a deep brokenness resonating with him. He had done this to her. Fucked her up just like him.

If you had blinked, you would have missed her lunging forward and pressing their lips together. Her small fingers still twirled around the ends of his hair as she kissed him with deep yearning. Kissing him felt so right. It felt like relief. Like breaking the waves for that first sweet taste of air.

Billy’s lips were kinda chapped but still soft, facial hair tickled her skin, and the taste of his last cigarette lingered on his tongue. He sighed against her and tightened his hold. Tears still fell as their embrace deepened. Shifting around, she straddled his lap and held his face between her palms.

She whimpered and hiccuped against his lips when she felt him hold her hips. “Please, Billy. Make the pain go away. I feel like I can’t fucking breathe!”

The crack in his heart grew. “I’ve got ya, dove. I’ll fix it.”

Billy grunted as he stood with her wrapped around him like her last life line. He never broke their kiss as he made the familiar walk to her bedroom. The only light in the room was from the street lamps shining through the blinds. He was gentle laying her on the bed. She watched through tears as he threw off his coat and boots. Her arms quickly wrapped around him when he moved his body over hers.

Their lips met in another slow, desperate kiss. The calluses on his hand scratched her skin as he cupped her cheek. His thumb wiped away a stray tear. “No more cryin’, dove. I’m ‘ere now.”

She whimpered and nuzzled into his hand. Lips kissed the corner of her mouth, down her jaw, neck, and further as his free hand slipped under her t-shirt.

Billy pulled away just enough to slip it off before his sweater joined. A moan escaped her throat when his hands skimmed over her body, hooking his fingers into the waist band of her shorts. Goosebumps appeared as his lips grazed a familiar trail across her heated skin, removing the last of her clothing.

He fell to his knees and pulled her to the edge of the bed, but she stopped him. She took his hands from her thighs and began to pull him over her again. “Please.”

He only nodded, working on his belt with the help of her trembling hands. Billy could see the need in her eyes, desperate to have him as close as possible. She practically yanked him into another kiss when he was finally as naked as her.

Wrapping an arm around her hips, Billy moved them up the bed to prop her against the pillows, throwing the blankets over them both to create a little sanctuary of warmth and intimacy. Her heart fluttered as he gently caressed the hair from her face. “My girl. My dove,” he gently whispered.

She’d never forget how much she loved the feeling of his beard tickling her skin. Her shocked gasp filled the air as he slowly pushed himself inside, basking in the feeling. She held tightly to his neck, legs wrapping around his waist as his hips pushed forward. It was overwhelming how amazing it felt, losing themselves in the relief their intimacy brought.

“Look at me,” Billy murmured.

She fixated her teary gaze on him, waves of emotions crashing over her. There was a lot he wanted to tell her, but the only thing he could think of doing was this. He was a man of action, which is both a blessing and curse.

Maybe it’s because he thinks his fuck ups are too horrible for mere words to fix.

Or, maybe it’s because he thinks most people’s words don’t match their actions.

It wasn’t healthy for him to solve their issues with sex, but fuck did it feel right. It felt like what they both needed.

Billy’s thumb ran over her bottom lip as he slowly pulled his hips back, savoring the drag of his length against her soft walls. He stilled when just the tip remained inside before slowly pushing back into her, a wanton cry leaving her lips. Nails dug into his lower back and legs squeezed his hips before their foreheads connected. The rhythm set was slow and powerful and completely controlled by him, but it wasn’t enough.

The lock she had on his hips kept him from all of her. One of his hands grabbed the sheets near her head as the other left her face to trail down her body, grabbing her thigh and pushing it towards the mattress.

“BILLY!” Her unexpected squeal echoed in his ear when he suddenly pushed deeper, not a sliver of space between their hips.

“Fuck,” he slurred.

She slid her hands up to wrap around his neck, brushing their noses together as little pants escaped her lips. “Oh my god.”

“I’m ‘ere, love. Not goin’ any-fuckin’-where,” he groaned and started his rhythm again, gritting his teeth when hearing her pants turn to little whimpers.

Her greedy hands wandered over his muscles, over his scars and freckles, to keep her grounded in reality. He was really there. It wasn’t a desperate dream her mind conjured to comfort her. Billy released her thigh to allow her legs to tangle with his, their fingers interlocking and lips connecting.

The pieces that were broken before began to fall back into place as the night wore on. He moved and positioned her body with the intent to make her feel how much he’d missed her. He’d denied himself her heavenly presence for a month, and now she’d be at his mercy until he knew it was right again.

Hand prints and love bites decorated her soft skin. Little bruises dotted her hips where his fingers had pushed and pulled her hips against his. She’d marred his back and arms with long red lines until the skin was raw. He whispered reassurances against her kiss-swollen lips like a prayer until her tears stopped falling.

When they finally collapsed, exhausted both physically and emotionally, the sky had begun to turn that bluish-gray that signaled the beginning of another day. The sheets were tangled around their sweaty bodies like a cocoon. She lay on her side, curled into Billy’s chest as he held her. The hand not holding her delicately traced the curve of her body as the room began to fill with the coming light.

She felt the remnants of that cold, empty feeling return as the night slowly disappeared. Her breathing stuttered for a moment before nuzzling her mouth against his neck.

Maybe he wouldn’t notice it was a new day?

Maybe they could stay like this for just a little longer?

Her throat burned as she swallowed down the fresh wave of tears. She almost whimpered when the sound of a cellphone ringing broke the silence. Billy’s phone continued to ring and vibrate from his discarded pants on her bedroom floor.

He felt her tense when he noticed sunlight peeking through the blinds. When his phone began ringing, he felt her begin to curl away from him, like she was preparing to be discarded once again. The heartache he felt as she started to anticipate the hurt again hit him in the chest like a punch. He hated how quickly the warmth left her, how easily the heartbreak he’d caused crept back in.

With a lazy exhale, he pulled her closer. “Stay.”

She inhaled shakily. “But…your phone…”

Billy looked down, kissing her nose when he saw her eyes gleaming with tears. “It’s nuffin’. Go to sleep. I just got comfortable.”

She watched him close his eyes. The phone kept ringing, and when she shifted to glance at it, he tightened his hold.

“Sleep, dove.”

She settled against him as the ringing stopped, and silence filled the room again. She waited a beat, waited for the phone to go off again.

If it did, would he pick it up?

But it didn’t ring again.

He didn’t get up.

All she heard was the sound of Billy’s steady breathing. Looking up at him, she studied his features in wonder. A wave of relief and affection washed over her, and she gently pecked his lips, enjoying the way his mustache tickled her skin.

//

‘My heart is heavy now, it’s like a hundred pounds.’

The song played on a loop in her ears. Sabrina seemed to know how she felt, how every woman felt in her situation. She had tossed her phone out of reach to keep herself from pouring out a heartbroken text to Butcher. He doesn’t want to talk to her. Not when he has someone new.

