Very Pretty Hat

Pissing Frank off is such an easy and enjoyable activity.

The way he gets all red faced, the way his knuckles clench and his jaw ticks as he fights the urge not to snap at you because he hates yelling at you.

It is, quite frankly, adorable.

You discover this on a Tuesday.

By nine in the morning, he's already regretting waking up.

He's making coffee when you wander into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his waist.

"Mornin', Matt." Frank goes completely still.

"…Excuse me?" You blink innocently.

"Oh." A dramatic gasp. "Sorry." You pat his chest. "Morning, Frank." He stares at you for a long moment.

"…Very funny."

"I thought so." At lunch, he's mostly forgotten about it. Mostly. The two of you stop by Curtis's garage to drop something off. Curtis gives you a quick hug goodbye. You wave as he disappears inside. Then you slip your hand into Frank's.

"Curtis, say bye to Frank." You stammer. "I mean- Frank, say bye to Curtis." Frank snorts.

"You done?"

"What?"

"You're smilin'."

"I always smile."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to become my problem." You squeeze his hand. The afternoon brings a trip to the grocery store. You're wheeling the cart, deliberately ramming it into his heels every few feet. He finally turns, grabbing the handle with a sigh.

"Give me that before you break my ankles."

"Whatever you say, Dave." You let go, watching his shoulders tense. He doesn't say anything, just grips the cart so tightly his knuckles are white. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. Later that evening, you're curled up on the couch, a blanket over your lap as you scroll through your phone. Frank comes in, having just finished a shower, his hair still damp. He leans over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Whatcha watchin'?" Without looking up from your phone, you lean into his touch.

"Nothing much, Billy." He straightens up slowly. You can feel the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature. You risk a glance up at him. His face is a mask of controlled fury, his eyes dark and fixed on you.

"You think this is funny?" His voice is low, dangerously quiet.

"What? I was distracted." You try for innocent, but the smirk tugging at your lips gives you away. Frank doesn't answer immediately.

He just watches you. Really watches you. His jaw flexes once. Twice.

"You've called me Matt." Silence. "Then Curtis." Another beat. "Then Dave." His eyes never leave yours. "And now Billy." You shrug, still smiling.

"I've had a long day."

"Mhm."

"I'm tired."

"Mhm."

"So maybe I just forgot your name." He lets out a quiet laugh. It isn't amused.

"You forgot my name."

"It happens."

"No." He takes one slow step toward the couch. "It doesn't." You tuck your legs beneath you, still looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

"I've known a lot of men." His eyebrow lifts.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"So maybe I got confused." Another step.

"Confused."

"Mhm." Frank nods once. Slowly. "You know what I've been thinkin' about all day?"

"What?"

"Every damn time you said somebody else's name…" He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you. "…I wondered if that was the point." You tilt your head.

"And was it?"

"You wanted me jealous."

"I might've." He studies you.

"You succeeded." That catches you off guard.

"You were?" His laugh is humorless.

"You called me 'Matt' while your arms were around me." Another step.

"You hugged Curtis."

"He hugged me."

"I know."

"You thanked 'Dave' for pushin' a grocery cart." Your smile grows.

"And Billy?" His jaw tightens.

"You let me kiss your forehead…" He looks almost offended. "…and then you called me Billy." You can't help it. You laugh. Frank doesn't. Instead, he rounds the couch. The room suddenly feels much smaller. "Still funny?" You bite your lip.

"…A little." He plants one hand on the back of the couch behind your head.

Not slamming it. Just there. Close.

His other hand slips into your lap, gently lifting your phone away before setting it on the coffee table. All of your attention is on him now.

"All day." His voice has dropped lower. "You've been sayin' other men's names to my face."

"I was teasing."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I know." A beat. "But I still didn't like it." His eyes search yours. "I don't like imaginin' you with anybody else." Your teasing smile softens.

"Frank…"

"You're mine." The words land with the weight of a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. The playful tension that had been crackling between you all day curdles into something heavier, something primal. Your smirk is gone, replaced by a sudden, breathless awareness of the man caging you in.

"Frank…" you start, your voice softer now, the apology you hadn't realized you needed to make already forming.

"Shh." He leans in closer, his free hand moving from the back of the couch to cup your jaw. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, a possessive, grounding gesture. "I'm not done." His gaze is intense, burning with a raw, unfiltered emotion that makes your stomach clench. This isn't about the stupid game anymore. This is about the fact that you'd made him feel something he hated, something dark and sharp and ugly.

"You don't get to do that," he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "You don't get to make me think about you with someone else. Not even for a second."

"I wasn't," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, solid beat of his heart beneath your palms. "It was just a stupid joke."

"I know." His thumb presses gently, parting your lips. "But my brain doesn't always listen. It just… sees things. Sees you with Curtis. Sees you laughing with Micro. Sees you looking at someone else the way you look at me." His voice cracks, just a little, on the last few words, and it's that tiny crack in his armor that undoes you completely. He's not angry. He's scared. The thought is staggering.

"I only look at you like that, Frank," you breathe, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "There's no one else." He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he closes the remaining distance between you, his mouth crashing down on yours. It's not a gentle kiss. It's a claiming. A punishment and a reassurance all at once. It's deep and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to stake its territory, his hand moving from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you in place, making sure you can't escape. You melt into him, your body arching against his, a silent surrender. You let him take what he needs, let him erase the day, erase every other name, every other face, until there's only him. Only Frank. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.

"Say my name," he commands, his voice a low growl.

"Frank," you whisper, without hesitation.

"Again."

"Frank." He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less possessive. His hands slide down your body, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. You can feel his arousal, hard and insistent against your belly.

"You're going to remember who you belong to," he murmurs against your lips. "You're going to scream my name tonight until it's the only one you can remember." His hands drag the blanket off your lap and toss it to the floor. You’re wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and boxers. Frank lifts you up without warning, manhandles you until you’re straddling him, his arms caging you in, his grip bruising on your thighs. He makes you feel small. Even when you’re taunting him, running your mouth, you’re always aware of just how much bigger he is. How dangerous his hands can be. You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t a huge part of the appeal.Frank kisses you like he wants to fuck you with his tongue alone. He’s hot and wet and insistent, mouth opening wider when you try to keep up with him. His hands are busy, kneading the backs of your thighs, shoving you closer, grinding you down against his sweatpants-clad cock.

God, he’s already hard. Course he is. Your own breath stutters in your lungs as Frank rocks his hips up, a slow deliberate grind, all that heat and pressure focused right where you’re already aching for it. He mashes your bodies together, like he’s trying to brute-force your atoms into a single, messy unit. You cling to his shirt as if it’ll keep you afloat, like any second now the undertow of him might swallow you whole. His hands are everywhere, greedy and insistent: kneading your ass, palming over your back, clawing you closer even as there’s literally nowhere else to go.

“Frank—” It comes out half-whine, half-moan, your brain flickering like a dying lightbulb. He bares his teeth in a grin, all wolfish satisfaction, and shoves a hand under the hem of your t-shirt. His fingers splay out hot against the small of your back.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Somethin’ you need?” There’s a roughness to it, a cockyness that makes your body fire up with need. Frank shoves the t-shirt up over your ribs, not bothering to take it off. His hands are broad and greedy and everything he does is with total, singular focus—holding your waist, dragging your dick against the heat of him, grinding you down until you see little explosions behind your eyelids. One of his hands slips between your bodies, tracing the shape of you through thin, cotton boxers. His jaw works tight, like he’s biting back the urge to just rip the whole thing away and devour you in one go.

"You really think you want this?" His thumb rubs slow circles over your cock through the fabric. "If I fuck you now, I ain’t stoppin’. Not ‘til you remember only me." Your whole body draws tight as a bowstring. You can’t even summon words; you just nod, desperate and dizzy. Frank just stares you down, heavy-lidded, mouth bruised from kissing and still hungry. His thumb drags a slow line up your spine, making every muscle shudder. You try to look away, but he won't allow it; with a single fist in your hair he angles your head back, exposing your throat. His face softens for a split-second, amused. Then he bares his teeth and takes you apart. His mouth leaves a wet, vicious trail along your jaw, nipping hard enough to sting. Marking, claiming, like a dog with a favorite bone. You try to steady yourself, but there isn't a steady bone left in your body. You can feel his cock, a monster of a thing, bulging against your core. His hands ghost over your breasts and you shudder. Frank’s hand finds your throat in the next instant, thick fingers splaying over your pulse. Not choking, not really, but holding you still, pinning you in the moment. Your cock throbs in your boxers, every heartbeat a jolt in his palm. He licks a rough line behind your ear, teeth scraping your skin, and you gasp, everything in you going pliant and feverish.

He forces you to look dead at him, even as he grinds the sharp bone of his own hips hard against your ass. The friction makes you dizzy, makes you want to sob. You'd been taunting him all day for this. Toying with him, poking the animal until you forgot it might one day snap the leash.

“No more games?” He speaks low and clear, like a threat or a prayer. A noise leaves your throat, nearly a whimper. You want to say his name but your tongue won’t work, not with the way he’s caught you, not with hunger rolling off him like a heatwave. Frank shoves his own sweatpants out of the way with one hand, cock springing free, obscene in your periphery. You steal a glance, and the size of him makes your blood pressure spike—thick, demanding, angry-red and beading at the tip.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he growls. “Take every goddamn inch. You got it?” His thumb presses under your chin, the grip in your hair unyielding. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a choked little sound, equal parts awe and terror. You nod, because you can’t do anything else. You barely see it; Frank’s hand dips between your legs, knuckles pushing your boxers aside, two fingers already slick as they sweep through you. He doesn’t start easy. He’s not gentle. He stretches you, wide and demanding, opening you on his hand like he wants you to remember the ache and remember it’s his.

“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he says, like he’s explaining a math problem. His teeth are in your shoulder now, biting down hard enough to warn, to promise bruises tomorrow. “Wanted to get my attention all day. 'S that right?” Your breath is coming in shuddery little gasps. You shiver in his lap, barely able to hold yourself upright on trembling thighs. He gives you no time to answer, just twists his fingers until your whole body seizes up, pleasure and pain in one bright, fanged burst. He grinds his cock against you, the heft of it hot and heavy, like he wants you to feel what you’ve gotten yourself into.

“I should make you say it, but you got me too fuckin’ riled up. Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even think about anyone else's name. Gonna fuck you til you forget your own.”

You believe him. You really do.

Frank yanks your hips down, seats himself into your pussy with a single brutal thrust. You swear, near scream; your whole body goes rigid on impact, back arching, mind blanking out to a white-hot buzz. There’s no easing into it, no slow burn. The soft Frank that kisses your hair line and inches you down slowly, asking if you’re okay, has taken a backseat spot this time around. There is a psychic sound in your head, somewhere between a car crash and a cathedral bell. Too full, too soon, too much. Your hands scrabble at his forearms, your nails digging in, and a small, incoherent sob punches out of your chest. He takes it as encouragement. Of course he does. He fucks up into you, hard enough that you hear the slap of his skin over your own blood-rush, hard enough that for a second everything is static. He gives you a second—just one—before his hands wrench you down again, pulling you open. Built for him. That's the thought glittering in your brain, the raw animal possessiveness he's always carried like a scar, now inside you, all the way up, right against your lungs. Every inch, every pink desperate nerve, stretched to the point of snapping.

He doesn't just move—he uses you. Fucking into you like you're his only tether, like there's nowhere else on earth for him to be. His hand fists in your hair again, dragging you down for a kiss that isn't really a kiss, just a brutal mashing of teeth and tongue. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time. Watching. Daring you to look away. You can't. You wouldn't if you could. Every pump rocks your whole body, the friction inside you close to unbearable, the cock splitting you open hotter and harder and more than you should ever be able to take.

"You feel that?" His voice is rough as gravel, chest heaving. "That's me. Only me. Say it." You try, mouth wide, soundless on the first attempt while he fucks you with relentless, punishing rhythm. Your brain is sliding to pieces, overloaded, every pulse and throb between your thighs building into tsunami.

"You—fuck—Frank—" It's a panic, a prayer, a surrender. You clamp down out of reflex, the sound of his answering groan instant and feral. His hand stays at your throat—reminding, not hurting—and you realize you love it. The sense of helplessness, of being owned and ruined and wanted so much it hurts.

"Good girl." He bites the words against your neck, hips rutting in tight, bruising snaps. "Take it. Take all of it. That's what you wanted, right? Wantin' me desperate, wantin' me mean." A sound leaves you that's not human; you don't care. You almost can't breathe, but every time you try to squirm away he drags you back down, impales you, makes you ride out every sharp stretch and relentless stroke. Your clit rubs against the base of him, every thrust hitting the spot that makes you see stars. There's a sick gratification in feeling how desperate, how fucking needy he is for you. You've never felt needed like this. Not by anyone.

Frank lets go of your hair only to grip your jaw, squeezing just enough to make you meet his eyes.

"You like this?" he hisses, spit-slick lips grinning. "How 'bout now? You gonna say someone else's name?" You shake your head, wild and eager. The orgasm builds inside of you at extreme speed, and just when you think it' might tear you apart- Frank stops. You jerk upright like a puppet with strings cut. The pressure, the friction, the delicious pain, it's all gone too soon—leaving your body trembling and your pussy fluttering empty around absolutely nothing. Your vision blurs, soaking your eyes, and a pathetic mewl bubbles in your chest. You can't believe he stopped. You can't believe you ever thought you were in control. Frank's hands slide up under your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows of your cheeks. He looks you dead on, pupils blown, lips slick and gritted with restraint, and you know, you know, he's doing it on purpose.

The bastard is grinning.

"You wanna come, baby?" His voice is silk now, mocking you, enjoying every ragged gasp you make. He keeps you perched on his cockhead, barely inside, just enough to make you feel the void, make you beg for it. You try to chase it, grinding down, but he's holding you up, strong as a dock piling, not letting you take what you want. Your whole body throbs, cunt slick and pulsing, insides gone molten with need. Your fingernails score the thick muscle of his shoulders and find no purchase. You're shaking. You're not even pretending not to whine anymore.

"Frank—please—" He kisses you, soft as a secret, and you hate him for it.

"You only come when I say. You wanna remember my name so bad, you can be a good fuckin' girl and ask. Say it." You do, choking on shame and relief—

"Frank, please, please let me—" He thrusts up, slow and mean, filling you in one greedy surge. There's no patience in him now. He's relentless, one hand fisting your hair, the other palming your ass, dragging you down in time with every slam of his hips. You see white, stuttering, every nerve lit and shorting out and crying for more. He fucks you hard, the kind of hard that would embarrass you if you weren't too far gone to care, if you weren't grinding your hips to meet his every thrust, if you weren't moaning, stupid and open-mouthed, into his shoulder. Your thighs start to shake. You can feel the way he splits you open, the way your cunt stretches and aches and hugs everything he gives you. You've never felt so full in your life. You're so close you think you might die. He pulls you down on a savage angle, and suddenly he's pounding your g-spot with every thrust. Your brain rewinds and hiccups. You can't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's. Hands in your hair, voice in your ear, every atom of him inside you: it's all just Frank, Frank, Frank. 

Frank's rhythm is merciless, every thrust a reminder and a punishment, driving your insides to raw, delirious peaks. The world narrows to the sound of his pelvis hammering yours, the thick, ragged breaths in your ear, the slap and glide and brutal fullness. You can't even pretend to want it gentle. You want to be ruined. You want to be his. You want to be nothing at all.m Your body is a pulse, a knot, a high wire about to snap. Frank fucks you through the first orgasm like it’s nothing, like every clench and spasm just spurs him on. Your cunt goes electric, muscles locking around him while you sob into his neck, gasping and choking on air and pleasure and the shame of being so easy, so desperate for it. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you coast down. He wants you undone, wants you trembling and pleading and slick all over his lap. The second peak comes on too fast, a static bombshell detonating low in your belly, and you hear yourself scream, just a ragged, wordless cry, your fingernails leaving angry arcs down his back.

Frank's hands are everywhere—one clamped over your mouth so you don't wake the neighbors, the other shoving your hips down, forcing you to take him to the root, like if he could crawl inside your bones he'd do it in a heartbeat. His sweat slicks your thighs. You taste salt and skin and the metal tang of your own blood where you bit your tongue. You’re limp in his arms, spent and shaking, and it’s still not enough for him. He grinds you down until you’re a soaked, shuddering mess, whispers into your hair, low and hoarse:

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. My girl, my fuckin’ good girl—look at you.” His voice is a gentle shock. You crack your eyes open, vision swimming, see him staring up at you like he’s proud, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted in his life. You sob out a sound that might be his name, might be nothing at all. He grins, wolfish and tender at once.

“C’mon,” he says, “you got more in you. Don’t let me down now.” You shake your head, but your body says otherwise. He knows your tells. He pushes you until you’re riding him, until you’re fucking yourself on his cock, every bounce and grind a fresh humiliation, and you love it, you love it so much it’s like dying. The overstimulation is a live wire, agony and ecstasy in equal parts. Frank slows, changes angle, and suddenly you’re there again, everything going white, body jerking and clenching so hard you feel like you could break in half. He holds you there, trembling and on the verge of collapse, and slows the rhythm until it’s just a deep, rolling grind. You pant into the crook of his neck, hair matted to your forehead with sweat, the taste of him thick in your mouth. Everything inside is raw, edges sanded off by the relentless drag of his cock. The only word left in your head is Frank—Frank who holds you together when you’d rather come apart, Frank who knows exactly how to keep you on the knife’s edge, just this side of sanity.

He pets your hair, almost tender, but the next thrust is another deliberate punch deep inside. You find a whine in your throat, a wet, animal noise, and he laughs, the sound rough and sweet all at once. “You like that, huh. Look at you.” He moves you, bounces you slow and mean, the slick sound of it obscene in the open air. His hand drifts up your back, holds you steady at the nape of your neck so you can’t hide from him. He wants to see all of it—every twitch and gasp and flutter, every time your body gives up more than it means to. You try to fight it—clamp your thighs, ride it out, hold onto the last fragments of self—but Frank’s got your number.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice all grit and pride, “take it for me, take it all.” You do, because there’s nothing left in you but obedience, nothing but the need to please, to hear the pride in his voice when you fall apart again. He snaps his hips up, and the pressure detonates behind your eyes, another climax ripping through you without mercy. You collapse forward, chest to his, arms shaking, body empty and yet wanting more. He keeps you there, rutting up into you in short, savage bursts, cock still hard and thick inside your cunt. You sob into the hollow above his collarbone, beg a little, maybe say his name, but it all blends into a single sound: need. He waits it out, rides the waves of your aftershocks, then flips you with a single roll of his hips, bracing your shoulders against the couch. Your legs splay open, trembling and useless, and he just stares for a second—like he’s memorizing the mess he’s made.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and kneels between your thighs. He lines himself up and drives in again, no warning, no mercy, just the solid, hot weight of him to the hilt. Your body seizes, then melts into the cushions, and he laughs—deep and satisfied, like the world finally makes sense. He fucks you in a slow, dragging rhythm, letting the brutal stretch of every stroke remind you exactly who’s in charge. There’s no end to it, just wave after wave, each one higher than the last. He leans down, palm cradling the side of your face, thumb tracing your slack jaw.

