it's captain sir

'C'mon,' you glance at his sullen face, 'It looks fine.'

Frank sends you an unamused glare before looking back at his reflection in the mirror. He readjusts the police cap, fiddling with it for a few seconds and eventually giving up, huffing exasperatedly. 'I look terrible.'

You roll your eyes, pushing yourself off the door frame to move closer. 'Yeah yeah,' you wave him off, 'What are you gonna do with it after?' you ask, gesturing to his 'borrowed' uniform.

He turns to face you, and you help him secure the accompanying police badges and brooches to the designated places on the shirt with an enthused smile on your lips. You stop yourself from biting your lip, your assistance is really an excuse to admire the way the uniform fits his chest really well and somehow enhances the look of his neck. You hadn't expected him to look so good.

'Gonna dump it out,' he murmurs in acknowledgement of your close proximity, 'Why?'

You hum, pulling him inches closer by his belt, 'No reason,' you smile with a feigned innocence, 'but we could use it for other things...'

Frank shakes his head to the side, pressing his tongue against his inner cheek in an unsurprised laugh. He looks back at you in humoured disbelief, 'That really what you're thinking 'bout now?'

'So what?' you muse, tugging his belt again teasingly, 'Is that a problem?'

'Depends,' he lowers his voice, acquiescing with the motion of your hands, though you know he intends to intimidate you, 'Wanna bend over the sink for me?' he says gruffly.

You sharply inhale, dropping your hands from him in fluster. You bring them together in front of you, letting confidence resume its place on your face as you push further, 'You looking to punish me, officer? 'Cause I'm all yours.'

With how close you are, it's unsurprisingly easy how quick it is for Frank to spin you around, pressing his chest to your back to bend your body over the nearest flat surface—which, in this case, isn't really a flat surface; the aforementioned sink.

Frank grips your wrists, bringing your hands up to the mirror to push you against it. He kisses your neck, his face becoming obscured from the mirror by the round police cap. You feel the rough timbre of his voice against your skin. 'Y'gonna watch while I fuck you?' he rumbles into your neck.

You quiver, nodding quickly and eagerly.

You find him asleep like this, sometimes, asleep on his stomach on your bed, feet dangling off the edge, the majority of his armour still unshed.

Cody wakes as soon as you enter, deep sleep a luxury for another person in another lifetime. But he doesn't move, not really, just props his head on his arms and looks at you. He doesn't have to say, "I came here as soon as we got back," because obviously he did. He always does.

He does say, "I missed you," and you hum in response. His eyes are dark, needy but not impatient as you pull off your clothes, and you wonder at him. It's unusual, how he's not standing, reaching for you, helping.

"I missed you, too." Your hands are working on him now, gently coaxing off pieces of armor and hidden compartments and all of the things he carried around. Cody rolls, trying to help you yank off his blacks - he can't resist for long - making your life easier is as significant as the first bite of non-ration food in months. He needs to do it, needs to be more than a support for a cause he was created for. When his mouth meets yours it's hungry, full of unspoken words and weeks of longing ... and it's tired.

It makes you pause, your desperation for him shifting, resolve as refreshing as water, and you push him down again, climbing to sit on the backs of his thighs.

"Cyar'ika?"

"Let me take care of you, Cody." His name from your lips sounds softer than he's ever heard it.

Any other day he would insist on doing his part first, flipping over and making you shudder and melt and whimper his name, even in his exhaustion but there's something in your voice that makes him stop.

And then you're kneading his back, and it's not exactly oil's and sensual and sexy, but Maker if it doesn't make him hard: feeling the way you work the knots with your little hands.

This isn't the routine - this moment has never happened before. He comes hom from a mission, searched for you, crashes into you and shows you everything that he is over long hours in dim lights. The long talks and sweet moments come later, and you've always had an understanding, that you don't talk about the new scrapes and scars on his skin, and he doesn't ask you to wait for him.

Maybe the next day the two of you can unpack the hardest of problems, debating and dialing his mind up to eleven, sharpening each other in absolute synchronization, but not... this.

This is a direct acknowledgement of how thoroughly and completely you belong to each other. This is absolute, unadulterated, intimate understanding of him, his life, this whole reality.

It's stupidly unfair, absolutely irrational, against everything his mind has learned and been trained for and taught, but nevertheless he blurts it out.

"I promise I'll come back to you."

Your hands still on his skin, pressing, pressing your literal weight on his shoulders. Then the touch lightens, and his heart clenched, impossibly afraid that he somehow said too much, revealed how genuinely he would lay words at your feet, if you asked. How he would win a thousand wars, and make every single decision that needed to be made, how he would do the absolute unthinkable for you - survive.

Then there's a slight tremor in your hands, just for a moment, a tremble of honest trust, scraped raw by something akin to longing.

Then you kiss the back of his neck, just once, nails gliding in waves over his shoulders and down, down on either side of his spine. The nerves on his back feel charges with lines of electricity, pumping into him, waking him from the hazy dream of the moment.

And then he does flip you over, a fluid movement, the moment he realizes how each touch of yours, each promise of care fortifies him every step he's away.

He needs you to know. He needs you to know.

Cody makes you come on his fingers first, thrusting them in to the knuckle as his voice trying to tell you what he's showing you.

"Look at you, cyare, soaking for me, opening for me," he wants to use his mouth but the words get in the way, and he let's them. "You are so good to me, so good for me, be my good girl, there we go."

You're whimpering, pinned down by his arm, grasping at the sheets and barely managing your affirmation - yes, I am. Yes, just for you.

When you come it's ethereal. You've never felt so seen, so fundamentally balanced, so ... necessary. He's never been so slow, drinking in your near-liquid form in satisfaction, deliberately possessive, but there's nothing Cody has been so sure of in a long time. He stays alive for his mission, his men - both brothers and friends. And he stays alive for you, every time.

Then he licks, just a flick of his tongue against your trembling sex and can't wait anymore, won't. He moves up and rocks into you, making a noise that should be anything but pretty, and drives home your united resolve with thrust after unrestrained thrust.

Words now remain unspoken as only praise shoves its way up his throat, and it's nearly perfect, even before the climax hits. Praying his name, your nails dig into his back like you need him to survive, and you do. And he needs you to survive. A phrase with the same number of meanings as stars fill the sky, and all of them are true.

And once he's filled you, and you've reached your own peak, he stays. The overstimulation stings but he still doesn’t quite know if you understand

But then your nails run along his back. The motion is slow, deliberate, grateful. Maybe even loving. And he knows you do, maybe more than he was prepared for. But he understands you, too. So he presses his forehead against yours, and focuses on the lines of your nails, and let's himself ... fall.

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