Going back to the shitty apartment/safe house to get her stuff, she’d witnessed a woman leaving. It didn’t take a detective to figure out why the strange woman had been there: messy hair, smeared makeup, half on clothes, heels in hand. She didn’t even have the nerve to go inside, just turned around and swallowed the lump in her throat.

A sob escaped at the memory. Frenchie and Hughie had kept in contact after their break up a month ago. They had been shoulders to cry on, but it was becoming too much. She hadn’t even told them she knew about Butcher’s other woman or whoever she was. They’d been urging her to go out with them until she cut contact. It was too painful to listen to them try to talk her through getting over him. They wouldn’t get it, and she didn’t want to be a burden. She was an adult, and should be able to handle this on her own.

What a fucking lie.

Remembering everything they had kept her locked in a state of emptiness. The happiness, the sadness, the anger, the passion, the lust…the love. Her emotions would well up until she felt like she was choking, almost hyperventilating on her own sadness. She’d had terrible breakups in the past, but this one felt like she had her heart ripped out.

The phone ringing replaced the music in her ears. She thought about ignoring it. On the third ring, she decided to bite the bullet, picking up the discarded phone and answering the random number.

She sniffled, “Hello.”

“‘Ello love.”

Her stomach dropped to her feet. “Butcher.”

There was an awkward pause, both trying to think of what to say.

“How ya been?” he finally asked.

“O-okay, I guess. How are you?”

“Ya know me. Could be betta’.” His tone was light hearted.

It wasn’t lost on him how sad she sounded. Billy heard it the moment she answered. He couldn’t stop the pain in his chest knowing it was his fault.

After a long pause, she spoke, “Why’d you call, Butcher?”

“Billy, love,” he corrected. “Been inside ya for fuck’s sake. Think ya can call me Billy.”

His attempt to lighten the mood was not effective. His voice was killing her, emotions welling up and threatening to spill. What did he want? She felt more tears burning as she heard him sigh. “I just wanted to uh…check up on ya, darl’. French and Hughie been worryin’ themselves sick ova’ ya.”

“Well, I’m fine so you guys don’t need to worry about me.” Her tone was clipped. “I know you don’t.”

“W’at’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

Biting hard on her lip, she closed her eyes to will the tears away and voice to remain steady. “Nothing.”

Cutting him off, she mumbled out some excuse about having work and needing sleep before quickly hanging up. The song continued where it had left off, the feeling in her chest growing. Talking to Billy was not making this easier. Did he call her to just torment her? Hughie and Frenchie had probably badgered him to check on her. He didn’t have any other reason to call her, check on her, act like he cares. Why would he?

//

She’d gone to bed hours ago. Sleep was a small reprieve to her pain, but that peace was startled awake by banging on her front door. She checked the time.

3:48 a.m.

She stayed still in bed in hopes the person would go away, but they didn’t. Her resolve broke to finally go answer it for fear of upsetting her neighbors. Goosebumps broke out across her skin as she left the warmth of her bed, shuffling out into the living room. She winced as the banging got louder and louder. By the time she reached the door, she was ready to bark at her tormentor. She angrily swung it open to reveal…him.

Billy leaned in the doorway with a hard look on his face. “Ya hung up on me.”

She blinked a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “W-what?”

“You’s. Hung up. On me. I didn’ like that,” Billy said slowly. “Especially didn’ like your lil’ shite comment. W’at’s that all about?”

“N-nothing.”

“Liar,” he said sharply.

“Damnit, Billy! Just leave me alone!” she cried. “Go back to the safe house, fuck whoever your fucking, and leave me alone.”

She tried to slam the door, but his boot blocked it. His large hand pushed it open to back her into the dark apartment. “Get out,” her voice cracked.

“Nah. Not ‘til ya tell me w’at’s up ya fuckin’ arse.” Billy shut the door behind him.

“What is there to talk about? You made it clear you didn’t want me around anymore.” Her tears blurred her vision. “And you obviously didn’t have a hard time moving on.”

“Now that righ’ there. W’at’s that supposed to mean?” Billy had shoved his hands in his coat pockets, brow creased in confusion.

She turned away from him, trying to hide her devastation. “Like you don’t know.”

“I’m a pretty thick twat, love. Gotta be specific,” Billy admitted.

Setting her jaw, she discreetly wiped fallen tears away. He was suddenly standing behind her. The heat of his body warmed her back, and his breath fanned over the top of her head. She choked down a whimper. She felt so pathetic being devastated over a man that didn’t care about anything. Not even himself.

Billy heard her sniffles, resolve breaking as a sob slipped out. He didn’t know why he was there, but he was banging on her door before he could think twice. He wanted to wrap his arms around her until she stopped crying, hold her until the pain went away.

“I ain’t moved on,” he mumbled.

“D-dont bullshit me. I saw that w-woman leaving the safe h-house. I’m not an i-idiot,” she choked.

“It ain’t w’at ya think, dove.” He pressed his mouth to her hair.

The use of the nickname made her heart twinge. “Then what is it? Because it looks like you fucked someone two weeks after we broke up.”

Billy sighed, “I’m a right cunt. Ya know that, but not that much of one.“

He heard her shudder, felt it against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and she whimpered. “‘ey now, don’ cry,” he whispered. “Don’ cry over me.”

She made a weak attempt to pull herself from his hold, but she couldn’t. His arms held her tighter as he groaned, “I wouldn’t ‘ave touched that skank even if she ‘ad four tits and a cunt that tasted like a fuckin’ birf-day cake.”

She shook her head weakly, not wanting to believe him, not wanting to fall back in and be hurt. “You’re lying!”

Billy held her tightly as she fought against him, knowing if he let her go she’d collapse at his feet. “I know I hurt ya, love, but I promise m’not lyin’.”

When she started to break down, he picked her up with a grunt and carried her to the couch. He sat with her in his lap, crushing her to his chest. Tears soaked his sweater as her fingers white knuckled the lapels of his coat. All he could make out was her asking ‘Why?’ over and over again.

A part of her found so much comfort in him: his gentle touch, his familiar smell, his gravely voice. But, she knew the hurt would be worse once he left. She soaked it all up while preparing to be thrust back into depression. It all welled up in her chest and spilled out as pathetic sobbing. She didn’t want to be this weak in front of Billy, but it had been too long.

“I love you.”

Her body went ridged before pulling her tear stained face from his chest. His heart cracked as she looked into his eyes. She slapped him, pelted him in the face and chest.

“You fucking bastard!” She cried as he let her explode. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!”

“I know. I know. M’sorry,” he mumbled before wincing. “Ow! Fuck!”

Billy bear hugged her, forcing her against his chest once again and repeatedly whispering an apology. After a moment of struggling, she had calmed down. Small fingers ran through the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck, an action that use to comfort them both. Without thinking, she hesitantly looked into his eyes.