“You with me?” he asks. You must look wrecked, but you nod, dazed and grateful. “Good. Gonna make you come for me again,mama.” He says it soft, like it’s a favor, but you can hear the threat in it too: he doesn’t plan to stop until you’re boneless and emptied and barely a thought left in your head. The couch cushions creak under the force of him. Each thrust sets off a fresh tremor in your thighs, blunt shocks of sensation that make your vision swim. Frank’s thumb scrapes your cheek, smearing spit and sweat, and you realize you’re crying, maybe a little. He notices. Of course he notices. He slows, just for a breath—a single, tender second—then fucks you harder, the pace cruel and perfect.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, watching your face for every twitch and flicker, “want you to make a mess for me. C’mon, show me.” You try to answer, but your body’s abandoned language. All you can do is clutch at his arm, dig your nails in, let the heat and stretch and pressure tunnel through you like a fever. Your cunt contracts around him and he groans, a low, ragged sound of approval. You shatter again before you can brace for it. Your back bows, toes curling, pussy fluttering around his thick cock. Frank hisses and bites your neck, not gentle. You grind up against him, greedy for the friction, the pain, the relentless stretch. You want him to hurt you; you want him to ruin every inch. You want to be so thoroughly claimed that you’ll never joke about another man’s name again. He keeps you pinned, locked to the couch by the weight of his hips and the clamp of his hand on your jaw. His mouth crashes to yours, tongue slicking inside, swallowing every gasp and whimper. He fucks you with a purpose: to erase you and build you back up in his own image.

When he finally slows, the edges of the world have blurred; your thoughts run like water. Frank gathers you up, arms under your knees, and hauls you higher, bracing your back against the armrest. You slide down, helpless, as his cock pops out and then pushes back in, deeper than before. You shriek. He muffles it with his palm.

“Shh. That’s right, honey. You take it for me. All of it.” His voice is so close, the words vibrating in your ribs. Your nipples brush his chest with every thrust, the heat of him soaking through your skin. You’re desperate, completely ruined, and his cock is the only thing holding you together. He pushes your knees up, folding you almost in half, and fucks you straight down, hitting a spot so overwhelming you think you might black out. You can’t even beg anymore. All you can do is sob and let him use you, let him drive you to the next peak and the next, each one burning hotter, brighter, until you’re molten and screaming and trembling everywhere. He seems to savor it, watching you, licking sweat from your jaw while he pistons in and out, every stroke a shockwave through your core. He’s close, but he won’t let himself finish. Not yet. He wants more from you.Frank's hands pry your knees wider, one beefy palm holding your thigh hard to the couch and the other angling your jaw so you have to look right at him, so you can see the scarred terrain of his face as he splits you open.

No room to hide, not from that look. Not from the power in his hips as he drives into you. The world is sweat and skin and bruises blooming under his fingers, and the endless, ragged sound of your own voice—crying, pleading, gone completely out of your control. You've never been this fucked, never been this taken apart. He keeps his eyes locked on yours while he fucks you. There is no pretense in it, no mercy.

"C'mon, baby, gimme one more," he pants, the words grinding out of him like he's hauling each one up from the bottom of a well. "Know you got it in you. Open up, that's it—show me." The angle hits so deep you almost fold in two. Pressure building, pressure breaking, white noise and heat. Your body bucks, tries to curl away, to get a single breath above the drowning tide of sensation, but Frank won't let you. He holds you there, fucks you through it, makes you take every goddamn inch. You hear yourself scream, see his face twist with satisfaction. He loves it. He fucking loves it.

"That's my girl," he growls, voice raw, "look at you, fuckin' perfect. You wanna come again, don't you? Say it. Tell me." He is relentless, the tempo brutal enough to make the couch frame creak. Your whole body is one raw, exposed nerve, and the pleasure borders on pain in a way that makes you sob. You don't even know what you're saying, just babbling his name, babbling anything that might keep him fucking you this good, this hard, forever. He slows, just for a second, like he wants to drag it out, savor every twitch and flutter. Then he slams in, three deep, punishing strokes, and you shatter. You come so hard you think you might pass out, clenching around him so violently your vision goes gray at the edges. Frank hisses, like you've bitten him, and keeps pumping, keeps you racked up high on the edge and then off it again and again.

The world comes back in pieces. You are limp on the cushions, legs thrown over Frank's shoulders, his weight crushing your hips to the couch. His cock still stuffed inside you, still rutting, like he's trying to find the bottom of you and then build a new low. He slides one hand under your back, arching you up, and bends over you until his chest is a wall at your nose, until you can inhale the salt-and-cologne heat of his sweat.

"You wanna be a brat, you better be ready for the consequences," he grunts, biting the words against your lips. "Fuckin' with me all day—" He snaps his hips on the word, sharp enough to make you yelp. "Thinkin' you can get away with it—" Another thrust, another yelp. "This is what happens." Frank goes feral, the tempo turning punishing. He braces your thighs wide, bends you in half, and hammers home with a rhythm that shakes the battered couch and sets every nerve in your body on fire. You're not even aware of your own voice anymore—a high, raw, desperate sound, punctuating every stroke as he fucks you deeper, harder, until the feeling of him is all you know. Your mind whites out at the edges; your skin is electric, slick and tingling and oversensitive. Each thrust rakes over a sweet spot inside until you're convinced you'll split on it, until you're ruined and remade in his image.

He doesn't give you a second to recover. Doesn't care that your legs are jelly, that your body is vibrating with every stutter and snap of his hips. He wants you on the edge, teetering, trembling, bratty little attitude wrung clean out of you. He wants you to never forget who fucks you this open. You can't even look at him—your vision is nothing but sweat and the flat planes of his chest, the bruising press of his hands pinning you down. Frank's face is a blur above you, but you know the look on it: hunger, pride, a little mean, a lot possessive. You love it.

You try to reach for his arm, to anchor yourself to something, but your hands flop uselessly against his forearm. He grunts, leans hard into you, and the new angle makes you want to scream. He's everywhere: in you, on you, under your skin, inside your head. Your own voice is sobbing out his name, a mantra, a plea, the only thing you can say.

"Yeah, that's it," he huffs, voice thick and wet with arousal. "Let everyone hear you, baby. Say it. Say who fucks you this good." He gives you a savage thrust for punctuation and you break, high and needy, the pleasure a punch to the gut.

"Frank—oh, fuck—Frank, Frank—" You're almost crying with it, the mess between your thighs slick and obscene. He loves it. He praises you, filthy, soft, relentless.

"That's my good girl. You take it so good—shit, look at you, takin' every fuckin' inch. This pussy's perfect, made for me." He palms your cheek, forces you to meet his gaze. "You gonna come again for me? Gonna show me how grateful you are?" You nod, whimpering, desperate for it. The heat in your belly is a live wire, every movement a fresh, white-hot spike of pleasure. He slows, just for a moment, grinding deep with a mean little circle of his hips that makes you see stars.

"You like makin' me crazy?" he asks, and you don't even know if it's a question that needs answering. Doesn't matter. You're beyond words, beyond anything but the feeling of his cock splitting you open. He slaps your thigh, a crisp, mean crack, and the sting fans the fire inside you. You clench around him, milking him, and Frank fucks you like the world's gone dark and hot and everything outside this moment's been blown to glass. He wants you split, spent, every sensation spiking until there's only him left in your skull, until if you ever tries to say anyone else's name again your body'll reject it like poison. You're a fucking mess—hair everywhere, tears on your cheeks and spit on your jaw, your voice gone strange and high and sticky from the way he keeps you right there, trembling on the couch, legs crooked up on his shoulders. He can hardly see straight for how much he wants you. It's a sickness, the kind that eats out everything that isn't need. That last orgasm knocked something loose in you, left you blubbering and gasping, and Frank grins like a fucking wolf at the way you clamp around him every time he grinds in deep. He sets a slow rhythm now, dragging it out, letting the stretch and heat build again. He wants you to remember this for a week. He leans in, crowding you, forearms braced on either side of your head. Your whole world's bracketed by his arms and sweat and the sharp, salty tang of sex. You're sobbing, little sounds he used to think meant stop but now he knows mean fuck yes, more, don't you dare stop. He drags his lips along your jaw, nipping and licking, then says it in your ear, quiet and mean:

"This all you got? I thought you were tough." You mewl, tries to squirm away, but he's got you caged. He wants you pinned and wild and shattered. He wants you to never forget his name again. "You like when I fuck you stupid?" he pants, voice breaking on the upstroke, "You like it when I make you cry?" He doesn't expect you to talk. You can't. Your nails dig into his biceps, desperate, searching for something to hold. He fucks you through the shakes, through the endless aftershocks, and the way your body milks him is going to destroy him if he's not careful.

He tries to wait it out. Tries to be good, to make you come again, but you're so hot and tight it's like a goddamn vise—he's never felt anything like it. You're whimpering, helpless, and the sound rips through him.

“Fuck- Say - Shit, mama, say my name.”

“Frank.”

The last of his patience unspools. He slams in deep, stays there, and his vision explodes. He comes hard as he's ever come, the pleasure mean and electric, his hips jerking with every pulse. He's still growling your name—your real name, goddamn it—like if he says it enough times it'll erase every other man who ever looked at you. He collapses on top of you, crushing you a little, and slides a hand up to cup your throat, thumb stroking the pulse point as your bodies cool. His cock stays inside you, fat and spent and still twitching. He feels you shiver as he shifts his weight. He should pull out. He can't. He needs you to know, to feel it for hours.

His cock’s still locked inside you, thick and swollen and leaking, even as every muscle in your body shudders with oversensitive aftershocks. The air’s sharp with ozone and sweat and the raw, animal edge of the two of you. You can feel him softening only a little, but the heat’s still there, the weight of him a constant, insistent throb inside you. He’s made a mess—a slick, hot flood that seeps out around the base of him, pooling out and streaking wet down the backs of your thighs and onto the couch.

You half expect him to pull out,to clean you up and cradle you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays buried deep, his body a wall against you, his hand heavy on your thigh, fingers digging in with a need to keep you exactly where you are. Your cunt pulses around him, desperate and hollow and full at the same time, the sensation so sharp it makes your eyes water. You try to shift your hips, to ease yourself off the impalement, but Frank grunts and tightens his grip, holding you still.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice rough and shredded. He sounds equal parts threat and plea. “Just—gimme a second.” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Every nerve sings, every clench sets off a fresh splash of slick between your legs. You’re not sure if you could stand up, even if he let you. Frank’s hand slides up, palm warm on your belly. He flexes his arm and pins you down, like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he lets go. He nudges his hips forward, slow and deliberate, forcing another inch inside you. You whimper, the sensation almost too much, but you want it, need it, love that he can’t stop himself even now. You feel the way his cock twitches, a slow, aftershock pulse, the slide of his spend leaking out and then forced back in as he gives a shallow thrust.

He’s not done. Not even close.

He pulls your hips up, finds a new angle, and grinds himself in again. You can feel every vein, every shift, the thick stretch of him carving you open. He moves slow, deeper than before, dragging the oversensitive seam of your cunt until it blurs the pleasure and pain together. Your walls flutter and clamp down, desperate to keep him, and Frank’s hand finds the nape of your neck, holds your face-down in the battered cushions.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he slurs, almost too quiet to hear. “Keep you plugged up, yeah?” His hips stay welded to you, cock still inside, and you can feel him—Frank's come, thick and hot, slowly leaking out and then forced right back in by the lazy clutch of your body and the thick, insistent length he refuses to let go. The mess of it drips from your cunt, sticky and slippery, trickling down your ass and pooling under the curve of your thigh. Frank's hand slides with you, guiding the slick back up, circling the rim of your overstretched hole and then pushing it in again with a gentle, careful thumb. He does it slow. So slow. Like he's pressing a memory into you. He keeps you folded, legs wide, the angle obscene and utterly helpless, and you can't move, can't even twitch. Every time you think he's done, that he's squeezing the very last drop of himself inside you, Frank drags his thumb down again, collects what's escaped, and traces it back up the seam of your pussy, watching it pearl and disappear where the base of his cock splits you open. He groans—quiet, like he's talking to himself—and gives a little grind, just enough to stir everything up, to make your insides ripple and push out another thick rope of spend around his cock. The sensation makes you sob. It’s almost too much, but the way he does it, so careful, so fucking gentle, is nothing like the bruising violence of ten seconds ago. He keeps you impaled, keeps you gaping underneath him, and just... admires his handiwork.

“Look at that,” he says, but his voice has gone soft, gone almost lost. “Made a mess of you.” He sounds almost reverent. He runs his palm up your thigh and presses the flesh until it dimples, like he needs the proof that you’re real. The couch shakes with every little shift he makes, every micro-thrust, every exhausted clench of your cunt milking him for more. You try to blink your way back into reality, but your body’s fried, nerves sparking and shorting out with every new sensation. The room is spinning, the taste of sweat and spit and salt thick in your mouth, but Frank is steady, an anchor in the haze. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he lets go. You expect him to snap back to the old Frank any second—rough, gruff, never sentimental—but instead he bends low, presses his forehead to yours, and stays there, breathing you in. His breath is hot and sour with effort. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t even soften all the way. He stays where he is, like if he stops, even for a second, the world will cave in.When he finally pulls out, you whine, instinctive and high, the emptiness a shock after all that relentless fullness. The mess is immediate—warm and thick and slick, his cum painting your thighs, smeared across every inch of you. Frank stares at the sight, breath ragged, chest heaving. There’s a wild pride in his face, his work here, the evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined you.

But then it hits him what he’s done. That he’s made you cry, that your legs don’t work, that you’re so open and spent and marked by him. He crowds in close, hands gentle now, running down your back, smoothing out the ridges of your spine.

“Shit.” The word is rough and sticky, like his mouth doesn’t want to let go of it. He's never seen anyone look so finished. Not just tired—wrecked, splotched under the eyes, face swollen with tears. The sound in your throat isn't even a whimper, just a shaky, airless wheeze as you try and fail to move your leg, which is still flopped useless over his shoulder. The stark panic that hits him is visceral. He did this. He wrecked you. He spent all day thinking about it, but now that it's real, now that you're slumped under him all glassy and trembling, a cold trickle starts up the spine. He tries to shift back, but you flinch and he sees the fresh tears, the way your thighs clamp shut before he even moves.

“Hey, hey—shit, honey, I gotcha,” he mumbles, voice turned all thick and soft, nothing like the man from thirty seconds ago. His hands move gentle now, thumbs tracing soft circles in all the places he’d used to bruise. You can’t meet his eyes. You just lie there, cheek mashed to a throw pillow, the mess of wet on your face drying sticky and sweet. You blink at a spot on his chest, like if you look anywhere else you might float right out of your body. Frank feels the zip of guilt, a live wire through his sternum. He tries to nudge you upright, to cradle you, but you just curl tighter. He tugs the ruined t-shirt down to cover your chest, suddenly desperate to shield you from even the air.

“C’mere,” he says, voice wobbling in that way you only ever hear when he’s scared. “C’mere, I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—I got carried away, I didn’t mean…” He can’t finish. He’s never seen you look so small. He pulls you into his lap, cradling you with arms that only minutes ago could have ripped you in half. You shiver, clutching at his forearm, nails digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. He pets your hair, wipes the sweat from your brow, and presses his lips to your head. It’s not until you start to breathe again—really breathe, slow and deep and shaky—that he allows himself to speak above a whisper.

“Did I hurt you? Hey, look at me—tell me. Did I hurt you bad?” The panic is naked on his face, no armor left. You try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat. You shake your head, burrow closer, the heat of him grounding you. He waits, silent but vibrating, for the next breath, and the next. Only after a long minute do you force out a croak:

“Just—lot. Lot all at once.” Your laugh is bruised and wet, but it’s there. Frank holds you like you’ll break, palms wide and steady on your back.

“Baby, you gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice so raw you almost don’t recognize it. "Jealous craze or not , I never wanna fuckin' hurt ya." You shake your head.

"S'exactly what i wanted." Frank's entire face softens. The panic doesn't leave. It just changes shape. He searches your face with frantic, guilty eyes, brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead over and over, as if he can't stop checking that you're really here.

"You sure?" he asks quietly. You nod against his shoulder.

"'M sure." He exhales, but it's shaky. Not relief. Not completely. His thumb keeps tracing slow circles across your back.

"I lost my head."

"I know."

"I got jealous."

"I know."

"I should've reined it in." You lift your head just enough to look at him.

"Frankie. I did it on purpose. I wanted this to happen." He rolls his eyes.

"I'm aware." He huffs. "Doesn't change the fact I should've been more careful." He lets out a shaky breath, his forehead still pressed to yours. The tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, but something in his eyes does—like he's finally letting himself believe you.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, but there's no anger in it. Just a raw, terrifying sort of acceptance. His thumb traces your jawline, then dips lower, brushing against the pulse in your throat. "Making me lose control like that." You manage a weak smile.

"You looked pretty in control to me." That gets a huff of laughter out of him, short and sharp.

"Yeah, well." He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle you too much. "We oughta get you some glasses, mama."

You snort, the sound small and scratchy.

"Glasses?"

"So you can tell the difference between me and every poor bastard whose name you decided to call me today." You let your head fall back against his shoulder.

"I knew exactly who you were."

"Oh, did you?"

"Mhm."

"And yet I spent the whole damn day bein' Billy, Matt, David…" He counts them off on his fingers with exaggerated annoyance. "Think you even threw Foggy in there at one point."

"I might've."

"You absolutely did."A sleepy smile pulls at your lips.

"You were cute when you got jealous." He gives you a look.

"Cute?"

"So cute."

"I was havin' a crisis."

"You were pouting."

"I do not pout."

"You do."

"I brood."

"You pout while brooding." He huffs, but there's no heat behind it.

"You've got a dangerous definition of entertainment."

"I had fun."

"I noticed." His hand slides slowly up your back, warm and steady, never rushing, never asking for anything. Just holding you.

"You still with me?" he asks quietly. You nod against him.

"Mhm."

"Tired?"

"So tired."

"Hungry?"

"Little."

"Thirsty?"

"Yeah." He kisses the top of your head.

"I'll fix both."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"You always say that."

"'Cause it's true." He shifts carefully, making sure you stay wrapped in the blanket he'd pulled around your shoulders before easing you off his lap just enough to settle you comfortably against the couch cushions. "Don't move." You smile without opening your eyes.

"Bossy."

"Damn right." He disappears into the kitchen for less than a minute before returning with a glass of water.

"Easy," he says, slipping an arm behind your shoulders to help you sit up. "Small sips." You obediently take a drink. He watches until you've swallowed. "Another." You roll your eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Smartass."

"You love me."

"I do." The answer comes so quickly it steals your smile for a second. He notices.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're thinkin' too hard." You study him. His hair is still a mess. There's a faint crease between his brows that hasn't disappeared. His breathing is normal again, but every few seconds his eyes flick over you like he's checking you're really okay.

"You still feel guilty." He doesn't answer immediately. Finally, he nods once.

"Little."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"But I'm gonna anyway." You reach for him.

"C'mere."

He sits back down without hesitation, and you immediately curl into his side again. His arm comes around your shoulders. Instinct. Like it belongs there. You rest your palm against the center of his chest. His heart is finally beating at something close to normal.

"There," you murmur.

"What?"

"That's better." He covers your hand with his.

"You scared me."

"I know."

"I don't like seein' you cry."

"I wasn't crying because I was unhappy."

"I know."

"I was just… overwhelmed."

"I know." He presses a kiss into your hair. "I'm still gonna worry."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." That earns a quiet laugh.

"You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

taglist !

calling him human, even in your own head, feels generous.

for a few seconds, you don’t move. you let the room come back in pieces: dim morning light trapped behind thin curtains, the ugly radiator clicking near the wall, your hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, the terrible mattress dipping toward the weight beside you. 

soldier boy’s on his back, one arm lying loose across his stomach, his face turned slightly away from you. his hair’s a mess. like he lost a fight with the pillow and refused to acknowledge the it’s victory.

his fingers are no longer hooked in your hoodie. sometime in the night, he let go. or maybe sleep took his hand before pride could. either way, the fabric near your hip is wrinkled where he held it, and for some stupid reason, that small, damaged place in the cotton feels more intimate than the things he’s done to your body with his mouth.

you stare at it until your chest tightens, then decide coffee is better than whatever the fuck this is.

leaving the bed would be easier if soldier boy had chosen literally any other position. because even unconscious, he needs to be in the way. 

you lift the blanket carefully, slow enough not to disturb him, and manage to get one knee under yourself before realizing there’s no angle that doesn’t involve climbing over him. the bed creaks beneath your shifting weight.

he doesn’t move. of course he doesn’t. the man can wake up at the sound of a safety clicking off three rooms away, but your very graceful escape attempt doesn’t matter.

fine.

you place one hand on the wall for balance and swing one leg over him. it’s not elegant. your knee sinks into the mattress near his hip, your other foot searching blindly for the floor on his side of the bed. for one bright, horrible second, you’re half-straddling him in the dim morning light, hoodie riding up your thigh, hair falling into your face, one hand braced above his shoulder.

soldier boy’s eyes open immediately. not slowly. not sleepily. open, sharp, green, and far too awake for a man you were hoping to escape like a thief in a cartoon.

his gaze drops to your knee near his hip. to the awkward angle of your body over his. to the way your hoodie has shifted. then back to your face.

his mouth twitches. “hell of a way to say good morning.”

your stomach drops clean through the mattress. “oh, fuck me.”

“i wake up with you crawling all over me,” his voice is sleep-wrecked, low enough to make your skin do something very stupid. “usually costs dinner first.”

“i was trying to get out of bed.”

“sure looked like trying to get into something else.”

you glare down at him, which would be more effective if you weren’t still balanced over his body like an idiot. “move.”

“you’re on top of me.”

“because you’re blocking the exit.”

“bed’s got one exit?”

“when you’re built like a refrigerator, yes.”

his hand comes up to your thigh. not fully grabbing. just there, palm warm through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts, fingers settling at the outside of your leg like he’s steadying you. like he’s making a point. 

the room changes shape around that touch.

your breath catches, and he sees. he always sees. it’s one of the worst things about him. soldier boy’s eyes sharpen, awake in a different way now. the air between you picks up the unfinished pieces, turns them over, reminds you of his fingers in your hoodie, his body beside yours, the door he didn’t walk through because you asked him not to.

“careful,” he says.

you shift your weight to climb the rest of the way off him, but the movement drags your thigh against his hip. his hand tightens by instinct. yours slips slightly against the wall. for half a second, your body lowers toward his, close enough that his breath touches the underside of your jaw.

his eyes drop to your mouth.

you could kiss him. you could lean down, press your mouth to his, and he’d let you. probably. he might even make that rough sound again, the one he made on the couch when your hands were in his hair. the thought arrives with humiliating detail, fast and hot, before you manage to shove it behind the part of your brain still pretending to have morals.

“i need coffee,” you say.

“that what we’re calling it?”

you put your free hand on his chest and push. he doesn’t move, but he laughs under his breath, which might be worse. not warm enough to be safe. not cruel enough to cut. familiar. low. the kind of sound that makes your ribs ache because you missed it before you’re ready to admit you missed anything.

your foot finally finds the floor. you climb off the bed with most of your dignity missing and all of your face burning. 

soldier boy watches from the mattress, one hand resting where your thigh had been, smug in a way that makes you want to throw the pillow at him.

“morning,” he says.

“fuck you.”

“working up to it?”

you grab some sweats from the chair and hit him with them before you can think better of it. he catches it one-handed against his chest, looking far too pleased with himself.

“coffee,” you repeat, pointing toward the door. “alone.”

“you sure? looked like you needed help getting around.”

you leave before he can see you smile.

the house is already awake when you reach the kitchen. 

annie sits at the table with both hands wrapped around a mug, eyes swollen from a night that probably held more argument than sleep. hughie’s beside her, hair messy, shoulders curled inward. they aren’t touching. that says enough. 

frenchie has rebuilt his little nest of wires and stolen drives near the end of the table, kimiko perched beside him with a sleeve of crackers open between them. mm stands by the sink, staring out the narrow window at the street beyond the curtains. butcher is absent, which means he’s either outside smoking, inside plotting, or both.

everyone looks at you when you enter.

“what?” you ask.

annie lifts her brows. “nothing.”

“that’s a lot of nothing.” you lift a brow right back. “is my pretty face on tv again?”

hughie looks at your hair, then at the hallway, then immediately down into his coffee. “nope. no observations.”

“smart,” you say.

frenchie, traitor that he is, smiles into his laptop. kimiko signs something with one hand while chewing a cracker.

annie snorts.

you point at her. “do not translate that.”

“she said good morning.”

“no, she didn’t.”

“no,” annie agrees. “she didn’t.”

you pour coffee and pretend the entire room isn’t silently enjoying the fact that soldier boy stayed in your bed. not that anything happened. nothing happened. less than nothing happened. he held the hem of your hoodie and stayed on his side of a terrible mattress, which shouldn’t count as anything except bad sleep posture and emotional terrorism.

soldier boy walks into the kitchen exactly three minutes later.

mm’s face is set in the same hard shape as yesterday, eyes worn thin by too many calculations nobody else wants to make. the reminder settles over the kitchen: temp v, vought, your face on tv, soldier boy’s blood in homelander’s. whatever brief stupidity the morning allowed, the day has no intention of being kind.

butcher enters from the back door with rain caught in his coat and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. “good. everyone’s up. we’ve got a problem.”

“shocking,” you mutter to your coffee.

“maeve,” butcher announces. 

annie straightens. the whole room shifts around the name.

frenchie’s fingers pause over the keyboard. “you found her?”

“found where they’re keeping her.” butcher steps toward the table and drops a folded paper near frenchie’s laptop. “vought tower. lower medical level.”

annie’s face goes pale with anger. “she’s alive?”

“for now.”

hughie rubs a hand over his mouth. “how did you get this?”

butcher gives him a look. “by being charming.”

“lying,” mm says.

“that too.” butcher gives mm his signature cunt smile, then looks at frenchie. “security’s thin on the lower levels.”

“thin?” frenchie asks, suspicious. “vought tower does not do thin.”

butcher’s expression shifts by a fraction. “that’s what we’re gonna find out.”

you look from him to the paper, then to annie’s face. “when?”

“now.”

soldier boy pushes off the counter. “i’m going.”

“no,” butcher and mm say at the same time.

soldier boy’s gaze moves between them. “cute.”

“your face in that building starts a war before we get close to her,” butcher says. “same goes for our freshly minted tv terrorist here.”

you lift a hand. “very hurtful phrasing.”

“both of you stay put,” mm says, looking at you and soldier boy. “we need eyes here. backup if this goes bad.”

the mission comes together too quickly for comfort. that’s become the pattern lately. too little time. too many risks. somebody’s life sitting at the center of a plan held together by stolen files, bad luck, and butcher’s conviction that panic’s just strategy with less swearing.

annie goes because it’s maeve. kimiko goes because she can move through tight spaces and put down guards without making a sound. frenchie goes because he needs to cut through whatever vought has put between the team and the lower medical level. mm goes because somebody has to keep the plan from turning into butcher’s improv session. butcher goes because trying to stop him would waste time. hughie goes but is assigned van duty because annie says his name once, quietly, and he looks at the floor.

you stay because firecracker put your face on television and because if you walk into vought today, you might as well hand homelander a map to every weak point in the room.

soldier boy stays because nobody trusts him near vought tower after yesterday. he takes that about as well as expected—

“you need backup,” he grunts as butcher checks a gun at the table.

“we need quiet,” butcher answers. “you’re many things. quiet’s not one of ‘em.”

soldier boy steps closer. “you think you can handle homelander if he shows?”

butcher smiles without humor. “you worried?”

“i’m curious how fast you die.”

“touching.”

“enough,” mm says. “we’re in and out. we don’t engage homelander. we don’t improvise a suicide run. we get maeve and leave.”

kimiko signs something. frenchie nods. “yes. exactly. no heroics.”

everyone looks at butcher.

he looks offended. “what?”

annie hugs you before they leave. it catches you off guard. her arms wrap around your shoulders quickly, tight enough to say the thing she doesn’t say out loud.

then they’re gone.

the safehouse feels too large with only two of you in it.

he comms sit open on the kitchen table beside frenchie’s spare laptop, the little receiver blinking green every few seconds, proof that the team exists somewhere beyond the walls. proof that they’re all moving toward vought tower while you remain here with a man everyone agreed shouldn’t be allowed near the building where his son is waiting.

soldier boy stands in the middle of the living room for almost a full minute after the door shuts.

he doesn’t look at you. he looks at the door, then the window, then the table where the comms are waiting. his shield rests against his knee, one hand loose at his side, shoulders set in that hard, irritated line that means he’s deciding whether anger is useful enough to spend. the morning softness is gone beneath his jaw locked, mouth flat, eyes too awake.

you take your coffee to the table because doing anything else would feel too much like waiting for him. the receiver crackles once, then goes still. you pull the chair out with your foot. “well…” his eyes move to you. “this is familiar.”

“what is?”

you sit. “babysitting duty.”

his expression doesn’t change, but something in it sharpens with recognition. you wrap both hands around your mug and lean back like this is casual. “last time i got left behind with you, there was a war movie and a very touching amount of emotional repression.”

“don’t remember asking for a nanny.”

“no. you just needed one.”

his mouth curls. “that right?”

you nod. “considering everyone just left me here to make sure you don’t storm vought tower and accidentally start the apocalypse before lunch.”

“accidentally?”

“i was being generous.”

he looks toward the window again. outside, rain drags faint lines down the glass, blurring the street into gray. “you think you could stop me?”

the answer should be no. it sits obvious and heavy between you. no, not without temp v. no, not without the thing you promised not to use on him. no, not with your human hands and your bare feet and the coffee still too hot in your mug. the old version of you would’ve made a joke fast enough to dodge the shape of it. this version still wants to.

you choose carefully. “i think i could make leaving annoying.”

his eyes come back to you. for a second, you think he might laugh. instead, the corner of his mouth only threatens something close enough to make your pulse trip. “you already do that with breathing.”

“sweet.”

“wasn’t.”

“i know. you’re not very subtle.”

“neither are you.”

the comms crackle before you can answer. frenchie’s voice comes through threaded with static. “approaching perimeter. cameras on west service entrance are mine for now.”

annie’s voice comes in next, tense but steady. “we’re moving.”

you look at the laptop as frenchie’s mirrored feed pulls up in grainy blocks: a service entrance, gray walls, a sliver of loading dock slick with rain. the team moves in pieces. shadows first. then bodies. then the feed flickers and corrects itself. soldier boy comes closer, stopping behind your chair.

“stop looming and sit down,” you say without looking at him. you hate that your body knows exactly where he is. 

he leans down slightly, voice lowering near your ear. “you seemed to like looming this morning.” 

heat runs up your neck. “you were in the way.”

“you were on top of me.”

“because you were in the way.”

“sure.”

you turn your head, and that’s worse because his face’s closer than you expected. rough and awake and far too aware of the exact way you have stopped breathing.

“you were shaking on my fingers two nights ago,” he says, like the sentence’s been sitting behind his teeth since the others left. “trying to act like you weren’t about to make noise with the whole house sleeping down the hall.”

your face burns so hard it nearly hurts. “and i said that was a mistake.” 

your voice is ridiculously weak and the word doesn’t land as harshly as it once did. 

soldier boy doesn’t blink. “maybe it’s still going around.” 

the comms crackle with hughie’s voice: “van’s parked. nobody’s looking at me. which is good, but also concerning.”

mm answers, “stay alert.”

you don’t look away from soldier boy. “you’re disgusting.”

“you crawled into my lap.”

“you pulled me.”

“you came easy.”

the words hit lower than they should and you stand before you decide to, chair scraping lightly against the floor. soldier boy straightens at full height, and he doesn’t look smug now. there’s heat there, yes, crude and familiar and sharp around the edges, but something else sits under it. a question dressed up badly as a taunt.

are we still doing this?

do you still want me?

can we be this and everything else?

you stand in front of him. “you’re bored.”

his gaze lifts slowly. “that your diagnosis?”

“you’re angry you’re not with them. you’re angry homelander’s in that building. you’re angry noir might be there. you’re angry i’m here. and you’re trying to piss me off because that’s easier than sitting still.”

his expression flattens. good. you found something. maybe too much of something.

“watch it,” he says.

“am i wrong?”

“you think because i slept in your shitty little bed, you get to read me?”

your heart kicks once. “no.”

“good.”

“i think i could read you before that.”

his jaw flexes. for one long second, neither of you moves. the comms hiss faintly from the table. rain taps against the window. somewhere beneath vought tower, your friends are moving toward a woman homelander locked away, and here you are standing between a couch and soldier boy, daring a war relic to admit he’s bleeding.

he reaches first, hooking two fingers in the loose hem of your hoodie. the same place he held in the dark. his eyes do not leave yours. “still reading?”

your throat feels too tight. “trying.”

he tugs once more and you go with it. 

the distance disappears in one step and then his mouth is on yours, hard and impatient, like the argument was just foreplay neither of you could admit to. 

your back hits the edge of the table before he turns you both, walking you backward until your thighs meet the couch. he doesn’t ask. he never really does. one big hand pushes under your hoodie, palm rough against your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast whiel the other yanks your sweats and panties down your hips in one impatient motion. 

“fuck, ben—” you start, but he swallows it, tongue sliding against yours. 

“still talking,” he mutters, breaking the kiss just long enough to shove your hoodie higher. 

his mouth finds your neck, teeth scrapping, then lower, sucking hard at the skin above your collarbone. your arch into it, fingers digging into his shoulders as he drops to his knees in front of the couch, dragging your clothes the rest of the way off. 

his hands spread your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft skin, and then his mouth is on you. no teasing. no slow build. he licks a broad stripe through your folds and groans like he’s the one getting fucked. the vibration shuts straight up your spine. 

two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling immediately and finding that spot that makes your knees buckle. you grab his hair, hips rocking against his face as he sucks your clit into his mouth. 

“taste so fucking good,” he growls against you, fingers thrusting deeper. faster. “getting wet just from arguing with me. pathetic.” 

you moan, thighs trembling around his head. the words should piss you off. instead, they make you clench around his fingers, chasing the stretch, the heat, the way he looks up at you with dark eyes while his mouth works you open. he adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and you bite your lips hard enough to sting. 

and suddenly, he stands. fingers leaving you clenching around nothing and you gasp. “hey—”

he shoves his sweats down just enough for the complaint to die on your tongue. his cock springs free, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. you reach for it but he catches your wrist, spinning you around and bending you over the arm of the couch. 

one hand presses between your shoulder blades, the other lines himself up. “you want it?”

“yes—fuck, just—” 

he pushes in with one thrust, burying himself to the hilt. the stretch burns so good you cry out, fingers clawing at the cushion. he doesn’t give you time to adjust. he fucks you hard, deep, hips snapping against your ass with wet, filthy sounds that fill the quiet safehouse. every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, his hand sliding around to rub tight circles over your clit.

“that’s it,” he grunts, leaning over you, chest hot against your back. “take it. been thinking about this pussy since you crawled over me this morning.”

you push back to meet every brutal thrust, the angle letting him hit deeper. pleasure coils tight and fast in your belly, every drag of his cock pushing you closer. his fingers tighten on your hip, the other still working your clit.

“gonna come for me?” he rasps against your ear. “gonna soak my cock like a good girl while your team’s playing hero?”

the words tip you over. you come hard, clenching around him, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your vision whites out. he fucks you through it, pace stuttering, then pulls out and spins you again, lifting you onto the couch so you’re straddling him. he sinks back in immediately, groaning low as you sink down on his cock.

you ride him through the aftershocks, hips rolling, hands braced on his chest. his head falls back, eyes half-lidded, watching where you take him, the slick shine of your release coating his length with every lift and drop.

“fuck—look at you,” he breathes, hands gripping your ass, guiding you faster. “can’t stay away either, can you?”

“jesus, shut up—” you lean down, kissing him messy and desperate, grinding deep. 

his thrusts meet yours from below. the tension coils again as his thumb finds your clit once more and you shatter around him a second time, crying out into his mouth. he follows right after, burying himself and coming with a rough groan, hips jerking as he fills you.

the room grows quiet, the only sound being both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, still joined.

then, the comms crackle sharply. you jerk upright so fast your knee slips against the cushion.

“we’re inside,” annie says.

the moment breaks apart. soldier boy’s head turns toward the table, jaw already locked. you scramble off his lap, fixing your hoodie with hands that aren’t steady enough to be subtle. the feed is ugly and unstable, but the team is through the lower access point. 

frenchie’s voice comes through in tight fragments. camera loop holding. corridor clear. you grip the table edge.

soldier boy stands beside you now, close enough that his arm nearly brushes yours. 

“this is too easy,” hughie says through comms.

soldier boy immediately says, “trap.”

you glance at him. “maybe.”

“always is.”

frenchie’s voice returns. “medical level access in ten seconds.”

butcher’s voice comes through next, “door’s open.”

the grainy feed shows a sterile corridor washed in hard white light. one abandoned gurney. a security card on the floor. vought tower shouldn’t look abandoned. it should look armed. sealed. watching. instead, it feels as though everyone inside it has suddenly remembered somewhere worse to be.

annie’s voice comes through, smaller than before. “maeve?”

static. then a woman’s voice, rough and wrecked and unmistakably alive. “about fucking time.”

soldier boy doesn’t react, but his eyes stay fixed on the speaker. getting maeve out should be the hard part. it isn’t. that’s what makes the back of your neck prickle.

the next minutes blur in movement. the team gets maeve on her feet. frenchie says internal lockdown is redirecting security upward, not down. butcher asks why. nobody has answers. annie keeps close to maeve, voice steady in that careful way people use around someone who’s been hurt badly enough to hate needing help.

then frenchie finds the alert. 

priority incident: seven tower.

another follows.

asset noir: medical emergency.

then a third. 

asset noir: medical emergency canceled. subject deceased.

hughie swallows from the van. “there’s an alert. it says noir—”

the comms crackle. 

“what about him?”

butcher answers, and for once even his voice is stripped of performance. “homelander killed noir.”

soldier boy stares at the laptop. his face barely moves. 

maeve is alive. noir is dead, killed by the man tied by blood to the one standing in front of you. your name is probably still burned across every vought alert in the city.

there’s blood in the water now. and every monster left can smell it. 

His hand is firm on his gun behind his back as he rounds the corner, featherlight foot steps for a man as dense as bag of bricks. He steps out onto the back porch, looking into the backyard as the moonlight skims over the tops of the trees. Franks eyes sift through the shadows, but he doesn't notice anything out of place.

That is, until he sees a flicker in his periphery. So fast you could have missed it but he catches it in the corner of his sharp eyes. Franks bare feet move before he can think, bolting towards the disturbance in the stillness. Cold damp grass between his toes and adrenaline thundering through his veins.

He comes to a halt at the side gate, wide open into the night.

did you forget to close it?

He passes through the gate and searches the front of your house, nostrils flaring and his internal alarm bells blaring but he see's nothing. With heavy and purposeful footsteps Frank is at the end of your driveway. Donned in nothing but his briefs and his gun and stares down the dark abyss that is your street with pockets of white illuminated by the tall street lights. No unfamiliar cars, no strange noises just the distant hums of engines passing down neighbouring streets.

When he turns back to go inside his eyes flick to his neighbours house, Rob's house. And there's that gnawing again, deep in his gut. A minute passes by, Frank standing, strong legs cemented into the footpath, his gun in his hand as he just observes the house. He's not sure what he's looking for - some movement? a noise? something to prove the suspicion that he's not ready to voice just yet.

He drags his feet from where he's standing and does a few more rounds of your house, when see's the broken pot plant near the side gate as he enters back in. Crouching down, he picks up the broken pieces of terracotta. Inspecting them closely as if they'll whisper clues to him. But alas, no explanation comes, trying to reason with his hyper alert mind, telling himself maybe it was a possum or a racoon or something, he's not convinced.