Billy loosened his hold enough for her to sit up and see her properly. Her beautiful eyes were full of longing, a deep brokenness resonating with him. He had done this to her. Fucked her up just like him.

If you had blinked, you would have missed her lunging forward and pressing their lips together. Her small fingers still twirled around the ends of his hair as she kissed him with deep yearning. Kissing him felt so right. It felt like relief. Like breaking the waves for that first sweet taste of air.

Billy’s lips were kinda chapped but still soft, facial hair tickled her skin, and the taste of his last cigarette lingered on his tongue. He sighed against her and tightened his hold. Tears still fell as their embrace deepened. Shifting around, she straddled his lap and held his face between her palms.

She whimpered and hiccuped against his lips when she felt him hold her hips. “Please, Billy. Make the pain go away. I feel like I can’t fucking breathe!”

The crack in his heart grew. “I’ve got ya, dove. I’ll fix it.”

Billy grunted as he stood with her wrapped around him like her last life line. He never broke their kiss as he made the familiar walk to her bedroom. The only light in the room was from the street lamps shining through the blinds. He was gentle laying her on the bed. She watched through tears as he threw off his coat and boots. Her arms quickly wrapped around him when he moved his body over hers.

Their lips met in another slow, desperate kiss. The calluses on his hand scratched her skin as he cupped her cheek. His thumb wiped away a stray tear. “No more cryin’, dove. I’m ‘ere now.”

She whimpered and nuzzled into his hand. Lips kissed the corner of her mouth, down her jaw, neck, and further as his free hand slipped under her t-shirt.

Billy pulled away just enough to slip it off before his sweater joined. A moan escaped her throat when his hands skimmed over her body, hooking his fingers into the waist band of her shorts. Goosebumps appeared as his lips grazed a familiar trail across her heated skin, removing the last of her clothing.

He fell to his knees and pulled her to the edge of the bed, but she stopped him. She took his hands from her thighs and began to pull him over her again. “Please.”

He only nodded, working on his belt with the help of her trembling hands. Billy could see the need in her eyes, desperate to have him as close as possible. She practically yanked him into another kiss when he was finally as naked as her.

Wrapping an arm around her hips, Billy moved them up the bed to prop her against the pillows, throwing the blankets over them both to create a little sanctuary of warmth and intimacy. Her heart fluttered as he gently caressed the hair from her face. “My girl. My dove,” he gently whispered.

She’d never forget how much she loved the feeling of his beard tickling her skin. Her shocked gasp filled the air as he slowly pushed himself inside, basking in the feeling. She held tightly to his neck, legs wrapping around his waist as his hips pushed forward. It was overwhelming how amazing it felt, losing themselves in the relief their intimacy brought.

“Look at me,” Billy murmured.

She fixated her teary gaze on him, waves of emotions crashing over her. There was a lot he wanted to tell her, but the only thing he could think of doing was this. He was a man of action, which is both a blessing and curse.

Maybe it’s because he thinks his fuck ups are too horrible for mere words to fix.

Or, maybe it’s because he thinks most people’s words don’t match their actions.

It wasn’t healthy for him to solve their issues with sex, but fuck did it feel right. It felt like what they both needed.

Billy’s thumb ran over her bottom lip as he slowly pulled his hips back, savoring the drag of his length against her soft walls. He stilled when just the tip remained inside before slowly pushing back into her, a wanton cry leaving her lips. Nails dug into his lower back and legs squeezed his hips before their foreheads connected. The rhythm set was slow and powerful and completely controlled by him, but it wasn’t enough.

The lock she had on his hips kept him from all of her. One of his hands grabbed the sheets near her head as the other left her face to trail down her body, grabbing her thigh and pushing it towards the mattress.

“BILLY!” Her unexpected squeal echoed in his ear when he suddenly pushed deeper, not a sliver of space between their hips.

“Fuck,” he slurred.

She slid her hands up to wrap around his neck, brushing their noses together as little pants escaped her lips. “Oh my god.”

“I’m ‘ere, love. Not goin’ any-fuckin’-where,” he groaned and started his rhythm again, gritting his teeth when hearing her pants turn to little whimpers.

Her greedy hands wandered over his muscles, over his scars and freckles, to keep her grounded in reality. He was really there. It wasn’t a desperate dream her mind conjured to comfort her. Billy released her thigh to allow her legs to tangle with his, their fingers interlocking and lips connecting.

The pieces that were broken before began to fall back into place as the night wore on. He moved and positioned her body with the intent to make her feel how much he’d missed her. He’d denied himself her heavenly presence for a month, and now she’d be at his mercy until he knew it was right again.

Hand prints and love bites decorated her soft skin. Little bruises dotted her hips where his fingers had pushed and pulled her hips against his. She’d marred his back and arms with long red lines until the skin was raw. He whispered reassurances against her kiss-swollen lips like a prayer until her tears stopped falling.

When they finally collapsed, exhausted both physically and emotionally, the sky had begun to turn that bluish-gray that signaled the beginning of another day. The sheets were tangled around their sweaty bodies like a cocoon. She lay on her side, curled into Billy’s chest as he held her. The hand not holding her delicately traced the curve of her body as the room began to fill with the coming light.

She felt the remnants of that cold, empty feeling return as the night slowly disappeared. Her breathing stuttered for a moment before nuzzling her mouth against his neck.

Maybe he wouldn’t notice it was a new day?

Maybe they could stay like this for just a little longer?

Her throat burned as she swallowed down the fresh wave of tears. She almost whimpered when the sound of a cellphone ringing broke the silence. Billy’s phone continued to ring and vibrate from his discarded pants on her bedroom floor.

He felt her tense when he noticed sunlight peeking through the blinds. When his phone began ringing, he felt her begin to curl away from him, like she was preparing to be discarded once again. The heartache he felt as she started to anticipate the hurt again hit him in the chest like a punch. He hated how quickly the warmth left her, how easily the heartbreak he’d caused crept back in.

With a lazy exhale, he pulled her closer. “Stay.”

She inhaled shakily. “But…your phone…”

Billy looked down, kissing her nose when he saw her eyes gleaming with tears. “It’s nuffin’. Go to sleep. I just got comfortable.”

She watched him close his eyes. The phone kept ringing, and when she shifted to glance at it, he tightened his hold.

“Sleep, dove.”

She settled against him as the ringing stopped, and silence filled the room again. She waited a beat, waited for the phone to go off again.

If it did, would he pick it up?

But it didn’t ring again.

He didn’t get up.

All she heard was the sound of Billy’s steady breathing. Looking up at him, she studied his features in wonder. A wave of relief and affection washed over her, and she gently pecked his lips, enjoying the way his mustache tickled her skin.

‘That’s it sweetheart,’ he murmured, one hand palming your tits as he rolled his hips again, ‘you feel good baby?’

‘Too much,’ you whimpered, looking up at him with wide eyes, your hands holding his neck, pulling him closer though he wasn’t sure he could if he tried, given how he’d folded you in half, ankles around his ears so he could drill you into the mattress.