Couldn't have been an animal, how did the gate open? why didn't he hear the groan of the metal hinges when it did? but he heads back inside anyway after tossing the broken pieces of the potter into the bin and triple checking everything is locked.

Upstairs, you're still staring out the window, you've pretty much chewed through your fingers when a hard knock on the door makes you jump.

"baby it's me" you hear Frank through the bedroom door.

You clamber over the bed to unlock it and your hands are on him straight away. His skin cool from the night air, eyes a little wide and his finger twitching away on the trigger. Raking your warm hands up his chest to settle on top of his shoulders. "what was it?" you ask frantically as your eyes scan him, relieved when you see theres not a scratch on him.

"did you lock the side gate before you came in today?" he questions hurriedly, waking you backwards into the room with him as he places his gun on his bedside table.

"i-i don't know, i think so?" your words stumble out as you try and recount your movements through the afternoon. "need you to be sure sweetheart" his tone a little more urgent now as his hands hold the side of your face and he sees the cogs turning behind your eyes as you run through your steps.

"um, yeah i-i uh... I packed up all the potting mix, stacked all the pots up, reeled the hose in and then locked the-yeah, yeah I locked it" you say more certain now.

He doesn't reply straight away, just a sharp exhale that you feel puff out on your forehead "baby what was it?" you urge him. You feel his heart pounding away under your palm.

Frank doesn't want to alarm you, so he shrugs his shoulders "gate was open, maybe an animal or somethin, nothin out there" he says.

You study his face for a few seconds "what broke though" you ask, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "pot plant" he says looking out of the bedroom window "whatever it was probably knocked it over" now looking back down at you with his palms smoothing over your back.

"cmon baby lets go to sleep" he kisses the crown of your head "but, fraaaaaank what about yooou" you whine softly still thinking about your unfinished business. Frank laughs a little, its short and more a huff "ain't gotta worry about me sweetheart, i'm a big man, waited the whole day I can wait another day, s'gettin late" knowing his mind is now elsewhere.

"you sure baby?" you ask again, cooing at him running your thumb over his cheek. And honestly, you want him just as bad, you want to finish what you both started but you can see it in his eyes that he's distracted. "yeah, go on, get into bed" he says with a light pat on your hip and a small smile before disappearing into the bathroom.

Frank stares at himself in the mirror with a deep sigh before splashing cold water on his face willing his brain to snap out of it.

why can’t he just let himself be at peace with you, why does trouble always follow him.. or is he the one who always seeks it out like an old friend? he asks himself.

The bathroom door creaks open, and your head peers out from behind it, you catch the worry in Franks eyes before he can cover it up. Stepping behind him you give him a soft kiss behind his back and wrap your arms around his wide torso.

"thought I told you to get into bed hm?" he looks at you through the mirror with his tired eyes.

"y'know I can't go to bed without you" you smile at him warmly "cmon baby" you grab his hand and lead him back to bed and he follows you silently.

After settling in under the sheets Frank pulls your body on top of his, craving your warmth as his palms run up and down your bare thigh placing soft kisses on your head. But you see his other arm, unconsciously outstretched towards his gun readying himself for a fight somewhere.

One foot in and one foot out.

You look up at him and see his eyes piecing together an unknown puzzle. Tracing your hand down his arm and lace your fingers with his.

"baby.. what are you not telling me" you ask, a little more serious now.

he's silent, glancing back and forth from the ceiling to the window.

you feel the air from his sigh filter through the strands of your hair onto your scalp.

"somethin just don't feel right I don't know" it's almost a whisper like he was halfway between thinking about saying it and actually saying it.

you look up at him, eyes a little concerned when you see his mind still ticking away through his brown eyes streaked ember with the moonlight through the window.

"ehh” he says in that drawl he does when he’s trying minimise something “s'prolly nothin” again, not very convincing.

"fraaaank" you try and coax more out of him

"y'know me huh, get worked up over nothin" he shrugs

You don't want to dismiss him but don't want him to spiral either - so you choose to run through the facts with him instead.

"doors were locked right frankie, no windows broken? and no one was outside when you checked yeah?" you ask softly and he nods between your questions

"And if someone was there you would have seen them right baby? you don't miss things like that" you say affirmatively, frank just hums

"we're okay hmm? no ones there" you coo reassuringly placing your own gentle kisses over his pec.

He lets the facts sink into his mind and theres an ever so slight decompression in his chest as he bring your hand in his up to his lips kissing your knuckles. You let go and wrap them around his neck tightly as he firmly cocoons your body in both his arms now and somewhere between raking your nails through the hair at the base of his neck and his soft kisses on your crown you doze off.

Frank however, doesn't sleep a wink that night. He just held you tight in his arms, soothed by your breathing but his eyes danced between the window, you and his gun. That perpetual fight or flight song and dance his brain does turned up for the rest of the night.

The next morning you wake up to the sounds of him shuffling around downstairs. When you round the corner downstairs you see him fidgeting with the lock.

"morning baby, not going to work?" you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"morning sweetheart, nah i'm leaving soon just checkin the locks" he says distracted, back still facing you.

hm

You walk up to him and wrap your hand over his shoulder pulling him around. Worry fills you when you look up and see the dark hollows under his tired eyes. Pressing your lips on his you give him a soft kiss "locks working fine frankie" you say softly, knowing part of him is still stuck trying to solve this mystery.

But as he looks at you he feels something settle in his chest, you, here, in front of him, in his t-shirt, hair still messy from sleep and your loving crinkly eyes. You're okay and thats all that mattered to him.

After handing him his lunch you push him out the door in an attempt to get him back into his usual routine so he doesn't spiral.

You decide to give yourself a break from the garden today, but you head out into the backyard to take the clothes off the line.

When you get to the spot between the two pillowcases you notice something's a-miss.

Your panties are missing. The ones that drove Frank crazy yesterday.

The first place your mind goes to is Frank, and you smile a little - recalling his little panty fixation particularly when you two first started dating and how you used to leave him little "presents" in his apartment before you left. So you flip your phone out and send him a text.

You

"who knew Frank Castle was still a panty thief"

Frank pulls out his phone when he feels the buzz in his pocket and normally your sarcastic texts through the day make him laugh but this one, no this one just confused him.

Frankie

"what you talkin about baby"

You

"its okay frankie, its cute x"

you chuckle a little, remembering how embarrassed he was the first time you caught him stuffing your panties into his pocket as he left your place.

but before Frank can reply he gets pulled back into work, and it gets forgotten about for the rest of his work day.

The day rolls on, and between you sifting through boxes and heading to get groceries Frank is home.

"what was your message about" he asks curiously

You give him a knowing smile "oh I guess my panties just magically disappeared hm?" you nudge him with your shoulder as you get up to wash your hands before dinner, missing the puzzled look on his face.

"baby I honestly don't know what you're talkin' bout" you hear him follow you

"my panties frank? the ones I was wearing yesterday, I washed them and they were drying on the line but they weren't there this morning?" you say with a pointed look wondering how long he's going to keep playing this game "or did the racoon steal it?" you laugh

But your joke flies straight over Franks head. When you don't hear a reply from him you turn to look at him and see that look on his face again, similar to last night - distant and wondering.

"helloooooo" you wave your hand in front of his face drawing his attention back to you.

"where'd you go honey?" you smile at him

And again, Frank is torn between shielding you from his suspicions and not worry you or tell you.

But he sees that carefree look in your eyes so, he choses the former.

"m'right here" he gives you a dry chuckle "maybe was the racoon, cant blame him" he gives you a small grin that doesn't really reach his eyes before getting two plates out for dinner.

But he stores this information away in his evidence locker for later.. just incase

The following days were pretty uneventful which helped ease Franks mind. Nothing going bump in the night, no stolen undergarments so his gun returned back to its spot under the bed, his shoulders weren’t as tense and his house locking routine had gone back down to one check instead of four.

Over the next few weeks your run-ins with Rob had become more frequent, you end up talking to him most days over the fence between your drive way. Usually just pleasantries and a few of laughs here and there along with some gardening advice.

You got to know him a little more, though you steered clear from the topic of his wife, you noticed how he dodged the question the first time you asked about her. You figured he just wasn't ready to talk about her so you left it. But aside from that he seemed like a nice guy - a financial analyst who mostly worked from home. Maybe just a grieving widow, lonely?

It also seemed like Rob was taking up less real estate in Franks mind. He was able to walk through the front door without glaring at Robs house wishing he had x-ray vision. It also helped that he hadn't tried to bring you any 'presents'. By no means was this a sign that there would be a budding friendship between the two men, no sir. Frank was still cautious but, just not as fixated.

It’s a regular Tuesday, you’re standing on the front porch trying to envision the landscaping design that Frank was going to be working on this weekend.

“Hey neighbour!” You hear from across the fence

“oh hey Rob, how are you?” you wave

“Yeah good- was hoping I’d find you out here, got a question”

You turn to face him and see him holding a little pot plant in his arms.

Walking over to him you see a little seedling in the centre of the dark soil, a little wilted yellowing leaf on a stem of green.

“Think I can save this? Thought I’d bring it to the expert” he laughs

“Ah brought it to the doc just in time” you laugh

You bring the plant up closer and inspect it "is it a fiddle leaf?" you ask, turning it in your hand.

"yeah, was just trying to get some indoor greenery, liven the place up" he says with a shrug

You press down on the damp soil

“just need to re-pot it, must be root rot” you smile handing the pot back to him "re-pot it with a lighter mix so it drains better"

“Ah knew I brought it to the right person, always know what to do” he laughs

Just as you’re handing the pot back to him you hear the rumble of Franks truck behind you. Rob instinctively takes a step away from the fence as you see him pull up.

“mother fucker” Frank grumbles under his breath as he pulls the truck into park.

Nothing escaped Frank, not the way Robs face changed when he saw him pull in to the driveway. That wolf like grin when he was looking at you to the look of dread when he noticed Frank. The way he had taken a step away from you but his hand had lingered on the pot near yours for a fraction of a second too long. Not even the way Rob tries to plaster on a smile at Frank through the window. None of it, he sees through it all.

He should try and smile, it crosses his mind. But really all he wants to do is punch through his windshield and crush Robs throat. And aside from Frank's simmering suspicions, how he looks at you and the way he's just getting too close for comfort - he has no other explanation as to why - why Rob makes Frank's skin crawl.

When Frank looks at you a flurry of unwanted questions floods his mind. Do you always stand out the front and talk to him? how often do you two talk? have you ever been into his house the way he has been into yours? why was his mind even going there.

He couldn't be jealous, no. Protectiveness, love, possessiveness even frustration - these are the emotions that sit like second skin within Franks when it comes to you - not jealousy.

But there was a pang he felt through his chest when he saw how you smiled at him. But you smile at everyone says that angel on his shoulder, he knows that - logically he knows that. Though there's an ugly voice in the back of his mind that tries to convince him otherwise.

Stepping out of his truck he stalks over to you. His eyes locked on Rob till he gets to you, jaw clenched so hard you see the striation of muscle under his skin. One of his hands instantly circles your waist, you feel the pads of his fingers burn hot into your skin through the thin cotton of your t-shirt.

“Hi baby” you smile and Franks other palm cups the back of your head and angles your head up to him. He claims your lips with his, it’s hard, it’s possessive and laced with a warning behind it. And while you miss the way one of Franks eyes peeks open to look at Rob. You don't miss the way this kiss felt different - like he was marking his territory.

When he pulls apart you're a little breathless also a little shy and embarrassed at the fact that you had pretty much forgotten that Rob was there the moment you felt Franks lips on yours.

"Hey honey" he almost growls.

His eyes were dark, not the soft eyes you usually get from your husband when he comes home from work.

Frank's head shoots up "Rob" he grits out through barred teeth and the most minuscule nod of his head. "H-hey Frank" Rob stutters, Frank catches the lump in his throat bob and the way his fingers whiten as his grip tightens around the plant.

"c'mon lets go inside" he mumbles to you before he pretty much picks you up and walks you back.

"oh make sure you don't put it in direct sunlight!" you call out over Frank's shoulder as he lifts you up the stairs of the front porch He looks back to Rob, at the way he's standing on the other side of the fence, frozen in time with a look in his eyes that was somewhere between anger and hurt.

Frank's demeanour shifts as soon as the door shuts. Still tense, but theres worry under it, or is it anger?

"baby? what was that?" you ask him a little perplexed.

He's quiet at first, letting go of you and walking straight past you, slamming his keys down on the kitchen counter. The clang of the metal on the granite makes you jump a little.

You see him taking a deep breath in, one hand firm on the countertop and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. When he turns to look at you there's a split second where he opens his mouth, like he's about to speak - then nothing. He pauses, like he's re-evaluating the words that were about to come out of his mouth. Then his chest deflates with a sigh, like someone had pricked him with a pin.

"m'gonna go shower" he gruffs before storming off, leaving you there in the kitchen, alone and confused.

When Frank steps into the shower his mind is heavy, plagued with all of these thoughts and doubts and all he wanted to do was take your loofah and scrub away at the crevices of his brain. Unable to decide how much of it was fact and how much of it was him reading too much into things. But no amount soap nor scrubbing could get it squeaky clean.

Despite his best efforts the shower did nothing to calm him, if anything it put him in a hot steamy cubicle of all his most negative thoughts, letting them ferment and grow more pungent. And he comes out of the shower more heated that when he walked in.

Downstairs you're plating dinner so its ready when Frank gets out. But you feel the thick fog of tension still there from when he retreated to the bathroom. The whole time you were replaying every conversation you and Frank had over the last few days. Trying to pull them apart to figure out if you had said something to upset him. Maybe something had happened at work?

"What were you two talking bout?" Franks low but sharp tone pulls you out of your thoughts.

oh, thats what it is

You turn to see him standing at the end of the kitchen, hair still a little damp from the shower, dressed in his track pants and t-shirt.

"he was just asking if I could help him with one of his plants" you respond knowing exactly what he was asking about.

"yeah, he's reeeal into plants huh" he scoffs walking past you to fill up a glass of water.

"Frank" you warn

He sighs, walking past you again shaking his head and you follow him

"Frank.. please don't do this, don't get in your head please talk to me" you plead

"I just-I just don't get it baby, you're a smart girl and what? you can't see that the guy is being a bit more than just nice?" he bites out

"What-what are you jealous of him??" your hands fly up in exasperation

"no, i'm not jealous, I’m not a fuckin' teenager baby i just don't trust him" his voice is getting sharper now

"you haven’t even talked to the guy properly Frank” you sigh as your hand comes up to press into your temples

“I don’t need to talk to him” he fires back too quickly

“Baby you can't keep moving through life thinking that everyone is out to get you!" you implore

"it's not me I care about, its YOU. you are all I fuckin care about" his hands itching to reach for you but the nasty voice inside of his head doesn’t let him.

you sigh

"Frank.. he's just a guy who lost his wife, and maybe he's lonely and just trying to make a friend" you try to reason with him

But that pokes at something in Frank's brain, in a deep deep dark corner of it - the one where he's got a box of insecurities that he battles with every day to keep hidden. But something about that comment cracked it right open - and it hurt.

And the thing about Frank is that, when he’s hurt - he doesn't yell - not at you, he gets mean. And somehow, that always hurt more.

"just a guy who lost his wife huh" he scoffs.

"what you got a thing for em', that your type? that's what I was to you? just some fuckin pity project, you felt sorry for me?" his eyes are wide but theres a hitch in his throat - he knows he went too far but he can't stop the venom spewing out of his mouth.

Your heart drops. No, plummets, like he had just hooked an anchor through it and now it's in free fall down to the depths of hell.

And he see's it on your face, each word like shards of glass thrown straight at you.

"frank wha-NO that's not what I said how can" you take a deep staggered breath in trying to keep your tears at bay "how can you say that-" you continue but your voice is so small and defeated.

The air is so so tense, both of you staring at each other, chest heaving and bated breath.

You turn away from him, in hopes that he doesn't see the tears falling from you and you head towards the door.

"where are you going?" his question comes out a bark

"i'm going for a fucking walk Frank or do I need your permission for that?" you bite back before you swing the door open wiping the tears your cheeks.

"for a?-oh she's goin' for a walk- it's fuckin dark outside" he almost laughs out as he follows you out.

you ignore him and continue walking

"baby get back in the house" his voice still tight but his pleading

But you keep going

“Goddamn it baby please I’ll leave okay I’ll go-just please come back” his voice is breaking a little.

"Frank I'm not a child, I'm going for a walk DON'T follow me" you just needed some space, needed to think, needed to just clear your head. You just needed to make sure that neither of you said anything you really couldn’t take back.

He wants to go after you, every single muscle fibre in his body trying to claw through his skin to follow you. But he lets the dark part of his mind win over and he stays cemented in place.

You look back at him, standing on the porch, one hand pushed through his hair. Sighing as you march forward, swiping your tears away.

It’s definitely darker now, the sun had dipped behind the horizon completely. You look back and see no sign of Frank. Theres a twinge of disappointment when you don’t see him - you guess you asked him not to follow you right…

You’re two block away from home, sitting on the bench that faces the park. A slight breeze pushing the swings the kids normally play on, the gnawing of the chain filling the gaps of silence between the chirps of crickets.

Each word between you and Frank replays in your mind like a ping-pong match. And through it all, you can’t stop seeing the look on Franks face, behind his eyes how it looked like he was fighting a war with himself between each harsh comment.

You had cried out everything you had in you, so much so that it felt like sandpaper under your eyelids and you face was burning. And between the hurt, the anger and the sadness - still, all you wanted was Frank.

Searching your pockets to check the time you groan when you realise that in the heat of the moment you had left it on the countertop. And as angry as you were with Frank, you knew how worried he’d be, especially if he couldn’t see your whereabouts. So you figure you’ll make your way back.

With a sigh you push yourself off the bench, and drag your legs back home. Each foot feeling like it weighed a tonne as you placed one in front of the another.

You’re almost around the corner to your street when you hear your name called out from behind you, for a split second you hope it’s Frank but before you can even fully turn to see

*THUD*

Your vision goes black and you feel yourself drop.

Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated 🤍

a/n: eeee okay okay on the home stretch!!! The last part is coming in a few days!!! This was my first time writing this much angst so super open to some feedback but nevertheless I hope you guys liked!!!

I just want my babies to kiss and make up 😭😭

soldier boy doesn’t come out of his room.

that’s the shape the day takes. his closed door. the file still open on frenchie’s laptop. firecracker’s broadcast playing muted on the tv until mm finally snaps and shuts it off, leaving your face burned into the back of your eyes anyway. your name beneath a red headline. your town. your age. your body caught in a grainy still while soldier boy’s hand closed around your wrist and dragged you out of a hallway where the deep had cornered you. a story built around half truths that vought decided to take and use.

you should be more frightened by that. you are frightened by it. but the fear has to share space with everything else, and everything else is louder.

homelander is his son.

the words keep arranging themselves wrong in your head no matter how many times you think them. samples collected. stored. transferred. paternal genetic source. ugly clinical phrases for the kind of violation that makes the whole body feel less like a body and more like evidence. 

they didn’t ask soldier boy for a child. they didn’t give him one either. they took something from him and built homelander out of it, then buried the truth under files and dead men and decades of vought polish.

and then he called him.

no one else knows that part. no one else heard the filtered voice, the static, homelander’s voice so small it had made your skin go cold. no one else heard soldier boy’s answer.

the situation’s changed.

you don’t tell anyone despite knowing that secrets aren’t a pretty thing to keep. especially now. despite soldier boy deserving your protection. you keep it because it isn’t yours. because mm had looked at you in the kitchen and told you to give him space, and for once, you listened.

night comes slowly. the safehouse settles by degrees, each room giving up its noise one at a time.  you go to bed because there’s nowhere else to put yourself. still, sleep doesn’t come.

your new room is too unfamiliar to lie to you properly like the old safehouse did. the walls answer differently. the floor complains in sharper spots. the window rattles when the wind hits it, and the radiator makes a thin metallic tick every few minutes that keeps tricking your body into bracing for movement. you lie under the blanket with your hoodie still on and listen anyway.

maybe that is why you hear him.

not at first. at first there’s only the house doing what houses do when people try to rest inside them. soft, barely there, noises. then, beneath that, a door opens down the hall. slowly. carefully. too careful for butcher. too steady for hughie. not light enough for annie. not quick enough for kimiko. your body knows before your brain earns the certainty. you sit up.

another sound follows. leather. a faint metallic adjustment. the low, unmistakable scrape of something heavy being lifted from where it had been resting against a wall. the shield. your throat tightens so fast it hurts.

you’re out of bed before you decide what you’re doing, bare feet finding the cold floor, fingers dragging the hoodie sleeves down over your hands as if that’ll make you less obvious, less afraid, less late. 

the hallway’s dark when you open your door. only a weak strip of light from the living room cuts across the far wall. for a second, all you can see is the shape of him near the front door. 

fully dressed—not an old shirt and sweats; not the half-human version of him that haunted the kitchen this morning. soldier boy stands in the narrow entryway in the suit, chest armor catching the low light, gloves on, boots planted, shield strapped to one arm. 

his jaw is rough, hair pushed back badly, and from behind he looks built out of every version of himself vought ever sold: weapon, legend, monster, flag.

his hand is on the door. for one sick second, you understand that he’s not sneaking out for air. he’s leaving. not the room. not the house for an hour. all of it. all of you.

“wait,” the word comes out before anything else can. not loud. not strong. nothing like an order. it almost breaks in the middle and has to crawl the rest of the way from your throat.

his hand stills on the lock.

you step into the hallway. “please, don’t go.”

he doesn’t turn right away. 

you watch the line of his shoulders, the slight lift of his breathing beneath the armor, the shield angled against his side. he could leave before you reach him. he could open the door, step out, disappear into the dark, and no one in this house could stop him without turning the hallway into another battlefield. even then.

when he finally looks back, his face is hard enough to make you wish he’d kept facing the door. “saying please now?” 

the hit lands with less force than it could have. maybe because you expected worse. maybe because the word is still sitting open between you, embarrassing and naked.

“yeah,” you say. “i am.”

his eyes move over your face once. not gently. not without anger. thoroughly, like he’s checking whether this is another trick your body has taught itself to survive him. “you want something.”

“i want you to stay.”

his mouth shifts into something cruel by habit and too tired to enjoy itself. “that’s what we’re calling it?”

you swallow. “i’m asking.”

that makes his stare sharpen.

for a moment, neither of you says anything. the house behind you remains too still, doors closed, everyone sleeping or pretending well enough not to matter. your pulse beats sickeningly in your throat. the front door waits under his hand.

“go back to bed,” he finally grunts.

“come with me.”

his mouth twists. “that didn’t end well last time.”

your face burns. you let it. there’s no version of this conversation where you get to pretend last night isn’t under the floorboards with the rest of the damage. “different motives this time.” 

he looks away, jaw tight.

you take half a step closer, then stop yourself. leave space. let him keep the door. let him know it’s still there. the discipline of that nearly splits you open.

“ben…”

his eyes come back to you. here, in the hall, with the house dark and his shield on his arm, the name feels less like comfort and more like a hand reaching toward a fuse.

“don’t call me that,” he says.

you nod once, even though you keep looking at him. “okay.”

that seems to throw him more than arguing would have.

you breathe in carefully. “i heard the call.”

everything in him goes still. aimed. “you spying on me now?”

“no.” the answer comes quickly, then you force yourself to slow down because panic’s never been a friend. “i heard enough from the hall. i should’ve walked away sooner.”

his eyes narrow. “but you didn’t.”

“no,” the honesty sits there, ugly and plain.

he studies you for a long second, and you can’t tell if he wants to punish you for it or if some part of him is too exhausted to spend anger on one more thing. “did you tell anyone?”

“no.”

“why not?”

“because it wasn’t mine.”

something shifts in his face. not softness. not forgiveness. only a small disruption in the armor, a place where the expected answer fails to arrive and leaves him with nothing ready to throw back.

you hold your sleeves tight inside your fists. “i’m not going to tell them. if you want them to know, you can tell them.”

a humorless breath leaves him. “that supposed to make you sound trustworthy?”

“probably not.”

“smart.”

“i’m trying something new.”

his grip tightens on the helmet. you see the leather of his glove crease around it. “you don’t know what you heard.”

“i heard him ask if it was really you,” you wish you hadn’t said it. you wish you’d said it better. you wish there were a way to touch the truth without making it bleed again. 

soldier boy’s jaw works once, and the expression on his face makes something behind your ribs hurt badly enough that you have to press your nails into your own palms. he’s not crying. he’d probably walk into traffic before letting that happen where someone could see. but his eyes are wet in the dark, furious with it, shining just enough to make him look betrayed by his own body. 

“guy picks up the phone like that,” he says. “like he’s been waiting.”

you think of homelander’s voice. is this really you? almost boyish and young. almost hopeful. a monster with a child’s hunger trapped underneath the cape and the cameras and the bodies.

“maybe he has,” you say quietly.

soldier boy’s face hardens, but the hurt doesn’t disappear fast enough. “yeah, well… now he found me.”

“you don’t owe him anything.”

he laughs once with disbelief sharp enough to cut. “you giving advice on parenthood now?”

you close your eyes for half a second. when you open them, he’s still there. “no,” you say. “i’m not.”

his stare stays on you.

“i know what i did,” you continue, and your voice threatens to shake, but you don’t let it become an excuse. “i know saying i’m sorry doesn’t fix it. i know wanting you to stay doesn’t give me the right to keep you here. if you walk out that door, i won’t stop you. i won’t follow you. i won’t wake them up and turn it into a team vote.” you swallow, throat tight around the next words. “i’m asking you not to go because i think you’re about to make a choice while you’re bleeding from something nobody can see.”

he looks at you like he hates that sentence. maybe he does. maybe he hates that you aren’t wrong.

“you don’t know shit about it,” he says.

“i know they used you.” your voice comes out low. careful. not gentle enough to be pity. “i know they took pieces of you and put them somewhere you never agreed to. i know they made him in a lab, raised him in one, sold him to the world, and then left you to find out from a file. that’s not fatherhood. that’s theft.”

his mouth opens slightly, then closes. the shield shifts in his hand. 

you see the words hit him one by one. not healing. nothing that clean. only reaching the place under the anger where the truth’s been pacing all day without a name.

“he’s mine,” he says. it sounds like hatred. or grief. 

you shake your head. “he’s your blood. that’s not the same thing.”

his eyes flash. “blood means something.”

“yeah, it does,” you take a breath, then keep going before fear can make the words smaller. “it means homelander is tied to you in a way none of us get to pretend doesn’t matter. but it doesn’t mean he’s you. it doesn’t mean what he’s done belongs to you. it doesn’t mean whatever rotten thing vought built into him was sitting in you first.”

soldier boy looks away. the shield lowers by an inch. you notice because you notice everything about him. it’s one of the more humiliating things about being alive.

“you don’t know that,” his throat moves.

“ben…” you say, softer, and he doesn’t tell you not to this time. “he doesn’t represent you.”

the hallway holds still around the words.

for a moment, he looks young in a way that has nothing to do with age. not innocent. never that. but stripped down to something before the suit, before the shield, before vought taught him how to become a headline and a warning at the same time. confused. angry. scared enough to hate anyone who noticed. his eyes are still wet, and he turns his face a fraction away like the dark might hide it better.

you want to touch him so badly your hand actually moves.

you stop it at your side.

his gaze drops to the aborted motion. neither of you says anything about it.

then, because your mouth has never known when to leave a wound alone and because the alternative is standing there until one of you breaks worse, you say, “besides, if he were really you, he’d have better hair.”

the silence after that is enormous.

soldier boy looks back at you very slowly. “that your idea of comfort?”

“i said if.”

“his hair’s fine.”

you blink. “wow. that’s the part you’re defending?”

his mouth doesn’t pull into a smile. not really. but something in his face breaks by one degree. the smallest fracture. enough to let air through. enough to hurt. you take that for what it is and don’t ask it to become more.

“come to bed,” you repeat.

his eyes darken immediately. “watch it.”

“to sleep.” your face warms, but you keep your voice steady. “literally sleep. unconsciousness. eyes closed. no stupid decisions.”

“you made most of those.”

“and i’m taking accountability by offering a mattress instead.”

that earns you a look. a real one. flat. exhausted. insulted despite everything.

you lift one shoulder. “you can decide if this new mattress is just as shit as the other one.”

“that supposed to sell me?”

“i’m working with what i have.”

“what you have is a shitty mattress.”

“then come complain about it,” the words settle softer than you mean them to.

he looks at the door and you think that that’s it. that you got close enough to almost matter, and almost wasn’t enough. maybe he’ll leave anyway. maybe he needs to. maybe staying inside this house with files and pity and butcher’s mouth and your sorry eyes is worse than whatever waits outside. 

you promised you wouldn’t stop him, so you step aside. you give him the path.

his eyes flick to the open space you leave, and something in his face tightens as if the choice itself is crueler than a locked room would have been.

“if you go, i won’t follow.” his jaw flexes. “but please don’t go.”

the second please is worse than the first. quieter. stripped of panic now. only want, which is harder to survive.

soldier boy looks at you for so long you feel every bruise you have left, every place he’s touched and hurt and wanted and held back. then his hand drops from the lock. 

he doesn’t say yes. he doesn’t have to. you turn before your face can do anything embarrassing. 

the house remains asleep around you, though part of you knows mm probably wakes at every shift in the air and may already be listening from behind his door. no one comes out. no one asks. you open your bedroom door and step inside first, because letting him follow matters more than you expected.

the room looks exactly as you left it and somehow too intimate with him in the doorway. your bed is narrow enough to make the offer ridiculous and wide enough to make refusing to touch each other possible if both of you are very disciplined, which neither of you has been ever.

soldier boy stands just inside the room, fully armored and wrong for the space.

you look him over once. shield, suit, gloves, boots. “are you sleeping in all that?”

“might.”

“seems comfortable.”

“you got a problem?”

“with metal in my bed? weirdly, yes.”

he gives you a look that would have worked better if his eyes weren’t still red around the edges.

you sit on the mattress, giving him something else to look at while he decides what parts of soldier boy he can take off without feeling stripped. 

he sets the shield down first with a quiet, heavy shift that makes the room feel different the second it’s no longer attached to him. his gloves come next. then his boots. each removal is practical, irritated, almost aggressive, but you understand the trust inside it anyway.

he pauses at the armor.

“i’m not putting moves on you,” you say.

his eyes lift. you immediately wish you’d phrased that any other way. “good,” he says. “you’re bad at it.”

“i got you on the couch.”

his mouth twitches before he can stop it. “you got yourself on the couch.”

“details.”

“big details.”

“take the armor off, ben.”

the name lands between you. he doesn’t correct it again. after a second, he reaches for the fastenings with short, annoyed movements, unstrapping enough of the suit to be able to lie down without turning your mattress into a weapons rack. 

when he’s done, he’s still dressed, still guarded, still too large for the room, but less like a monument and more like a man who’s run out of places to stand.

you crawl under the blanket first. you leave space beside you. more than instinct wants. the mattress dips when he finally sits, and for a second he only stays there on the edge with his back to you, elbows resting on his knees, hands loose between them. the curve of his spine beneath the dark shirt makes your chest hurt in a way that has nowhere useful to go.

“i should hate you,” he says.

you stare at his back. the words aren’t what surprises you. it’s the fact that he says them here. “yeah,” you answer, because lying would be worse.

his head turns slightly. “that all you got?”

“i’m not going to argue you out of it.”

a rough breath leaves him. “first time for everything.”

your mouth almost smiles. it doesn’t make it. “i’m trying something new, remember?”

he stays sitting there. then, quieter, “i actually don’t,” he sounds angry about it. like the failure to hate you is another thing his body has done without permission. “but i’m still mad.”

“you should be.”

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“agree with me like that.”

your fingers curl lightly against the blanket. “i don’t know what else to do.”

he looks over his shoulder then. there are things in his face you aren’t allowed to touch yet. maybe not ever. 

the motel room is still there. so is last night. so is the door he almost walked through and the son vought made from him and the call no one else knows about. but there’s something else too, something tired and raw and almost insulted by its own need.

“don’t do anything.”

you nod.

he lies down beside you like it costs him. the mattress dips badly toward his side, and under any other circumstances you would make a joke about him being dense in more than one way. you lie on your back, staring at the dark ceiling while he settles stiffly beside you, close enough that the air changes between your bodies, far enough that neither of you has to admit you came here for comfort.

the silence isn’t easy. but it’s shared.

after a minute, he says, “mattress is shit.”

your laugh comes out so quietly it almost disappears into the pillow. “i knew you’d have notes.”

“springs are fucked.”

“i’ll file a complaint with the safehouse committee.”

“tell them to get beer that doesn’t taste like piss too.”

“anything else?”

he’s quiet for a second. then, “no.”

you turn your head slightly. he’s staring at the ceiling too, jaw tight, eyes open. in the dark, without the shield, without the suit, without anyone watching from the kitchen, he looks less impossible. not smaller. never smaller. only closer to something breakable, which is almost harder to look at.

“i won’t tell them about the call,” you say.

his eyes shift toward you. “i know.”

you blink. “you know?”

“you would’ve done it already.”

that shouldn’t feel like trust. it does anyway. you look back at the ceiling before your face can betray you. “okay.”

the room settles around you. pipes in the wall. a low rattle from the window. the strange new house making strange new sounds you still don’t know how to read. beside you, soldier boy breathes like a man trying to keep himself awake because sleep is one more place he can’t control.

you don’t touch him. but, god, you want to. 

the first touch comes from him. not his arm around you. not his hand pulling you close. nothing big enough to become a promise. 

after a long time, when the silence’s thinned, his fingers find the hem of your hoodie in the dark. barely there. catching the fabric near your hip with the lightest grip he’s ever put on you. not pulling. not asking with words. only holding on to proof that you’re still beside him.

your throat tightens until breathing becomes something you have to remember how to do. you keep your eyes on the ceiling. you keep your body still, because moving too quickly might scare the moment back into hiding.

the new mattress is terrible. the house doesn’t know either of you well enough yet. homelander’s alive somewhere with soldier boy’s blood in his body, and vought has your face, and noir’s still a shadow waiting at the edge of every plan. none of that disappears. but in the dark, with two fingers hooked carefully in the fabric of your hoodie, soldier boy lets himself stay.

soldier boy is behind another door. that’s not your problem. you tell yourself that twice on your way to the kitchen, barefoot and cold, wearing sleep shorts and an old shirt soft enough to make you feel briefly less armed. 

the bruises under your jaw have faded into ugly little ghosts, gone if the light is kind. your wrist aches where his hand had closed around it earlier, but not badly enough to matter. not badly enough to touch. you’ve been very committed to not touching it.

the kitchen light stays off. you know where the fridge is. you know where the beer is. you take one bottle, then stare at the rest for a second before shutting the door with your hip.

one beer is fine. one beer at three in the morning while your chest feels too tight and your brain keeps replaying soldier boy’s voice saying i made a mistake is completely normal.

you don’t think about that. instead, you move into the living room and claim the couch with the stiff seriousness of a woman establishing territory. the room is dim, lit mostly by the weak blue glow of the television after you find the remote wedged between two cushions. the couch isn’t sagged in the middle like the one left at the old safehouse. this one doesn’t carry the shape of too many nights. this couch is firmer, colder, unfamiliar beneath your legs when you curl them under yourself.

you turn the tv on low and flip through channels until you find something aggressively stupid. a love island rerun. a neon villa, pretty people with shiny skin and terrible emotional boundaries. women in bikinis sitting by a pool while men with abs and the conversational depth of soap stand around pretending to have thoughts. perfect. meaningless. nobody on screen has ever had to run from black noir through an alley or stab a man to save hughie or make soldier boy kneel with a sentence.

a blonde girl is crying because a man named mason or jaxon or some other asshole-guy-name kissed her friend after saying he was “open to exploring connections.”

you take a sip of your beer. 

“idiot,” you mutter at the screen. the blonde keeps crying. the man says he didn’t want to hurt anybody. you hope a palm tree falls on him.

for a while, that’s enough. the low voices from the tv. the rain thinning against the windows. the bottle cold in your hand. the house finally still around you.

then the hallway floor creaks. your shoulders tense before you can stop them. 

you don’t turn. you know those steps. heavy, unapologetic, impossible to mistake even when he’s trying to be quiet, which he never really is. the sound moves closer, pauses near the kitchen, then continues toward the living room. a shadow fills the doorway.

soldier boy stops when he sees you.

you look at him then, because not looking would be worse. he’s in an old shirt and sweats, hair messy from whatever version of sleep he didn’t get, jaw rough, eyes sharp even in the low light. he looks too awake. too solid. too much like every bad thing you’re trying not to feel.

you glare at him.

he stares back.

you roll your eyes and look at the tv again.

from the doorway, he exhales through his nose. not a laugh. not quite a scoff. something irritatingly close to both. 

he doesn’t leave. leaving would mean you moved him out of a room by existing in it, and soldier boy would rather walk into traffic than hand you that.

he crosses to the kitchen without a word. the fridge opens. glass clinks faintly. it shuts again. his footsteps return.

you take another drink and keep your eyes fixed on the blonde girl, who’s now decided to forgive mason-jaxon-whatever because he called her “special” beside a fire pit. humiliating.

the couch dips on the opposite end. soldier boy sits with a full cushion between you and then some, body angled toward the tv, beer loose in one hand. not close. not far enough either. the space between you feels staged. childish. two people refusing to leave the same room because both of them are too stubborn to admit the room changed when the other entered it.

the woman on screen walks toward the pool in a bikini small enough to leave little to the imagination. which is kind to say. her lips are glossy and overfilled, chest bouncing with every step.

soldier boy lasts exactly twelve seconds. “jesus,” he says. “look at the tits on that one.”

you make a disgusted sound before you can stop yourself.

his eyes flick toward you. “what?”

“nothing,” you take a slow drink. 

the answer doesn’t satisfy him. “that was somethin’.” 

“just forgot you’re a walking harassment lawsuit.”

“lawsuit?” he repeats, as if personally insulted by the concept. “i complimented her.”

“you stared at a stranger’s chest and announced it to the room.”

“only room’s you.”

“tragic for me.”

his mouth twitches. you make the mistake of glancing his way and catch it. something ugly surges. shame. hurt. regret. the words are on the tip of your tongue. make the moment softer. fix things. explain. make it right.

“listen…” the word trembles pathetically on its way out. “i—”

he knows what you’re doing. still, he doesn’t flinch. instead, his eyes stay on the tv. he talks over your weak attempt. “you watching this crap for the plot?”

a soft scoff leaves your lips. “yes. i’m deeply invested in whether chastity forgives a man with the personality of damp cardboard.”

“she the one with the rack?”

“obviously.”

“then he should be apologizing harder.”

you turn your head slowly and stare at him. “you are so unbelievably old.”

he looks back with infuriating innocence. “and yet… still right.”

“women could vote when you were born, right? just checking.”

“don’t start.”

“i’m trying to understand where history failed you.”

he takes a drink from his beer, gaze returning to the tv. “women used to have standards.”