‘Nah c’mon you can do it. My girl takes care of me, don’t she?’ he rasped, pressing a rough kiss to your cheeks ‘know you can, taking me so well doll. So good for me.’

‘Always good for you,’ you promised.

‘I know, best pussy I ever had. Only one I ever want,’ he said, groaning as you fluttered around him at the words.

‘Ben,’ you gasped.

‘You close, doll?’ he breathed, though he already knew the answer. You nodded, pushing down to meet him, your head in the pillow.

‘Wait for me,’ Ben ordered, the familiar tightening of his balls coming quick as he watched your eyes start to roll.

‘Fuck,’ he grunted, mouthing at your tits, trying to bury himself in every inch of you.

‘Soldier Boy,’ you whimpered.

‘Soldier Boy!’

Your voice snapped him awake. Only when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in bed. You weren’t beneath him. He was on the couch at the safe house, where he insisted on sleeping so he was near a door. The first line of defence. And you were sitting at the kitchen table with Butcher and Hughie, scowling at him like you usually did.

Soldier Boy rolled his eyes and sat up brushing the sleep from them as you went back to whatever the three of you had been taking about before you’d rudely awoken him. He sat up, rolling his neck.

That was when he felt it, his cock pressed against the waistband of his sweats, still hard, still aching despite the fucking half load he’d could feel congealing against his thigh.

He’d had a fucking wet dream. Like some god damn teenager.

And worse, he realised as he looked over at the table and found you still in conversation, he’d had it about you.

You felt his eyes on you and glanced over but he just glowered like he always did, and busied himself with getting up. He needed to change. He needed a drink. He needed to walk past that table and pretend like he hadn’t just spaffed his load thinking about you and your stupid pretty face and your soft body being nice to him.

‘Morning sunshine,’ Butcher chimed as he headed for the fridge, ‘or should I say morning wood?’

‘The fuck you talking about?’ Soldier Boy asked, plucking a beer from inside. He didn’t know what time it was, didn’t really care though he saw your eyes flick to it with disapproval like you were his fucking mother.

‘You were moaning in your sleep again,’ you said, again another layer of disapproval.

‘You know, I’m starting to think I should be concerned about how often you watch me sleep,’ he mocked.

‘Hard not to when you’re humping away like one of those dogs that gets the spray bottle,’ you retorted.

‘What were you dreaming about anyway?’ Hughie asked, as only he could given that Butcher and you just looked at him in disbelief for even daring to give Soldier Boy and open goal for vulgarity.

‘Oh, you know. Faceless broad with big juicy tits,’ he lied, smirking at Hughie as he took a long swig of his beer.

You scoffed from behind your laptop.

‘What’s the matter, princess? Jealous?’ he asked leaning against the counter and earning a begrudging look filled with contempt because you hated the nickname and he liked riling you up.

‘Of a couch cushion?’

‘It’s seen more action than you have lately,’ he countered with a smirk.

‘Are we only counting faceless furniture? Because in that case, you’re right.’

‘Actually she had a face. Well, she had a mouth, I know that,’ Soldier boy teased.

‘You’re disgusting,’ you huffed.

‘Prude.’

‘Pig.’

‘Now, now you two, don’t make me get a spray bottle for the both of ya,’ Butch said, with that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

You huffed and went back to your laptop. Soldier Boy pretended that his dick didn’t twitch when he saw you roll your eyes and then stalked off down the hall, in need of a cold shower.

You started typing again but you could feel their eyes on you, Butcher’s amused, Hughie’s awkward.

‘What?’

‘Nothin’ it’s just one of these days you’re actually going to have to stop pretending you don’t want to fuck him,’ he said, smirking as he brought a cigarette to his lips.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ you replied though it lacked conviction because when you glanced at Hughie even he looked like he didn’t believe you.

‘Alright,’ Butcher chuckled, ‘but when we need a new couch, you’re the one payin’ for it.’

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

soldier boys tags

When you get home, you don’t stand a chance. He’s sitting on the bed with his legs spread and the vibrator in his hands, a cocky smirk on his handsome face.

“Right here, sweetheart.” He beckons you with two fingers, and you swallow. You can’t help but obey. Dean’s got a hold on you that he still doesn’t fully understand, and if he told you to fall to your knees, you press your cheek against his thick thigh and beg him to put himself in your mouth.

Instead, tonight, he holds you right above him, one massive hand on your waist and the other pressing the head of the vibrator between your thighs. You tremble, clinging to broad, thick shoulders, panting his name as the pleasurable sensation becomes too much to bear. Dean smirks, dragging the toy back and forth, drawing slow, grounding circles on your hip with his thumb.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he coos, watching your every nervous reaction, drinking up your every moan with a smug grin. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? Makes you just wanna fall apart, get really messy, standing up and beggin’ for some more.”

You moan, face burning and body alight with need. Dean drags your panties to the side, pressing the vibrator against your bare clit. You almost jump, but he tugs you right up to his chest, splaying his free hand on your lower back. The feeling is almost too much to bear. You can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at Dean with teary eyes and try not to let your knees give out.

“You’re gettin’ close,” he grunts, because he always knows. “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

You whimper and pull at his hair. He grunts, pressing his face into your neck, and sucks and kisses his way over the soft skin. Up your throat, along your jaw, right to your ear. He nips softly, and whispers in a low, rough voice.

“Let go, pretty girl. Cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”

The orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and wet. You pussy gushes, your eyes roll, and your legs finally give, sending you right into Dean’s lap. He catches you easily, keeping the vibrator pressed against your overstimulated cunt. You writhe and push at his chest, almost unable to take another second, but still grinding down into the overwhelming pleasure. Dean kisses you, deep and bruising, and finally pulls the vibrator away.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, leaving light kisses all over your face. “Never gonna get enough of watchin’ you fall apart, baby. Fuckin’ never.”

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: this one is very specfically self-indulgant i fear but i hope you enjoyed it as well

mean!soldier boy who doesn’t let you do a thing in the bedroom. makes you his personal pillow princess, fucktoy, who he can do anything with. you want to cum? well, you better ask for permission. if he spits or cums in your mouth, you’re also not allowed to swallow unless he says so

mean!soldier boy who manhandles you like it’s second nature, with that increased strength of his he can fuck you however he wants. can lift you in his arms and rail you in the middle of the room whilst standing. bends your body to his will, has you in any position that he wants; what you want doesn’t matter, he’ll get you off any way he wishes

mean!soldier boy who gets pissed if you shave. he makes it abundantly clear how he likes your body - specifically down there. he won’t touch you until it grows back, ‘like it’s supposed to be’. he’ll throw out all your razors if he has to, just so that he has you exactly how he wants, no matter how angry you might get. eventually, as always, you’ll give in

mean!soldier boy who loves leaving marks on you. like you’re his property. like a stamp that tells anyone who glances your way to not even attempt to sway your desires not like it’d work anyways. he wants people to see them, at your throat, jaw, even your thighs especially if you wear a skirt or a pair of shorts. almost like he’s wanting people to look

mean!soldier boy who loves to see you beg and cry for him. who smushes your face in his big hand whilst he’s fucking you, getting off on the wet glaze in your eyes, running down your face. he smirks as you plead for him, nails clawing at his arms. wanting to cum, needing more of him somehow

mean!soldier boy who gropes and smacks your ass as he walks by, teasing you until you become desperate. doesn’t matter who’s around, he’ll do it regardless. he’s humored when you get embarrassed, and it only ends with you becoming needy for him

mean!soldier boy who laughs at the idea of you being in charge in the bedroom 👀 humiliates you if you ever bring the idea up. and even if you don’t, he’ll randomly mention it whilst he’s inside of you. laugh about it, knowing that you’d never try to overpower him even if you physically couldn’t because it’d be a pathetic attempt. he’d love to see you try though, just so he could laugh about it