“men used to die from infected paper cuts. maybe progress is fine.”

his mouth does it again. the almost-smile. smaller this time, buried before it can become anything generous. you look away.

the show keeps going. someone receives a text and the entire villa reacts as if god has spoken through an iphone. a man in a linen shirt says he feels “tested”. another woman cries. a brunette with lashes large enough to create wind resistance says she’s “not here for drama” while actively walking toward drama with both hands open.

for five minutes, neither of you speaks. the silence isn’t comfortable. it has too many teeth for that. but it’s not the silence from earlier either, the one in the kitchen after he said he made a mistake and left the words inside you to rot. this one is stranger. quieter. full of old muscle memory and new caution. the couch knows too much even if the walls don’t.

you can feel him beside you. not even close enough for his body heat to reach your legs properly. still, he’s there, taking up space like he always does, one arm spread along the back of the couch, beer balanced against his thigh, attention pretending to belong to the tv.

eventually, he grunts a reluctant “can’t sleep?”

you don’t look at him. “you conducting wellness checks now?”

“heard you moving around.”

your mouth tightens around the next breath. “didn’t know you still listened.”

the tv murmurs between you. some poolside nightmare says she needs to protect her peace. you need to protect your peace, too. 

soldier boy is quiet long enough that you have to physically restrain yourself from staring at him.

“hard not to,” he says. something inside your chest reacts stupidly. then, after a beat, he adds, “you walk loud.”

you turn your head just enough to glare at him. “go fuck yourself.”

and he grins. actually grins. not the cruel curl from earlier. not the mean, empty thing he wore while holding butcher against the wall or your wrist in his hand. this is quick and sharp and horribly familiar, there and gone before you can decide whether seeing it hurts more than missing it did.

you kick his leg. you kick his leg with your foot. not hard. not enough to hurt even if he were human, which he isn’t, and that’s apparently something you can’t stop reminding him of tonight. it’s childish. petty. the kind of thing you do because your mouth has already said go fuck yourself and your body is too restless to let the insult be the end of it.

his hand closes around your ankle before your foot can drop back to the couch. firm. fast. not tight enough to hurt. tight enough to stop you.

the tv keeps flickering over both of you, blue and pink and stupidly cheerful, some woman on screen crying into a plastic champagne flute because her best friend whom she met 73 hours ago is after her man.

your foot is caught in soldier boy’s hand, your heel resting against his palm, his fingers wrapped around the bone just above it, and for one suspended second the whole room feels too small for the shape of that touch.

you look at his hand. then at his face. his grin is gone.

“you need to stop touching me,” his voice is low. flat. not loud enough to wake anyone down the hall, but sharp enough to make the air between you change.

your throat tightens before you can stop it. something mean rises to cover it. something colder than the want sitting under your ribs, colder than the guilt that’s followed you from room to room for days, wearing your skin better than you do.

“you’re all about consent now, huh?”

you know it’s ugly the second it leaves your mouth. you know it’s unfair in a way that feels good for maybe half a heartbeat before it feels rotten. because the thing between you isn’t clean enough for a line like that to land anywhere simple. because you were the one who said stop and made his body listen. because you were the one who took choice from him in a motel room with your voice shaking and power still hot in your blood. because there are things you can throw at him, and there are things that come back with teeth.

soldier boy’s eyes go still. his grip on your ankle tightens by one degree. “careful.”

“or what?” you ask, and the words are stupid. stupid, stupid, stupid, because your pulse is in your mouth now and your face feels too warm and your foot is still in his hand. “you’ll tell me to stay away again?”

his jaw shifts. you should stop.

“you’ll call me a liability?” you continue, voice quieter now, rougher around the edges. “tell me i’m a mistake? what’s next, soldier boy? you got a list?” the name lands hard. not ben. not anymore. you use it because he told you to. because it hurts less if you pretend the difference is respect and not punishment you agreed to by accident.

he stares at you for a long second.

then his hand pulls. sharp. warning.

your leg unfolds with the motion before you catch yourself, body sliding a few inches across the couch, beer bottle wobbling near your thigh. your free hand catches the cushion. the distance between you shrinks by half.

soldier boy doesn’t let go. “your mouth keeps getting you into trouble,.”

your laugh comes out too thin. “and yet you keep poking.”

his eyes drop to your mouth. that’s the first honest thing either of you has done all night. 

heat cuts through you so fast it almost feels like anger. maybe it is. maybe there’s no difference anymore. not with him. not after everything. you want to pull your foot back. you want to kick him again. you want to crawl into his lap and bite that stupid, mean line off his mouth before he can use it on you twice.

you hate that wanting him has survived this. you hate that it doesn’t even feel weaker.

his thumb shifts against your ankle. a small adjustment of grip. practical. possessive. a warning pretending to be nothing.

“let go,” you say.

“get out”

the words land between you with a weight neither of you misreads. your lungs forget how to work for one second.

the tv laughs for you. canned, bright, humiliating. some girl on screen says she just feels really “disrespected, babe”, and under any other circumstances you might’ve found that funny. under any other circumstances, you might’ve made a joke. under any other circumstances, soldier boy’s hand around your ankle wouldn't have felt like the last weak thread of restraint in the room.

you push yourself upright, every movement slow enough to pretend you’re still thinking.

his gaze follows. “don’t start something you can’t finish.”

the old rhythm is there, buried under fresh damage, under the motel room, under butcher’s voice saying give her another dose, under your own voice telling him to shut up and his body obeying. still there. sickeningly familiar. a wound with a pulse.

you tilt your head. “you first.”

his hand pulls again. harder this time. and this time, you go with it. easy. too easy. the way he taught you, back when the worst thing between you was pride. follow force instead of fighting it. use the pull. close the distance. don’t waste motion trying to prove you can overpower something stronger than you.

your knee lands beside his thigh. one hand hits the back of the couch near his shoulder. the other grabs the front of his shirt, fingers curling in old fabric before you decide to let them. his beer hits the side table with a dull clink, abandoned. your body ends up over his lap, not fully settled, not yet, hovering at the edge of a choice both of you have already made by the time your faces are close enough for his breath to touch your mouth.

for a second, neither of you moves. there’s still time not to. that might be the worst part.

then he kisses you. or you kiss him. it happens too fast to divide the blame cleanly.

his mouth hits yours hard enough to knock the breath out of you, and you make a sound you’ll hate yourself for later, small and furious in the back of your throat. he swallows it. his hand leaves your ankle and grabs your waist instead, fingers digging into you like he can pull the last few days out by force. your other knee finds the couch on the outside of his thigh, and then you’re in his lap properly, too close, too hot, your beer forgotten somewhere near the cushion, your hands in his shirt, then his hair, then the side of his neck.

teeth catch. his lower lip drags between yours. your fingers tighten in his hair until he makes a rough sound against your mouth, and the sound goes straight through you, bright and awful. he grips your waist harder. you grind down before pride can stop you, more anger than rhythm at first, just a mean little press of your hips into his because you want him to feel what he still does to you. you want to punish him with it. you want to punish yourself more.

his body answers immediately. his hand slides up your back, dragging your shirt with it just enough for the cool air to touch your skin. you shiver and bite his mouth for noticing. he catches your jaw in one hand, just enough to hold you there, enough to angle your face so he can kiss you deeper, dirtier, until the stupid tv sounds far away and the only thing you can hear is your breathing and his and the rough drag of fabric where your hips move against him.

“does this count as out?” you say against his mouth, because you’re committed to ruining everything with words.

he huffs something almost like a laugh, then kisses you hard enough to shut you up. the sound you make is swallowed whole. his grip on your waist turns bruising as he pulls you down fully into his lap, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his thighs. the heat of him is immediate, solid, the thick line of his cock already pressing up against you through his sweats. you grind down without thinking, a slow roll of your hips that drags a low groan out of his chest.

“fuck,” he mutters, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your sleep shorts. he squeezes, encouraging the motion, guiding you into a filthy rhythm against him. “all that mouth and you still climb right into my lap.”

you bite his bottom lip in retaliation, but it only makes him buck up harder, grinding his cock right against your clit through the thin layers separating you. the friction is too good, too much, and you’re already wet enough that the fabric clings. his other hand slips under the waistband of your shorts from behind, palm hot against bare skin, then lower. 

he finds how wet you are and goes still for half a second. just long enough to make it worse. his eyes lift to yours, dark and mean and too satisfied. “look at that.”

“shut up,” you breathe.

“no.” his fingers drag through you, slow and filthy, spreading the slick mess he finds there. “you don’t get to kick me, crawl all over me, soak through your fucking shorts, and then act like i’m the problem.”

your hips move before you can stop them, chasing the pressure, and his mouth curves against your jaw.

“there she is,” he says, rough and low. “knew you were still in there.”

the words hit too close to something tender. not sweet. not gentle. tender in the way a bruise is tender. tender because there was a version of you he used to pull out with his hands and his mouth and that awful voice, a version of you that didn’t flinch from wanting him, that didn’t have to measure every touch against what you did in the motel.

she’s still in there. apparently. still stupid enough to answer when he calls.

his fingers press against your entrance, and you hate the sound you make. small. broken. honest enough to humiliate you. he feels the way you shift into it, the way your thighs tense around his hips, the way your body gives him permission your mouth is too proud to shape.

“yeah?” he asks, close to your ear. “that what you want?”

he pushes two fingers inside you, slow enough to make you feel every inch, rough enough to make your forehead drop against his shoulder. the stretch steals the air out of your lungs. your nails dig into the back of his neck, and his free hand tightens at your waist, holding you there while his fingers work into you with the same cruel patience he used to have on the training mat.

“always got something to say,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear. his thumb finds your clit through the slick, messy heat between your thighs, circling hard enough to make your hips jerk. “running your mouth like you’re in charge. but look at you now… falling apart on my hand in the middle of the fucking living room.” 

his fingers thrust deeper, curling just right, and you clench around them, a broken sound escaping before you can stop it. 

“got me under some kind of spell, don’t you? can’t seem to stay the fuck away even when i should.”

the second the word tumble out, the both of you freeze. not because of the words exactly. but your body knows. his body knows. the room knows. the phrase lands with the shadow of power behind it even though there’s none left in your blood. 

soldier boy’s face changes beneath yours. not fear. not full anger either. something guarded, instant and reflexive, his eyes sharpening as if some part of him still has to check whether his mouth will obey him.

that’s what breaks it. you push off his lap so fast your knee slips on the couch.

his hand catches your elbow before you can stumble. you jerk back like the touch burns. “don’t.”

he lets go. immediately. no fight. no pull. no mean little grip to keep you there. his hand drops away, fingers curling once against his own thigh instead. it leaves you standing there with all your heat and all your shame and nowhere to put either of them. 

your mouth feels swollen. your breathing sounds too loud. your shorts sit crooked, wet, on you. your shirt twisted where his hand dragged it up your back. you fix none of it. fixing it would mean admitting there’s something to fix.

soldier boy looks up at you from the couch, eyes dark, jaw tight, mouth red from yours.

for one stupid second, you want to go back. the thought horrifies you enough to make you cruel. “that didn’t mean anything,” you say.

his face closes. he leans back by half an inch, slow, like he’s giving himself room to look less affected. “sure looked like something.”

your hands curl at your sides. your fingers still remember his hair. your thighs still remember the shape of him beneath you. your body is a traitor, every inch of it, warm and awake and confused enough to mistake being wanted for being absolved. you don’t deserve absolution from him. you’re not asking for it, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting things you have no right to want.

soldier boy’s gaze drops once to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “running?”

you laugh, but it comes out wrong. “from you?”

“looks like it.”

for a second, you just stand there. the tv keeps playing behind you, bright and stupid and impossible. someone by the pool says trust is really important to me, and you almost laugh because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

you pick up your beer from the couch cushion. it’s warm now, useless. you hold it anyway. “this was a mistake,” the words come out before you can stop them.

soldier boy’s expression hardens so completely it feels like watching a door shut.

you feel it then. the echo. his voice from earlier. the way it carved through you and left you standing in the kitchen with your face held together by pride alone. you didn’t mean to give it back to him. maybe you did. maybe that’s the ugly part.

his eyes stay on yours. “seems to be going around.”

hurt lands in you with a dull, familiar weight. you nod once, like you earned that. because you did. “yeah,” you say, quieter now. “guess so.” the softness in your own voice disgusts you.

you turn before he can hear any more of it. before your face does something stupid. before you can look at him long enough to remember the exact sound he made when your hands were in his hair. the hallway waits dark beyond the living room, and you head for it with your beer still in hand and your pulse still wrecked.

behind you, soldier boy says nothing. no stop. no insult. no old nickname tossed at your back to make you turn around.  the silence follows you down the hall anyway, hot and mean and alive.

He turns to you with a sigh and you feel his big brawny arms wrap around you under the warm covers, pulling you impossibly close when you hear the thud of his phone hit the floor. Your arm wraps around his back, pulling your chest even tighter together. His warm palm slides from your hips to the bend in your knee as he pulls your leg over his hip. "you're gonna be late babyy" you whisper before you feel him tilt your head up slightly "don't care" he mumbles and his lips are on yours in a lazy kiss as his morning hardness pushes against you through his boxers.

You both stay like this for what feels forever - your sleep addled state making time stretch in that non linear way as your lazy tongues lap away at each other. Franks palm moves slowly up and down your thigh and runs over the swell of your ass. Both of your hips moving in sleepy circles. Relishing the feeling of each other's want, before the world had started to wake up around you

Eight minutes later the blaring from his fog-horn of an alarm rips you out of your dreamy kiss as you break apart with a sigh in each others mouths. Franks sleepy eyes look into yours before he turns his head and death stares his phone on the floor of your room. “think you pressed snooze instead old man” you joke lightly with a kiss on his cheek he turns back to you “mmm this old man made you cum four times last night baby doll” a knowing smirk on his face, rolling you over to your back and giving you a deeper kiss and a light smack on the side of you ass as he pushes himself out of bed with a groan. Leaving you a little flustered with a little mess between your legs.

Your eyes rake his body as he gets ready for work. Unfortunately making you more and more desperate as he covers more and more of his body with his cargos and his shirt. "alright baby, see you in the afternoon - i love you" he rasps bending down to give you a kiss "love youuu, don't forget your lunch" you hum - and just like that he's out the door.

You end up drifting off to sleep for another hour or so before you stir awake again. Thanks to the sun filtering through the sheer curtains and an unmistakable dampness between your legs. Your eyes are still closed as your mind thinks back to the night before, how Frank had you folded in half, while he pumped in and out of you relentlessly and filled you full to the brim. A little mournful at how you now felt empty.

Your hand mindlessly rakes down your torso as the other one traces up underneath your franks t-shirt massaging your breasts. Your fingers dip down into your panties and swipes through your already wet folds, still slick from earlier. A soft breathy moan escapes you as your wet finger circles over your clit as. Your legs lazily peel further apart as your head is drawn to the remnants of Franks scent on his pillow. The one that he'll push under your hips when he's got you laying down in prone, pile driving you from behind. The pillow that his head will rest on when he gets you to sit on his face. You know? the one that he'll shove under your lower back when he wants to dig you out deeper? yeah, that one.

One hand still drawing lazy circles around your clit as the other peels off your his t-shirt. Your eyes flutter open, still hazy from sleep as you pull franks pillow closer to you. Taking in a deep inhale, the smell of him floods your nose. The scenes of the night before now more vivid as your circles on your sensitive bud grow more and more frantic. You want him though, need him.

Before you think too hard about it you let your desperate brain dictate your next move as you push yourself up and straddle Franks pillow. You couldn’t have him but this is the closest you could get. In nothing but your panties, your hips start rocking back and forth oh so slowly on his pillow.

Your trembling hands reach for your phone, your hips continuing its movements as you dial Frank - you just needed to hear him, he always knew what to do. He picks up after two rings

“Baby? Y’alright?” You don’t usually call him this early

“H-hi, you alone?” your voice comes out jagged and breathy

“yeah sweetheart in my office, what’s wrong?” his voice a little panicked

“nothing j-just missed you” he hears the rustling of sheets or something? in the background and the hitch in your breath

“babyy..what’re you doin” he asks with a curious lilt in his voice, you practically hear the grin growing on his face and hear a click of a lock - presumably Frank locking his door.

Instead of responding to him you take a quick photo - angled from the top. Capturing your pouty lips, swollen from you biting down on them, your heavy tits and peaked nipples and the star of the show - you, straddling his pillow in your flimsy little panties, the little wet patch from your dripping cunt on his pillow on full display - you hit send.

“Check your messages” you lightly pant

You hear the taps through the phone, his big fingers fumbling to open the notification

"jeeesus" you hear distantly with his sharp inhale followed by a pause as Frank's brain short circuits and his eyes nearly fall out of his skull.

“god baby, look at you” you hear him halfway between a hiss and a groan as he brings his phone back to his ears. You seem to be the only one who could keep Frank castle on his toes and you didn't even know it.

“m s-sorry frankie.. just miss yyou" you say with a breathy stutter

“ain't gotta be sorry sweetheart, my baby's just feeling needy yeah? thassalright baby" he coos "look so pretty grinding that pussy on my pillow angel”

"mm need you baby, feel so empty"

"thinkin bout last night hmm? bout how you were so full of me baby? took my cock like such a fuckin good girl aint that right?" he whispers hoarsley

“Mmmh-fuck-yeeah felt s-so good frankie” you mewl, gripping the phone so tight

“need Frankie to tell you what to do huh baby?” He croons softly

"y-yess pleasee" you whimper

"yeah? move those hips a little faster for me baby" he orders firm but sweet

"uh-hh god" you whine your hips moving frantically up and down the seam of his pillow

Frank smiles on the other side of the line

"take your panties off" he asks

"b-but your pillow frankie" as if you hadn’t already desecrated it

"don't make ask twice baby, take em off and show me"

you put the phone down and quickly pull your soiled panties off. spreading them out over his pillow showing him your just how wet you are - *click* another photo sent to him and you put the phone on loud speaker now.

"goddamn it baby, got me fuckin hard as a rock at my desk you know that? bet you taste like fuckin heaven" Frank groans in a hushed tone

"wish you could taste me frankiee-god-want you so bad” you whimper as your thighs start quivering on either side of his pillow and he hears it in your voice

"I know baby I know but you’re gonna make yourself cum like this yeah? then you let me take care of you real good tonight? Hmm?” he coos through the phone

"y-yeah fuuuck-yes-please" your voice staggered, breath hitching and he knows you're close

"y'gonna make a mess on my pillow honey? leave a nice present for frankie yeah? you ride my pillow just like you ride my cock baby"

"oh-fuck mmso close frankie" you cry out, one hand now on the bedhead keeping yourself up, the other hand clutched on his pillow.

"want you to use the corner, can you do that f'me princess? rub that pretty little clit just on the corner - just how you like rubbin it all over frankie when you ride me baby" he coos through the loudspeaker

you nod your head dumbly as if he can see you. But you follow your orders, bunching up the pillow - angling the corner up. Your moans get louder as the folded corner catches on the underside of your clit just right. Bottom lip wedged between your teeth as you look down at the lewd sight beneath you.

“Yeah that’s my good girl” frank's panting now, getting himself so worked up over what his pretty girl is doing.

The friction of his pillow rubbing up and down on your wet slit and your clit bumping the corner of his pillow has the coil in your core winding tighter and tighter.

“Oh fuck-god-ca-can I cum please Frankie? wanna cum” you plead desperately through the phone

Frank has to pull his hard cock out of his pants, he’s leaking so hard he’s afraid he’ll have to get through the rest of the day with a stain on his pants and your desperate mewling does nothing but spurt more pre-cum out of his slit

“yeah cmon baby cum all over my pillow f’me make a mess-god-fuck you sound so pretty baby, got me fuckin leakin everywhere”

“Wanna taste it Frankie’s want it in my mouth” you pant, sounding more and more depraved as your climax crescendos

“Want me to save my cock for you? Huh keep it dripping and hard just how you like it yeah baby?” he pants, his palm itching to touch himself - just to give himself an ounce of pleasure. But if his baby wants him to save it for her then thats what his baby gets.