“the fuck do you want..” you sigh exaggeratedly. “look if you’re here to rant about Homelander you can do it in the morn-“ you were cut off by his hands grabbing your face and pulling you in for a ravenous kiss, the taste of gin flooded your mouth and his scent of cigarettes dipped in arousal hit your nostrils; his fingers cupping your face whilst his tongue fights for dominance in your mouth. You moan into the kiss whilst he pushes you back, his leg shutting the door with one foot before he shoves you down in the bed. “I need you dollface, and i’m tired of waiting.” His voice echoed through your ears.

You gasp softly, glaring up at him with narrowed brows, “Soldier boy, we can’t— this is unprofessional!” you whisper yell at him but he just chuckles, his rough voice corrupting the innocent air of your bedroom. “Unprofessional? You think I give a fuck what these vought fuckers want? nah.. sweetheart, you know we both want this.” he smirks and you suck in a harsh breathe, glaring up at him through wet lashes as he stares at you from the foot of your bed. Suddenly you weren’t so tired anymore.

Soldier boy who pounds into you like it’s his last time ever fucking you. Calloused hands gripping your hips, leaving maroon bruises to wake at his every touch. “Fuck, baby, the way you’re taking my cock.. it’s like you were made for this..” he groans almost animalistic but without a doubt unholy. “..made ‘f me..” he whispers as he leans down into your ear, cock hitting impossibly deeper inside of you; his pace only getting faster and harder.

Soldier boy who mocks you when you try to ride him. It’s not your fault, his 8 inch godly dick isn’t easy to get used to. “this your way of showing your appreciation for me fighting for this country?” He scoffed, but it was most of a chuckle, one brow raised with his eyes hooded. “i’m so fucking grateful.” you teased before you inched your body down onto his cock, mouth hung open as you felt the pain of the stretch, yet the pleasure hit to quickly. “god— dollface.. you’re really impressin’ me..” he groans as he grabs your chin to bring you into a quick kiss before you begin grinding down on his cock. “didn’t think you’d be able to handle it.” — “fucked a lot of girls who thought they could take me, all they did was disappoint, but you.. you’re quite somethin’ “

His tip slick with desire. Your juices pooling at his lower abdomen and into his bushy pelvis. Your fingers were tangled in his hair as you found the strength to bounce lightly, not too fast, you didn't want to tire yourself out too quick, even though you were a supe, you had your limits, and you wanted to prove yourself to him, show him you’re not just another one of the ‘pussies of this generation’ and that you can take him so well since due to his years of sexual experience, he definitely has his standards during sex, and he could definitely tell that you’re worthy of his cock.

Your pace grew faster, and his groans turned into primal moans. Loud and clear for the whole tower to hear, “this what you’ve been dreaming of? hm?” your eyes shut tight from the pleasure of his fat cock inside of you, he smacks your face to bring you back to reality, “answer me.”

“yes.. yes.. it’s all i’ve been dreaming— ahh..! fuck— it’s all i’ve been dreaming of!” He found himself gripping onto your hips, giving your ass a harsh smack that’s bound to leave a mark for days and adjusting you to his desired speed, pounding his cock up into your sweet cunt. “good fucking girl, that’s what I like to hear. You make me so fucking proud.”

You were grinding down harder on him since you felt his cock twitch inside of you, knowing he was close. "i’m gonna nut inside of you, babydoll." he groaned, “and you’re going to fucking take it, you’re gonna take all of it.” you moaned at that, voice of an angel though the contrasting sounds of skin slapping and slick noises filled the void of the bedroom. His groans were now moans, lustful, raw, pornographic moans.

he grabbed your face, pulling you in for one last kiss before spilling his seed into you, “and don’t you dare think of wasting it.” Your mixed juices were seeping down his cock, now pooling on his pelvis. The adrenaline hit you, and you didn't even feel your thighs burning from bounces so hard onto his cock.

Soldier boy who praises you, “you took me so well, sugar, let’s go another round.” but even when you shake your head and insist that you really couldn’t, he pushes you to your limits. That’s how you find yourself getting folded and put into 3 different positions for the rest of the night, moaning, screaming and sobbing on his cock and from his words.

⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹

Your elbow rested against the passenger door, watching the fireflies flicker between the trees.

“They’re everywhere.” You murmured and Logan glanced towards the woods before looking back at the bumpy, unpaved road.

“Happens every summer.”

“I’ve never seen this many before.” You looked over at him with a smile.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as silence settled between you. It was never an uncomfortable silence, it was never a silence that needed to be filled. It was something to share.

His left hand stayed relaxed on the steering wheel, and his right hand, found its way to your thigh.

You could feel the warmth of his hand through your denim jeans. The weight of his hand was light, not possessive or demanding, but there.

It’s like as though, somewhere along the drive, touching you had become as natural as breathing.

You smiled to yourself, careful not to call attention to it. This version of Logan was rare—so rare you found yourself quietly memorizing it. Most days he was gone with the X-Men, disappearing for missions that lasted days, sometimes weeks. And when he was home, there was always an invisible line he refused to cross.

It wasn’t because he didn’t want to touch you. It was because he wanted to.

Logan had spent months convincing himself that distance was safer.

A hand that longed to rest against the small of your back would stop inches short instead. Fingers that ached to lace themselves between yours stayed buried in his jacket pockets.

Goodnight kisses were always gentle, always brief, as though lingering for even a second longer might tempt fate.

It was never because he didn't love you. It was because he did.

You were human.

Wonderfully, painfully human.

You didn't have accelerated healing coursing through your veins. Your skin bruised. Your bones broke. A deep enough cut wouldn't disappear in seconds, it would leave a nasty scar against your beautiful skin.

You felt pain the way ordinary people did, and Logan knew better than anyone how quickly an ordinary life could be changed forever.

He knew how dangerous he was and could be. Every touch was measured, every embrace was restrained. Even something as simple as wrapping his arm around you was calculated. Not too tight. Remember your strength. Be careful.