“Ngghfuckkk yes baby I’m coming oh my god I’m coming” you cry out as you reach your peak and Franks hoarse “yeahyeahyeah’s” and “thasssit baby” send you over the edge. Your thighs clamping tighter around franks pillow as you cum all over it. With your tits bouncing up and down as your body jolts from the shocks of pleasure coursing through you.

Your body gives way as you fall flat on the bed, your hips unconsciously writhing slowly with his pillow still wedged between your thighs as you comedown from your high “mmmthank you baby” you slur like a milk drunk cat “feel good princess?” he croons

“Hey boss! We gonna head out now or what?!” You hear one of the guys call out distantly

“Yeah! Pack the truck up!” Frank calls out - the instant flip in his tone from cooing at his baby to barking out orders to his guys makes you smile.

“Gotta go baby, dont go fuckin anymore pillows till I come home” he chides playfully

“Mhm okay Frankie” you laugh at the wet mess of a pillow between your legs

“Love you honey” you hear the smile

“I love you too baby” you say lazily before hanging up.

A creak in the floorboards rips your fuzzy brain out of its post orgasm haze. Hands grabbing at franks shirt that you had tossed aside but your eyes stay fixed at the door, that you hadn't notice had been left ajar.

Maybe Frank didn’t close it all the way, he was in a rush this morning.

A minute passes as you sit there, still, t-shirt thrown over your bare body as your ears survey the silence.

Nothing - old floorboards perhaps? it is an older house you tell yourself.

You stand in the doorway, Franks shirt hanging loosely over your shoulder - silent and observing . After a minute of silence you roll your eyes at yourself and head into the shower.

It's a nice day outside, so after washing your mess off the sheets and his pillowcase you hang out a load of laundry to dry and decide to do a few more tasks in the sun. You're elbow deep in potting mix when you hear a knock on the side gate. Peering up you see a pair of what was once white sneakers now scuffed and grey between the bottom of the gate and the pavement.

"hello?" you call out hesitantly

"H-hey it's Rob!" you hear his voice from behind the gate.

Dusting off your hands as much as you can on your shorts you swing the gate open. You see him standing there with a sheepish smile and a little pot plant in hand. He looks different today, a little more put together? perhaps a little more rested?

"I-uh I've come with a peace offering?" he says offering up the pot plant with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

"Just wanted to say I was sorry for what I said yesterday. I'd hate if I ruined my first chance at being friends with a neighbour here" he smiles

"oh, um thank you! you really didn't have to" you say politely.

"It's a peace lily, I just noticed yesterday you're all set with your outdoor, thought I would get you something for inside your house - think of it as a new neighbour present" he shrugs as you take the pot plant from him

"a peace lily huh? on the nose" you laugh observing the shiny green foliage, with the buds yet to bloom.

"Oh god, is that ridiculous" Rob cringes, his nose scrunched in embarrassment

"no no not at all, its-it's lovely thank you" you turn to place the pot on the bench.

When you turn back you see him eyeing out your clothes line.

shit you internally kick yourself when you see him staring at your thin panties with the frayed lace.. the one that you ruined this morning on Franks pillow now washed and drying on the line atleast.

"SO" you say exaggerated as he turns to look at you again "you all unpacked?"

"yeah-well I mean unpacked out of the truck - haven't really made much of a start with actually opening the boxes" he says scanning your back yard and the windows of your house when he talks to you - the same way he was doing yesterday.

"Well hey, we've been here for about a year and we still have boxes that haven't been opened so - I'm sure you'll be fine" you offer with a smile as some form reassurance.

"yeah, slow and steady right?" Rob says, his eyes flicking down to your shorts covered in soil.

"well I'll leave you to it just, just wanted to come by and you know - say sorry" he says clearing his throat, eyes flicking up to the clothes line once more before turning towards the gate.

"thanks again! and good luck with the rest of your unpacking" you say waving him off from the gate.

You turn back to the mountain fo work you had in the garden - you'll be out here for a while.

By the time you've finished up in the garden, showered off all the dirt and started on dinner Franks home.

"smells good baby" you feel him in your ear as his hand circles your waist.

"almost done" you hum, your body leaning back into him, tilting your head to the side as he places a few soft kisses down your jaw and neck.

Over dinner Frank tells you about his day, how he feels like he was just in his truck driving around the city the whole day (thinking about how you straddles over his pillow and how badly he wants to watch you do it) he keeps that thought to himself - though you see the way his eyes flicker down to your legs and your lips, the desperation there in his eyes. You decide to be a little mean and ignore it as you excitedly tell him how you made a lot of progress with he garden today.

"Oh Rob brought by a plant today, a little peace lily, think it'll go nice on the patio" you say, eyes scanning his face trying to read his reaction.

You see the nostril flare held at bay as he takes a sharp inhale "yeah?"

"yeah" you smile "they look beautiful when they start flowering" you hum and he doesn't say much else so you leave it.

Pushing yourself off your chair you give Frank a kiss through his hair before grabbing his empty plate and yours and taking it over to the sink.

"Gonna take the bins out honey got everything in it?" he asks pulling the bags out.

"yeah baby, thank you" you nod, stacking the dishes into the dishwasher.

The air has a bit of bite to it when Frank steps outside. Two boxes and a garbage bag in hand fly straight into the bin. He turns around, clapping his hands together dusting them off and he finds himself eyeing out Robs house.

Theres a gnawing in the back of his mind that he can't quite shake. But, you'd said he's just being nice. And he trusts you - he does, he just doesn't trust the world, not with you.

Frank's feet start moving before he can overthink his actions and he ends up at Robs front door.

In all honesty, a few years ago he wouldn't have even knocked, he probably would have snuck in and snooped around - collecting evidence of Rob’s impure motives of befriending you. Maybe caved Rob's head in based of pure instincts alone. But, no - he knocked on the door instead of knocking Rob's teeth out and to Frank that’s growth, so he’ll take that win.

After some shuffling around behind the door it opens, not fully - just enough for Rob to stick his head out.

“You Rob?” Frank asks, voice low and tight, trying his best to not crack a molar. He tries to peer around Rob’s head into the house. But instead of opening the door to let Frank inside he steps out, closing the door fully behind him.

Rob looks at Frank, slightly wide eyed “uh-hey-yeah Rob, you’re um” he hums as if trying to recall

“Frank.” Frank juts in bluntly before continuing “you’ve met my wife, thought I’d come say hello since we haven’t bumped in to each other yet, funny that” Frank says in what he tries his best to be a friendly tone but comes out more menacing.

Frank extends his arm forward, palm open offering a handshake. Reluctantly, Rob extends his out clasping Franks hand. Rob isn't small by any means, but next to Frank.. well he looks tiny. His palm laughably small in Frank's large rough calloused hand.

Frank grips Robs hand with a tightness that surpasses the parameters of a friendly handshake. His eyes don't move from Rob, his hardened stare burning straight through his eyes.

"yeah guess we just keep missing each other" Rob laughs sheepishly

"mmhm must be" frank retorts, completely unamused

a few moments of silence pass between the two men, tension so thick it's practically palpable.

"Well, g'night Rob - i'll be seein ya" he nods and takes a few steps down the patio, with that swagger in his step that is so quintessentially Frank - the one that sways his body left and right with each step.

"Oh yeah, one more thing Rob" he grits his name out turning back to look at him "don't bring my wife flowers" Frank scoffs, with a cocky shake of his head before disappearing between the streetlights as Rob stands by his front door watching him.

Frank's mind starts swimming as he walks back over to your front door. You'd said he was being nice, but there was something about him - something squirrely that Frank just couldn't quite put his finger on. He tried to stick with he facts you had given him - a nice guy, just moved in he's just. being. nice. Unfortunately, his gut feeling was louder than his rational thoughts but he shakes his head trying to get rid of them as he crosses the threshold back into your peaceful abode.

A soft thud of the front door pulls your attention from the kitchen counter that you're wiping down. "was about to send a search party out" you laugh turning to him. Your smile fades a little when you see the tension through his brows.

"hey - you okay baby?" you ask softly, your hands gravitating up to his face, your thumb smoothing the crease between his brows.

"m'fine, just saying hi to the new neighbour" he gruffs with the faintest hint of a smirk, kissing the tip of your nose before turning to replace the bin liner.

"oh.... aaaand?" you ask curiously mouth slightly agape as you lean back on the kitchen counter. You find yourself bracing for some sort of news.

"and? nothin" he shrugs as he washes his hands "I played nice honey, promise" he says (as nice as possible for Frank when he was untrusting of someones intentions with his wife).

"hmm thank you baby" you hum with a tilted smile into his lips.

Franks hands skim up your torso from your hips and cup the side of your face kissing you deeper "missed you today" he whispers into your mouth wanting to stop talking about Rob completely.

you gasp "you don't miss me everyday?" you pull apart from him, hand on your heart for some extra theatrics.

He chuckle at your performance "yeah yeah drama queen" rolling his eyes fondly before hauling you over his shoulder in one swoop.

"FRANK!" you shriek and your cackle echos through the house as he walks you both upstairs.

"ya been reeeal cheeky today honey" he tuts flipping you onto the bed, your back hits the mattress and Frank is on you in a heart beat.

"y'have any idea how hard you made it for me to get through my day?" he rasps, you feel his messy kisses up and down your neck as he paws at your clothes, peeling away the layers. He yanks your panties down your legs leaving you completely bare underneath him. "awwww my poor husband, did I make it sooo hard?" your voice syrupy with a grin, knowing exactly what it does to him when you call him that as you palm over his rock hard bulge through his work pants.

"yea-huh" he almost whimpers into your neck with a ragged breath, feeling your touch on him. You hear him unzip his work pants and he grabs your hand and shoves it into his briefs "feel what you did to me baby, been like this all fuckin' day" he rasps out so needy. A soft gasp leaves you when you feel the damp patch in his briefs and just how slick his tip already is with pre-cum. And god is he hard, so painfully hard.

Your poor husband.

"ohh i'm sorry frankie, I'll make it all better?" your lips find his "want me to make it better baby?" you coo at him. He nods desperately looking into your eyes as your hands push his briefs further down. Swallowing his shaky exhale in your mouth you wrap your hand around his thick throbbing cock, thumb swiping at his pre-cum spreading it down his shaft as you stroke him slow and firm. "fuck" Frank breathes out as he starts mindlessly rutting his hips into your hand "w-want you baby, please" he pleads "you already have me silly" your voice laced with the most insincere innocence and a shit eating grin.

Frank pushes himself up and hurriedly shucks his pants and briefs off and peels his t-shirt from his big torso. He looks down and pretty much combusts at the sight of you, completely naked and licking his pre-cum off your fingers with your eyes locked onto his.

"fuckin tease" he grunts as he hooks his hands around your thighs and pulls you with one swift jerk till your hips are at the edge of the bed. Your laugh is cut short with a gasp when you feel Frank swipe through your wet folds before he pushes his meaty finger into your hole. "oh-fuuuck frankiee" you sigh as your hands slide up his veiny forearms.

"what happened to that smartass mouth baby?" he mocks. Your mouth opens in an attempt to voice a witty retort but all that comes out is a breathy little "uh" as Frank shoves another finger inside of you making your eyes roll shut.

You feel Frank lean down, bringing his mouth to you "yyyeah that's what I thought, now you shut that little mouth and let me take care of you huh? said I was gonna take care of you didn't I?" he croons, recalling your conversation from earlier in the day. All you can do is nod your head as you feel him pumping his fingers inside of you, opening your walls up for him.

Once he's happy with how you've loosened up he pulls his fingers out of your hole and lines up his cock. "y'ready baby?" he asks in a desperate pant. "u-huh" your voice comes out airy as you nod your head.

Frank hooks his palms under your knees and pushes them all the way back till they hit the mattress. Folding you in half, his favourite way to fuck you when he's this desperate for you. He slams his cock in all the way, his pelvis colliding in with yours with a force that juts your body up the mattress. But he cannot handle having you anything less than fused to him right now. So he crawls up on the bed to meet you and pushes his cock inside you again "ggggoddamnit baby" he groans and you mewl as your back arches off the bed "fuuck ohhh my godd".

"been thinkin bout this pussy all fuckin day, y'know that?? bout how fuckin sexy you looked fuckin my pillow like that". he grunts as he fucks into you hard. One of his palms slide under your body hooking over your head to keep you in place, the other has your cheeks smooshed between his thumb and fingers making your lips pillow out. “You like torturin’ me baby? Huh? That it?” He groans as you try and shake your head no in his vice grip around your chin.

His movements halt

His cock still balls deep inside of you but he lets your legs go and pushes himself up, looking outside the window. You recognise that searching look in his eyes.

“H-hey? Baby? What is it? You coo softly voice a little strained as your cunt still pulses around him.

He’s silent, eyes still assessing.

“Frankie?” Your voice soft again as your hands run up and down his tense arms. You see the beads of sweat illuminated by the moonlight through the window gliding down his temple.

“Though-thought I heard something” he pants looking down at you voice strained

“S’nothing baby, just you and me” you reassure him your breath still uneven, but his eyes go back up to the window

You bring your arms up to cup his face forcing his eyes back on you “cmon baby, look at me, keep going” you grind your hips down a little trying to get him to move again and there’s a break in his brute cold stare. You tighten a little around him, still inside of you and his breath stutters a little as he lowers himself back down to you - lips on yours again in a chaste kiss and he starts rocking his hips back and forth once more.

“mmyeahh baby just like that” you coo as your walls cling onto his cock. His pace is different - slower but still hard. Each thrust ending with the tip of his cock punching through your cervix. “feel so fuckin good honey” he groans into your neck, sucking bruises on it in between kisses.

Your moans get louder and louder as he continues his hard thrusts into you “ohhfuck mmso close frankie” you cry out as the slippery sounds of franks cock pounding into you fill the room again with is mind focused back on you “yeah this what you wanted huh? My poor girl, had to cum round nothin this mornin’-fuck-this what you needed yeah baby? Cummin round my cock like this?” He whispers into your neck. Your heart is racing, the coil in your belly wound so tight it feels like it’s going to rip through you at any second.

You’re almost there "yesyesyes fuck missed your cock baby, just needed my husbands big cock-ohfuckkk baby mright there" you babble away and Frank wraps his arms tighter around you now, the title causing him to chase his own release and you're so so so close, just on the precipice of release.

Then he freezes again. His hand flies to your mouth clasping firmly down. Both of your chest heaving against each other, your eyes are wide staring at him as he looks to the side.

A shattering sound outside makes you jump. And Franks hand tightens even more around your mouth when a small squeak escapes you.

Frank unsheathes himself from you, trying his best to ease himself out of you slowly but he's already in threat assessment mode. He reaches under the bed on his side and pulls out his gun and within a second his briefs are back on

“Stay here” his voice even but his eyes wide and you hear the urgency under it.

“No-Frank no way I’m coming with you” you try and argue in a hushed whisper - you had no doubt that Frank could handle himself and take care of whatever it was but.. the 'what if's always played at you. What if something happened, what if you could have done something.

You grab his shirt, heart racing for a whole other reason now as you pull it over yourself and start climbing off the bed. Frank turns to you cupping your face in his big hands “baby, please listen to me I need you to stay here please” he pretty much begs with those beautiful brown eyes.

Your hands drop by your side and Frank gives you a firm kiss on the forehead that lingers for just a second longer than usual before turning towards the bedroom door, tucking his gun in the back of his briefs. And just like that you see his big scarred back disappear, along with the sound of his thundering foot steps down the hallway and stairs.

You shut the door, hands trembling as you push the lock down. Ducking down you slowly make your way over to the window and try and peer out from the corner. With a silent prayer to whatever god was up there flooding through your mind to please please please let it be nothing and keep your love safe.

It was late, maybe you should have been sleeping but your mind just.. wouldn’t shut up. It was maddening.

You sigh heavily as you walk over to the couch and plop down onto the cushion. You tried falling asleep, spent an hour tossing and turning, it was annoying.. you hated nights like this where you felt.. alone.

You were retired. A bit early, yes, but you couldn’t work for Vought anymore. You had liked your team, sort of, Payback was.. complicated to say the least. But there was never any bad blood with any of them.

Except Crimson Countess.

She was… complicated. You had a feeling she liked Ben— or maybe she just wanted the spotlight, you weren’t entirely sure what her motives were. She always glared, never talked to you even when you tried to start a friendly conversation, she just.. didn’t like you.

Either way, you stopped trying to talk to her.

But none of that mattered now. You left Payback. Sure, some of the members were disappointed or sad— but it was for your own good.

Oh, but Ben..

He never admitted it, but he was angry when you left. The day on your departure, he offered you that charming smirk, playfully said no one would miss you.

But behind all that? He was more upset than the whole team.

He’d never admit it, of course. He was too proud for that.

But god.. every time he thought about it? About you leaving? It made his chest hurt. And he hated that feeling.

You and Ben had a… complicated relationship. You both loved each other but, neither of you ever tried to admit it.

You grab the remote and turn in the television, you flip through whatever was playing, some old black and white films that you weren’t really interested in was playing.. a movie you saw once with Ben, but it wasn’t really your style.

Click.

Click.

Click.

You sigh. Nothing was interesting, your brain was running and you felt.. lonely..

You were about to give up before you got to the news channel, before you could click next, you saw a glimpse of Soldier Boy’s charming smile.

Oh?

You pause, setting the remote down when you see the latest news, he saved a family today, stopped a drug dealers, that’s nice—

Suddenly Crimson Countess and Soldier Boy was on screen, her hand on his chest, his hand holding her hip to keep her close.

Oh.

You blink, your head tilts to the side as the news announces their newfound relationship.

Huh.

Why did you feel a sudden pang in your chest.

Your hand comes up to press over your chest, where your heart had started beating a bit faster.

What was this feeling..? Why did you feel.. sad? Angry..?

Why did it hurt?

You stare at the screen for a long time, your jaw clenched as you slowly lower your hand from your chest, you could see them going in for a kiss, and—

You couldn’t take it anymore. You couldn’t look at it. You suddenly felt.. sick..?

You turn it off before you can see any more of it.

You take a few deep breaths, squeezing your eyes shut as you try not to think about the image.

Her hand on his chest.

His hand in her hip.

They were close.

Too close.

You shake your head and huff. You shouldn’t feel this way. He’s not yours. He doesn’t belong to you. And this was probably just a decision Vought made. Either way, you shouldn’t care— you weren’t a part of the team anymore.

But it still hurt.

There’s a sudden knock on your door and you exhale slowly before standing up.

You still felt sick.

Your stomach felt wrong. Like you wanted to throw up.

Half of you wanted to ignore whoever was knocking, maybe just crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling..

But then the knocks continued. Persistent. Insistent.

Jesus, knock harder why don’t you.. you think to yourself.

With a heavy sigh you walk over to the front door, you straighten your posture and just.. breathe for a second.

You open the door, and Ben is standing there, for once, not in his hero suit.

“Ben,”

You say, and for a brief moment, the image of Crimson Countess and Soldier Boy leaves your mind,

But, only for a second.

And it comes right back, like some haunting image.

Your heart squeezes, and you have to force yourself to maintain eye contact.

Ben, with all his charm gives you that smirk, the soft dimples you loved so much present, his eyes squint, showing the smile-wrinkles he had at the corner.

He looked so good.

But then you remember the image. And it all just feels.. wrong.

“Doll,”

Ben’s voice comes out smooth, rough after a long day of countless interviews.

You don’t say anything for a moment, and he catches it. But he doesn’t say anything just yet,

“You gonna let me in or do I have to get on my knees and beg like I’m begging god for forgiveness?”

You snap out of your daze and exhale. You step to the side and pull your door open, gesturing for him to come inside.

He does it without hesitation.

Walking in like he owns the place.

The door closes with a soft click, your hand lingers on the doorknob for a brief moment, you try to shake the image out of your head, but for some reason it was hard.

You turn around and follow him inside.