He had lived as a weapon for so long that he no longer trusted the line between instinct and intention.

Somewhere beneath his skin rested three razor-sharp claws in each hand, waiting for a moment of fear, surprise, or instinct. He'd awakened from nightmares with them already extended. He'd driven them through walls without meaning to. Through doors. Through mattresses.

What if, one day, it wasn't a wall? What if it was you?

That question haunted every quiet moment between you. But the cruelest part was that you had never once looked at him with fear.

You loved him with an openness that still bewildered him. You reached for his hand without hesitation. You leaned into his side on the couch. You kissed him like the danger hidden in hands weren't something to pity or fear, but simply another part of the man you'd fallen hopelessly in love with.

You never asked for perfection.

You never asked him to be anyone other than Logan.

You just wanted him. Needed him.

Somehow... that made him even more afraid of losing control. Because for the first time in a very long life, he had someone fragile enough to break—and precious enough that the thought of being the one to hurt you was unbearable.

When the cabin came into view, you couldn’t help but to get excited. No cell service, no distractions, just you and Logan alone in a cabin.

“There it is.” He said as you took it all in. “It’s not much, but it’s a nice getaway.”

The cabin was older, but it had a wrap around porch with a porch swing, and off to the side a hot tub. He saw where your attention had landed and he smiled, “That’s new. Thought you’d enjoy it, so I came out a few weeks ago to hook it up. I also added some of those fancy outdoor lights that should come on about…now.”

Light illuminated the cabin and your grip on his hand tightened.

You understood his worries about him wanting to be careful, but you also felt there was no reason to live in constant fear. Because love wasn't meant to be lived at arm's length.

You couldn't spend forever letting fear make decisions for both of you.

You were human. Completely, undeniably human, and you knew that made you more vulnerable than the people Logan usually surrounded himself with. You knew you bruised, bled, and healed the ordinary way.

You knew exactly who he was and you had chosen him anyway. Not because you believed he could never hurt you.

But because you believed that every careful touch, every hesitant kiss, every moment he spent worrying over your safety had already proven the kind of man he really was.

Logan didn't fear losing control because he was reckless. He feared it because he loved you.

And somewhere deep in your heart, you hoped this little cabin, hidden from the rest of the world, might finally become the place where he stopped seeing himself as something you needed protection from. And started believing he was simply the man you wanted to come home to.

• • •

By the time all the groceries and luggage had been put away, it was already dark outside. The cabin was warm with the fireplace lit, filling the room with the scent of cedar and smoke.

Rain had pattered loudly against the roof, its steady rhythm making the cabin feel more cozy than it already was.

Logan sat the rest of the bags in the room, and disappeared back into the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee. Despite the late hour, he decided he needed a cup.

You peeked around the corner of the hallway, and sure enough he was pulling out his coffee maker and setting it up.

Quickly, you darted back into the bedroom. It was a simple room; a handmade quilt was spread across the queen sized bed, and on each side of the bed was a nightstand.

A dresser with a mirror was right next to the window, and a lamp sat on a small table next to it, casting a warm glow on the old floorboards.

Your hands rested against the dresser and you looked at your reflection in the mirror. Your overnight bag was sat open on the edge of the bed.

You knew what you had packed. For weeks, you debated whether to bring it at all. Not because you expected anything to happen, but you hoped.

Logan had spent months holding himself back. Every kiss ended before it became difficult. Every embrace carried the careful restraint of a man who never stopped thinking about the damage he might accidentally do.

He loved you. You never doubted that, not even for a second.

Slowly, you reached into the bottom of your overnight bag, fingers brushing over delicate chiffon before lifting the nightgown free.

The fabric was the palest shade of lavender, and it was soft with an intricate floral pattern with narrow satin ribbon rested at the center, tied into a small bow that made it sweet. Matching lace panties completed the set, simple and elegant, tucked neatly beneath the folds of the fabric.

You held it up, bringing your lip between you teeth, debating whether or not to test the waters.

Tonight, for the first time, you wanted him to know there was nothing left you were hiding from him. You trusted him. Completely.

• • •

A few minutes later, Logan had poured two hot, fresh cups of coffee and sat them on the counter.

“Y/N, you alright in there?” He called toward the hallway.

When you didn’t respond, he frowned. “Baby, you alright?”

The bedroom door creaked open,"I'm alright.” you answered, though your voice was quieter than usual.

Your heart was hammering so loudly in your chest that you wondered if he could hear it. Of course he could.

"Honey..." he said with a small, concerned frown. "You sure? Your heart's beatin' like—"

He stepped around the corner, and the rest of the sentence was stuck in his throat. For a moment, the world simply stopped.

You stood just beyond the bedroom doorway, one hand resting against the wooden frame as though it were the only thing keeping you steady.

The soft lavender babydoll drifted gently around you, the delicate chiffon catching the dim lamp light with every nervous breath.

Logan didn’t move and he didn’t blink. His eyes met yours for only a moment before dropping toward the floor, as if looking any longer might betray every thought racing through his mind.

The silence was long, and you felt every second of it. Heat rushed to your cheeks, "Say something," you murmured, laughing softly. "You're making me think I should've packed sweatpants."

He looked up into your eyes, “No.” The word came out rougher than he'd intended.

"No..." He swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for the right words. "Don't... don't say that."

His voice was barely above a whisper now. "You look..." He stopped again. “Beautiful.”

His chest rose slowly as he let out a careful breath.

"I've never..." He gave a faint, almost embarrassed shake of his head. "I don't think anybody's ever looked at me the way you're lookin' at me right now."

You smiled, some of your nerves melting away. "I'm looking at the man I love."

His jaw tightened. That simple sentence hit him harder than anything else could have. Because all he could think was that the woman standing in front of him, who was completely human, and impossibly trusting, had placed every ounce of her heart in the hands of a man who had spent a lifetime believing his own were too dangerous to hold it.

Something had changed in his expression; a thought, an emotional conflict. His eyes linger for a moment longer, and he took a slow step back.

He shook his head, “You don’t know what you’re askin’ me.”

You cross the room, stopping in front of him, “I do though.”

"No..." His voice is quiet, almost pleading. "You think this is me bein' noble. It ain't. It's me knowin' what I am."

Your hand cupped his cheek and he couldn’t help but to lean into your touch, “Look at me you whispered.

He looked into your eyes reluctantly, "Have I ever asked you to be anyone other than Logan?"

No answer.

"Have I ever looked at you and seen a monster?"

"No."

"Then stop deciding what I'm afraid of." You said as you took another step closer. Every part of him wanted to close the distance, to wrap his arms around you and forget the fear that had lived beneath his skin for years.

Instead, he dragged a hand over his face.

"Logan..." you whispered.

He shook his head, "If I cross this line..." He paused, “I don't know if I'll be able to keep stoppin'."

Her expression softened, and she looked up at him.

"Is that what you've been doing?"

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, "Every day."

You closed the distance yourself, stopping just close enough that you could take his hand."You've spent months protecting me." Your fingers threaded between his, as you stood on your tiptoes.

"Tonight, let me show you that I don't need protecting from you."

Logan's thumb brushed over her knuckles, as his other hand found its way to hover over her waist.

You smiled through the tears beginning to gather. "I know exactly who I'm standing in front of."

"Do you?" He questioned, searching for the truth in your eyes.

"I do.” You squeezed his hand, "I'm standing in front of the kindest man I've ever known."

He looked away, a smile tugging at his lips.

"You keep sayin' things like that."

"Because they're true." You responded.

"You’re making it real hard to keep my distance."

Your nose brushed his chin, “Then don’t.”

Logan tipped your chin back so he could see all of your face. He searched your face one last time, looking for even the smallest hint of uncertainty.

He found none. Only trust, and only love. His hand rose carefully, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the scars covering his knuckles.

"Last chance," he murmured.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, "I've already made my choice."

For one moment, neither of you moved. Until you closed the distance.

Your lips met his first—softly at first. He kissed back deeply, with all the longing he'd kept hidden behind careful smiles and shortened embraces. His free hand found the small of your back, still hovering, attempting to hold you close while still mindful of every ounce of his strength.

You rose onto your toes, your fingers slipping into his hair as you returned the kiss with equal certainty, refusing to let him retreat into fear again.

You both broke apart only long enough to catch a breath, your foreheads rested together.

Logan's eyes remained closed, as his breathing was quick, “You're gonna be the end of me," he whispered with the faintest smile.

You laughed softly, brushing your thumb across the stubble on his cheek.

"No." He opened his eyes, "I'm going to be your beginning."

That was all it took for him to lift you from off the floor, and bring you close to his chest. Your lips reconnected with his, as his hands slipped up past lace and silk, his big hands grabbing your ass.

You wrapped your legs around his torso, and he gently pressed your back against the wall. He held you there long enough to press hungry kisses from your jawline, to the curvature of your breasts.

Logan slid his hand to cup the back of your head, and pulled you away from the wall. He carried you into the bedroom, reconnecting your lips as he laid you gently against the mattress.

Your heart raced as his jeans rubbed roughly against the bare skin of your thighs. You deepen the kiss, and something in him breaks; a quiet groan in the back of his throat as your fingers slip into his hair. You feel the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath. He tastes like black coffee.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, and neither of you speaks for a moment. The silence says everything: I see you. I want you. All of it.

And then his voice, low and rough, he asks,You sure about this?"

You nodded, “Yes. More than anything.”

His touch is warm, rough; his calloused palms tracing your skin like he's memorizing it. When he finally lets his gaze drop, there's nothing hungry or careless in it. Just need.

Logan held himself up with one arm, as he reconnected your lips. With his other hand, his fingers are feather like as he traces down, and begins to remove your panties down your thighs.

His hand hovered over your heat, and you moan at the rush of cold air. His hand moves with slow, confident pressure, fingers parting your folds and exploring that slick heat between your legs. His voice is low, gravelly, filled with want, but tender.

"Damn, you're so wet for me.” he said against your lips. He decided to test the waters further, and he inserted one finger inside of you, “Look at you—you’re already wrapping around me.”

Logan groaned at the lewd sounds coming from you. A smock as you wanted him to continue, you reached for his bicep and pulled him up.

You slowly sat up, your hand finding the middle of his chest to steady yourself as he instinctively slipped an arm around your lower back.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your eyes searched his, silently asking the same question you'd been asking all evening.

Is this okay?

He answered with the smallest nod.

Your fingers found the top button of his faded red flannel. One by one, you worked them free.

Logan never looked away. He was completely focused on your every facial expression; he was in a trance. His breathing had slowed, but only because he was making it.

When the last button came undone, you eased the flannel from his shoulders. It slipped down his arms and he closed his eyes as your finger tips traced down his arms.

Beneath it was the charcoal-gray T-shirt he'd worn since that morning. Your fingertips brushed the hem, pausing just long enough for him to stop you if he wanted. He didn't.

Instead, his hand covered yours for the briefest moment.

"You sure?" he asked quietly and you smiled.

"I've never been more sure."

He closed his eyes for a second, letting out a slow breath before lifting his arms. You caught the edge of his shirt and gently drew it upward.

The fabric dragged over the planes of his shoulders before disappearing over his head.

When he lowered his arms again, he hovered before you with a vulnerability few people had ever been trusted to see.

The lamp light danced across a broad chest and powerful shoulders shaped by decades of hard living rather than vanity.

Muscle lay beneath his skin, but it was the countless scars that drew your attention first. Thin white lines crossed older wounds. Some looked like they had faded with time, while others remained jagged reminders of battles long since finished. Every mark belonged to a story he rarely told.

To anyone else, they might have looked intimidating, but to you they weren’t.

You lifted your hand carefully, your fingertips tracing one pale scar across his shoulder. Logan watched as you traced his scar with your fingers, and gently you pressed a kiss to one scar, and then moved on to the next.

Logan's breath caught. No one had ever done this. Most people stared. Some looked away. Others asked questions he had no desire to answer.

Slowly, almost as though he was afraid a sudden movement would break the moment, his hand lifted. His knuckles brushed lightly beneath your chin.

"So beautiful..." he murmured, the words escaping before he could stop them. With the gentlest touch, he tipped your chin upward until your eyes met his.

His thumb brushed softly along your jaw.

"You still got time to change your mind," he whispered.

You smiled, your eyes warm, “I’m not changing my mind. I want you. I trust you.”

For a moment, he simply searched your face. Then he leaned down and closed the distance between you. His lips found yours in a slow, lingering kiss. It wasn't rushed.

You melted into him, your hands finding the front of his chest before one drifted up around the back of his neck.

His other hand, still hovered even though his arm settled on the middle of your back moments before. He was scared he’d lose control, because he had never wanted someone so badly in his entire life.

You reached around yourself and gently took his hand in yours, and placed it against your back. He froze.

His broad palm lay flat against you, barely applying any pressure at all. “You don't have to be afraid to hold me," you whispered.

A slow breath escaped him, and some of the tension left his shoulders. He leans back just enough to move, working at his belt with one hand, the other still anchored to your hip like he needs you close.

The sound of his belt sliding through denim fills the quiet room, followed by the sound of his zipper. You watch, your pulse pounding, and you’re more than sure he can hear it.

Once he freed himself from his jeans, you took a breath in. He was thick, hard, and already leaking at the tip.

His hands trailed up your body, grabbing your thighs and dragging you to the edge of the bed.

He gently pushed the lingerie up your body, and pressed a kiss to your knee, then your thigh, and he worked his way up to your navel, as one hand gently squeezed your breast.

Your back arched, desperate for his touch. He smiled, as his finger traced through your wet folds once more.

By the time he settled between your thighs, he looked up at you, his eyes dark, his voice a whisper against your skin.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” He asked as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. You opened your mouth to respond, but his mouth was already against you.

At first he licked slowly, and he held your thighs down. But the moment you started moaning his name, something in him snapped.

His mouth became rough, unrelenting. No teasing. No hesitation. He devoured you like he needed you to live. Like he was starving.

His tongue worked you over with practiced, punishing precision. Your fingers tangled in his hair, as he gripped your thighs to keep you from squirming.

You moaned as you fell apart on his tongue, and he pushed a finger inside of you until you were shaking from how sensitive you were.

After being content with his work, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, to your pelvic bone, and under your navel.

Logan finally pulled himself up the mattress to press a kiss to your lips. You could taste yourself on him, his scruff still damp.

You spread your legs wider allowing him to settle comfortably in between your legs, "You're beautiful," he says like it’s factual, not a compliment.

You lean forward, kissing him again-deeper this time, need rising just beneath the surface. He kisses you back like he's starved, like every second he went without this was a second too long.

Your hands traced down his sides, and gently you held his throbbing cock in your hand. "You sure about this?" he asks low, voice edged with restraint.

With a nod, you closed the distance between your lips, and brought the tip of his cock in between your slick folds.

You gasped into his mouth, and his head fell to your shoulder, groaning in your ear. Something in him clicked, and slowly he put just the tip in.

The stretch burned but felt so good at the same time. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven as he fought to steady himself. Both of his hands were planted on either side of your head, the sheets twisted tightly beneath his grip.

His eyes squeezed shut.

"Logan..." you whispered and he shook his head once. “Don’t move.” Before you could ask why, you heard it.

A familiar metallic snikt broke the silence, his claws had extended, and tore into the sheets. Logan’s body went completely rigid.

He stared at the gleaming adamantium with quiet horror, every muscle locking as if he were afraid that even breathing might make things worse.

"Damn it," he whispered.

He immediately shifted his weight away from you, trying to put distance between you and the blades.

Before he could retreat, your hand found his wrist. "Logan."

"I lost it for a second." He said sweat dripping from his forehead. You pushed yourself up a little, he was still between your legs, and your hand went to his cheek, "Look at me."

He couldn't.

"Please."

Slowly, his eyes lifted to yours. There was no fear in them, only concern for you.

You wrapped your other hand gently around his forearm, careful and deliberate. The claws retracted slowly, and you looked into his eyes.

"You're here," you said softly. "You're with me."

His breathing was still ragged, "You stopped."

He swallowed hard and responded, "As soon as I felt it."

You nodded, "Exactly." Your thumb brushed lightly across the back of his hand. "Your first instinct wasn't to hurt me. It was to protect me."

He covered your hand with his own, his calloused thumb brushing gently across your knuckles.

Something in his expression finally softened. The tension he'd carried for so long eased, replaced by a quiet tenderness that reached all the way to his eyes.

"I love you," he said, the words rough with emotion. You smiled, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes."I love you too."

Logan cupped your face with both hands, as though he still couldn't quite believe you were real. His forehead rested against yours for and he smiled—a small, genuine smile that belonged only to you.

"C'mere," he murmured.

He leaned in and kissed you again, slow and unhurried, with all the affection he'd spent months keeping carefully tucked away, holding you close as the rain blurred the window.

The head of his cock pushes against your entrance - slow, deliberate, making you feel every inch. He's big. Thick. You brace your hands around his biceps, needy, and he lets out a low groan that sounds like it's been building for weeks.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmurs, running a rough hand up your spine. "Takin' me so good."

He starts to move, hips snapping forward, hard enough to jolt you forward on the bed. You gasp, digging your nails into the sheets, and he grips your waist tighter, one hand slipping around to rub slow, firm circles over your clit.

"Not too much?" he asks, breath hot against your ear, his head rested in the crook of your neck.

You shake your head, words gone.

He sets a rhythm: rough, deep strokes that leave no room between you, skin slapping, your moans swallowed by the creak of the bed and the dark heat in his voice.

"That's it, baby. Let me hear you."

One hand slides up, cradling your cheek as he presses a kiss to your lips. His hand goes to your neck, his thumb resting gently against your throat.

Your walls clench around him and he groans — deep and guttural. “You want me to finish in you, baby? Is that what you want?”

You nod desperately. "Yes-Logan, I'm-" He doesn't let up.

"Shit," he groans. "You feel-fuck, you feel so good, baby." He said into your shoulder.

His mouth crushed yours, swallowing your moans, his thrusts were quick and ragged now, losing his rhythm.

When he pulled back from your lips, his voice was soft and guttural, his breath hot against your ear.“I love you.”

The words alone almost sent you over the edge— butterflies erupted in your stomach and your body responded by squeezing him tighter. He said it once more, rougher, wanting you to know it wasn’t a mistake—that what he was saying was true.

“I love you so damn much.” He groaned in your ear.

And when you finally fall over the edge, muscles clenching and vision white-hot, he follows with a deep, broken growl - burying himself to the hilt inside you.

You came undone around him, his pace unrelenting, his groan muffled in the crook of your neck as he spilled into you, holding you down, leaving small bruises along your hip bones.

Logan stayed hovering over you, both of you catching your breath— more so you than him. The rain continued pouring outside while the cabin became quiet.

He looked into your eyes, searching them the way he always did—as though he still expected to find fear staring back at him. Instead, you smiled at him.

He brushed a strand of hair that clung to your face, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips.

You reached up, brushing your fingertips through the dark hair at the nape of his neck.

"Hi," you whispered with a small, sleepy laugh.

A smile, real and unguarded, found its way onto Logan's face.

"Hi." He closed his eyes for a brief second, letting out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for months.

Gently, he pulled out of you and laid himself right next to your body. You turned to face him as he pulled the quilt over both of you.

Both of you were resting on your elbows, your free hand traced lazy patterns onto his chest. And his hand was lying flat on your hip, not hovering.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"I've never been better." You replied pressing a kiss to his chin.

His gaze softened, "I didn't hurt you." He spoke out loud in disbelief. You smiled, “No.”

Your fingers ran over his knuckles where his claws retracted and brought them to your lips and kissed each knuckle.

He watched you in quiet disbelief.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Kissing my boyfriend."

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His eyes dropped to your fingers still wrapped around his hand. "These things have caused me nothin' but trouble."

You shrugged, "They're just your hands."

Logan looked back at you. “You really believe that."

"I do."

He gave the smallest nod, almost to himself, before leaning down to press a slow kiss to your forehead.

"You're somethin' else," he murmured.

"I'll take that as a compliment." You responded before laying your head on his chest.

"You should." He said as his fingers tips brushed down your back.

Logan closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo as a contented silence settled between you.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't thinking about the man he'd been made into.

Only the one he'd chosen to be.

And with you safe in his arms, he drifted to sleep knowing he'd finally found something worth coming home to.

• • •