“You’re quiet, darlin’,”

Ben comments as he glanced over to you as he steps into your kitchen.

“You usually do all the talking,”

You retort and he snorts.

“There she is,”

He grins as he opens your fridge to grab himself a beer, he’s done this so many times you don’t even complain anymore.

“What are you doing here?”

You ask, and he turns to you, arching a brow like your question offended him.

“What? Can’t visit my partner?”

“Ex partner,”

You correct.

“Ex partner.”

Ben corrects himself, and you could have sworn you heard a hint of.. disappointment? Bitterness? Maybe both?

Ben shrugs as he opens the can, bringing it up to his mouth and taking large gulps.

You try not to stare, try not to make it obvious how god damn attractive he is, because if he knew you were looking at him like that? You would never hear the end of it. And Ben could talk. It was one thing he was good at if not talking about fucking.

“So you’re just.. here. To visit.” You say as you lean back against the counter, your arms cross over your chest.

Ben’s eyes flicker to your chest, he can’t help himself really, he’s only a man..

His gaze snaps back up and he smirks.

“You don’t seem pleased,” he scoffed, “thought you liked my company, doll,”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer.

“Exactly my point,”

He crushes his can and tosses it in the trash, last time he left an empty can on your counter, you gave him shit for it, rightfully so.

He takes a step closer, hands bracing on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in,

“You look damn fine,” his voice drops as his gaze drops to your lips for a moment, “never thought I’d have the privilege of seein’ ya in pajamas,” he purrs, “look damn good in em too.”

“Ben..”

You glance away and lean back, and a flash of disappointment crosses Ben’s face.

“What?”

You shake your head,

“No..”

His eyebrows quirk. Did he read the signs wrong? You don’t feel the same way he does..?

He shifts back, giving you some space,

“Shit..” he muttered to himself, “I thought.. never mind.”

You feel a slight sting in your chest.

Fuck.

Why did his voice sound so hurt..?

You exhale and shake your head.

“I uh.. saw the news,”

Ben’s heart nearly stops.

“The news?” He repeated, “what about it?”

“You.. and Crimson Countess.”

Ah. That.

“What about us?”

You finally look at him,

“You’re.. together.”

“Yeah, and?”

Jesus, can this guy ever read the room..?

“Never mind.”

“Nah,” Ben cuts in quickly, his hand raised, fingers, surprisingly gentle? Grip your chin, tilting your head up so you could look at him.

“Don’t bullshit me, sweetheart. You know that shit Is for the cameras.”

You stay quiet. Jaw tight as you look at him.

There’s a moment of silence as you both stare at each other, at the moment, he’s not Soldier Boy, just.. Ben.

“Hey,”

Ben taps your chin to bring you back down to earth, and you blink at him.

“I ain’t.. good at this whole.. feelin’ shit.” He scoffs at the mere mention of it, he felt pathetic admitting this, he felt.. less of a man.

“But I mean it, ya know? It’s fake. I don’t like her.”

Your throat goes dry. You know this is Ben’s way of confessing. Sure it’s not.. the best, but this coming from Ben? It was probably the most you were going to get.

“I..”

Your mouth parts and you let out another heavy exhale.

“It just.. it was unexpected when I saw it. I.. kind of wish I knew about it beforehand. I.. wish I didn’t find out about it through the television.”

Ben nodded slowly.

“Yeah.. should have called ya,” he looks at you, and the look in his eyes is a silent sorry.

The closes you’ll get to an apology with Ben.

And that was enough.

You lean up, your hand gently cupping his cheek, he’s completely still, eyes locked on you, he lets you lead, not wanting to push for much.

But the moment your lips touched his?

He didn’t hold back.

His mouth locked with yours, a bit forceful, like he was starved. And to be honest, he was. He had been holding back for too long— and he definitely wasn’t going to hold back now.

His mouth moves against yours, a low grunt leave his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. Your hand cups the back of his neck, fingers curling in Ben’s hair. Your eyes are closed as you savor the feeling of his lips against yours.

Something you’ve both been aching for.

When you reluctantly break the kiss for air, he nudges his nose against yours, the touch almost.. tender. And dare you say affectionate.

“Fuck, sweetheart..” he muttered under his breath, his lips brush against the corner of your mouth, “been wantin’ to do that the first day I met ya,”

Your breath hitched at the confession.

You tilt your head, pressing your forehead against his as you just.. breathe. Breathe him in.

“I hated seeing you two..”

You whisper, but Ben catches it.

He hums quietly, his lips brush against your jaw, and you could feel his beard scraping against your skin, the feeling oddly.. comforting.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, doll,”

Ben can’t help but tease.

And you scoff.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that an invitation?”

You glare at him, and he smirks.

“You walked into that one, sweetheart,”

“Shut up,”

“Shut me up.”

You scoff before crashing your lips against his again just to shut him up.

His hands wander down your sides, hands firmly gripping your hips before falling down to cup the back of your thighs. He effortlessly picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his waist.

He sets you on the counter, his big arms wrap around your waist as he leans his weight against you.

You both part for air and he chuckles.

“Fuck..” he muttered, eyes opening to look at you.

“Fuckin’ love you..”

Your heart nearly stops at that.

But you smile. And for that moment? The image of him and Crimson Countess leaves your mind, it’s just you and Ben..

“I love you too.”

You whisper.

↬ pervert dean who steals your panties when you and Sam pop out to the gas station. he'd make sure the door was locked behind you. as soon as he heard the car drive off, he'd go through your suitcase overlooking the freshly washed ones and going straight for the cute little pair you had on last night. his heart would skip a beat when he finds it, immediately bringing it up to his nose and breath in your scent letting out a loud dirty moan. he'd carefully zip your suitcase and head straight for the bathroom, uncomfortably hard against his jeans. he'd wrap the cotton around his cock and jerk off imagining it was your pretty hands wrapped around him. he'd stuff the cum filled panties in his jeans afterwards.

↬pervert dean who can't help but stare at your ass when you walk by. you'd be questioning someone about a recent folklore sighting only for him to zone out halfway, tilting his head as he stares at your plump figure filling your jeans. he'd imagine what it'd look like fucking you from behind, your ass jiggling with each thrust. how divine the flesh would feel between his fingers leaving angry bruises in it's wake. or how you'd look, reverse cow girl, bouncing on him. the plush of your ass hitting his crotch as your sopping pussy squeezes around him.

↬ pervert dean who'd wrap an arm around you at night and pull you close under the guise of it being cold. you choose to ignore the hard heat pressing against your ass. he begrudgingly has to hold himself back from humping you. the smallest friction drives him crazy. his arm tightens around your waist. he waits until you're asleep before starting to rut against you, breaths coming out in quiet pants. the bulge of his cock slides against your warm thighs as he chases his release. his hand would slide down into your panties and curse against your neck when he felt the wetness gathered there. fingers circling your clit as he bites back a call of your name. your reaction pushed him over the edge. you shift, face scrunching together in pleasure as you moaned softly in your sleep gushing around his fingers. the next morning you're confused as always at the arousal dripping out of you and soaking your panties.

outside, the starlighters are already loud enough to reach the service corridors when the doors open at the wrong angle. chanting. whistles. a rolling wave of anger and devotion gathered behind barricades across the street, big enough to pull cameras away from the main entrance and make vought security pretend they aren’t nervous. annie’s people are good at noise.

inside, homelander smiles from every screen. not in person yet. not close enough to make the air turn sharp. only pre-recorded footage playing above the lobby while stage techs, assistants, security guards, and catered staff move through the building with increasing panic disguised as efficiency. his face appears twenty feet high over a crowd of donors and carefully selected families, all bright teeth and dead eyes, one hand raised in a wave that somehow feels threatening even when it’s only pixels.

you keep your head down and carry a tray of empty champagne flutes through the staff corridor. you belong perfectly. that’s the trick. not confidence exactly. confidence gets noticed if you wear too much of it. belonging is quieter. shoulders relaxed. pace steady. eyes moving only as much as they need to. staff badge clipped cleanly to your shirt. hair tied back. black trousers. white button-down.

“camera two is looped,” frenchie murmurs in your ear. “camera three is thinking about becoming looped, but she needs a little more persuasion.”

“don’t flirt with the cameras,” mm says over comms.

“i am building trust.”

“faster, french.”

kimiko is somewhere closer to the east stairwell, dressed in catering black with a tray she hasn’t once used for food. frenchie has disappeared into an equipment corridor with more wires than is probably safe for any building full of millionaires. annie is outside near the rally, face hidden beneath a cap and sunglasses while she keeps the starlighters pointed in the useful direction. 

butcher is inside the building, farther north, moving through the lower service level with the confidence of a man who has never believed in restricted access. soldier boy is closer to the older backstage corridors, where the route maps suggest black noir might move if homelander’s personal security detail needs a private passage.

you’re alone by design.

that felt fine when the plan was still paper. now, with vought security around every corner and homelander’s recorded voice bleeding faintly through the walls, it feels less fine. manageable. but less fine.

you reach the end of the corridor and stop beside a service table, pretending to rearrange napkins while your gaze tracks movement through the open archway ahead. main event staff. two guards. a woman with a headset walking fast enough to ruin her shoes by the end of the night. another server carrying bottled water toward the green room hallway.

then you see blue. not literal blue. not the suit. the deep isn’t wearing the full oceanic circus costume today, but there’s something painfully aquatic about him anyway. a teal pocket square. a pin shaped like a wave. hair styled too carefully, jaw set in the expression of a man trying to look important while knowing nobody in the room considers it.

he stands near the hallway leading toward the backstage holding area, talking to a vought assistant who looks like she’s considering walking directly into traffic.

and suddenly, the deep turns.

you look down immediately, but the motion has already happened. his face shifts through boredom, irritation, confusion. then recognition. of course. immediately. because kevin moskowitz may be a profound idiot, but apparently humiliation improves facial memory.

your pulse kicks once. hard. you reach up as if adjusting your earpiece beneath your hair. “seaworld recognized me,” you say quietly. “i’m gonna have to make a run for it.”

mm’s voice enters low. “how close?”

“too close.”

butcher answers next, clipped and already moving. “don’t get caught. don’t make a scene.”

“wow,” you mutter beneath your breath, still facing the napkins. “hadn’t considered either of those.”

the deep’s voice cuts across the corridor. “hey—”

your stomach drops. not panic yet. panic is expensive, and you’re standing inside a building where one wrong reaction could end the mission and put homelander on alert before anyone gets close enough to do anything that matters. you turn your head slightly, just enough to see him walking toward you.

his eyes narrow. “wait! you!”

fucking fantastic.

you turn on your heel. “fuck—i’m made. headed for the south back exit.”

“i’m on my way,” butcher says. “do not get boxed in.”

“that’s the goal.”

you walk fast at first. not running. not while there’s staff and guards still moving around the corridor. the tray stays in your hands for six more steps, then you pass a prep table and set it down with more care than the situation deserves because dropping glass behind you would attract every set of eyes within fifty feet.

behind you, the deep says, louder, “hey—no, no, no. i know you!”

your pace quickens. a security guard glances up. you lower your head and take the left turn toward the service hall. 

“south corridor,” you say. “passing storage c.”

“i’m too far out,” frenchie says, tense.

“stay on your position,” mm orders. “don’t break cover unless we call it.”

“mm,” annie says, voice tight from outside, the rally noise swelling behind her. “if he calls security—”

“i know.”

the deep’s footsteps come faster behind you. then he says your name. not your real one. something from the gala. the fake introduction you’d given him while smiling too sweetly beneath aquarium lighting like a woman with nothing in her head except blue tide summer and a crush on a man who talked to fish.

you break into a run. 

the staff corridor narrows ahead, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the south back exit sign glowing dim green at the far end. your shoes slap against the polished floor. the apron tugs at your hips. your earpiece crackles with too many voices at once.

butcher swears. “move.”

“i am,” you snap.

“security rushing toward you,” mm warns. “two at the cross hall.”

you cut right before the intersection, shoving through a swinging door into a secondary service passage. your shoulder clips the frame hard enough to send pain through your upper arm. you keep going.

behind you, the door slams open. “come on!” the deep shouts, breath already rough because apparently running through service corridors is not part of his ocean training. “you think i’m stupid?”

you almost answer yes on instinct. 

you wish your knife pressed against your hip with every stride. you could draw it if he caught you. you know where your hand would fall. you know, with cold, practical certainty, that it wouldn’t be enough to make this fair.

you’re human. he’s not—even if it is idiot kevin.

“approaching south back exit,” you say, breath sharper now. “thirty seconds maybe.”

“twenty if you stop talking,” butcher says.

“helpful.”

a different voice enters the comms. soldier boy. low and flat. “where?”

“service passage. south side.” then mm’s tone changes. “soldier boy, stay on your mark.”

no answer. 

you keep running.

the final stretch of hallway opens ahead with the south exit sign glowing like the ugliest miracle you’ve ever seen. your lungs burn. your shoes slap too loudly against the polished floor. the staff uniform pulls wrong around your body now, too tight at the shoulders, too obvious, too easy to grab.

there’s nothing at your hip. no knife. no hidden blade. no small hard weight where your hand has learned to fall. the staff search at the entrance had been light, but not light enough to gamble on steel. no weapons visible. no weapons hidden. just a badge, a tray, an earpiece tucked under your hair, and the hope that nobody important would look at you long enough to remember your face. so much for that.

behind you, the deep’s footsteps slap through the corridor with embarrassing effort. “where the hell are you?”

“approaching the exit,” you say, breath sharp and uneven now. “south side.”

then the deep shouts behind you again, closer now. “i see you!”

panic tries to take the wheel. you shove it down. running blindly gets people killed. soldier boy taught you that before everything went wrong. keep your head. check your corners. know where the next body is before it reaches you.

the next body reaches you anyway.

a hand catches your wrist. your whole body jerks in shock. for half a second, terror does the math wrong and decides the deep caught you. you twist hard, free hand flying uselessly toward an empty hip, breath tearing up your throat before you can make it into anything useful.

soldier boy yanks you sideways into the alcove.

your back hits the wall between a stack of cardboard signs and a mop bucket. his hand covers your mouth before the sound leaves you, palm pressed firm over your lips. the other hand closes around your upper arm to keep you still, not gentle, not soft, not enough to bruise if you stop fighting him.

your body doesn’t know the difference immediately.

wall. hand. no air.

panic flashes white-hot through your chest.

his eyes find yours. “quiet,” he murmurs.

nothing else. one word. rough. low. not a threat.

you breathe once against his palm and realize you can. the air comes in shallow through your nose. fast, then slower. his hand is over your mouth, not your throat. his body crowds yours, but his fingers aren’t cutting into your neck. he’s not holding you up by the bruises he left. the other hand stays locked around your arm because your feet are still half-prepared to run.

you force yourself still. his gaze flicks over your face quickly. not tender. not asking if you are okay. only making sure you understand enough to not get both of you caught. you nod once against his hand.

footsteps pound past the alcove. the deep runs by first, then slows several steps ahead when the hallway opens near the exit. “fuck,” he pants. “come on.”

you hold your breath. soldier boy goes still enough to become part of the wall.

the deep turns back slowly, scanning the corridor with obvious, wounded frustration. he’s close enough now that you can see the sweat starting near his hairline, the flushed anger across his face. he looks ridiculous. he also looks like a supe standing between you and the only clean exit.

“come on, sweetheart. i know you’re here,” his footsteps slow near the alcove.

soldier boy’s palm remains over your mouth.

the deep moves closer. “homelander’s gonna love this. but maybe i’ll have my fun with you first, huh? stupid bitch drugged me and thought i’d forget.”

the air changes. nothing anyone else could measure from the hall. only soldier boy’s fingers tightening once around your arm.

you feel him decide. you catch his wrist before he moves, not hard enough to stop him. your eyes widen over his hand, warning clear enough. let him pass. do not blow this up. homelander is on the other side of the building. the mission is already hanging by a thread. soldier boy looks at you for half a second. then he removes his hand from your mouth and steps out of the alcove.

the deep turns too late. soldier boy hits him.

the sound is ugly. quick. almost swallowed by the hallway, but still heavy enough to make something inside you wince. the deep’s head snaps back, and his body drops with none of the grace vought probably trains into its public assets. one second he’s standing there with his mouth open around some half-formed insult. the next, he hits the floor flat on his ass, legs folding awkwardly beneath him, eyes unfocused and blinking at the ceiling. a stack of folded bunting topples beside him.

for one stunned second, you stare.

soldier boy looks down at him. “shut your fucking mouth.”

your mouth parts. “you were supposed to let him pass.”

he turns his head toward you. “he passed out. close enough.”

the worst part is that something in you almost laughs. 

then the comms explode.

“what was that?” mm demands.

frenchie says, “was that a punch?”

“why are we hearing punching?” hughie asks, distressed.

butcher cuts through them all. “everybody out. now. vought’s made us all.”

your stomach drops. soldier boy’s face hardens. that’s when you understand the sound was not only heard by your team. somewhere, maybe not close, maybe through a guard’s radio or a camera glitch or the deep failing to check in at the worst possible moment, the building has started correcting itself around the compromise. security details shifting. exits closing. homelander being pulled from the public stage before anyone gets the chance to make this worth the risk.

soldier boy catches your wrist. not your hand. his fingers close around the narrow bone with practical force and pull you into motion before you can object. you stumble once over the edge of the fallen bunting, catch yourself, and run.

the south back exit slams open into cold air.

rain has started lightly, barely enough to wet the pavement but enough to sharpen the smell of the alley behind the civic center. a black van waits near the curb with headlights off and engine running. mm’s in the driver’s seat, one hand braced over the wheel, the other near the gearshift. his eyes snap toward you through the windshield.

you and soldier boy reach the van first. he throws the side door open and all but shoves you inside by the wrist. you catch the edge of the seat with your free hand, breathless, knees knocking briefly against the floor as you climb in. he follows immediately, dropping into the space beside you with his jaw locked and his attention already turning toward the alley mouth.

mm looks at you in the mirror. his eyes flick to your wrist. then soldier boy. then your face. “where’s butcher?”

“coming,” soldier boy says.

the door remains open.

voices hit the alley next.

frenchie appears first with a security badge still clipped crookedly to his shirt, kimiko right behind him, silent and fast. she jumps into the van and immediately looks you over in one quick sweep that catches your flushed face, your empty hands, the way soldier boy still hasn’t fully let go of your wrist. his grip releases as if he only just noticed. you pull your hand back against your stomach.

soldier boy stares out the open door.

frenchie climbs in with a breathless, “i do not enjoy live events.”

“move,” mm says.

“we’re missing three.”

“i know who we’re missing.”

annie and hughie arrive from the opposite side of the alley, half-running, half-trying not to look like people who were trying to commit a crime. annie yanks open the passenger door and gets in beside mm, rain catching in her hair beneath her cap. hughie scrambles into the back, nearly trips over frenchie’s foot, and lands against the side panel with a pained little sound.

“everyone okay?” annie asks immediately.

“define okay,” hughie says.

butcher appears last. coat damp, face furious, cigarette nowhere in sight, which somehow makes him look more dangerous than usual. he slams the van door shut behind him the second he gets in, and mm pulls away before he has fully sat down. tires hiss over wet pavement. the alley slips behind you in a blur of brick, dumpsters, and red-white-blue banners flapping uselessly near a service entrance.

butcher looks at soldier boy. “did you get noir?”

the question lands strangely. not because you don’t understand it. because you do.

did you get him. killed him. finished it. the whole point. the reason soldier boy had agreed to stand inside a vought building two days after threatening to kill half the team. 

soldier boy says nothing. 

your breath slows with effort. you look at him. the side of his face is turned toward the window, rain-streaked city light cutting across his jaw. his hand rests near his knee now, curled loosely into a fist. 

butcher’s expression shifts. “you had him,” he says.

the van goes very quiet. mm’s eyes lift briefly to the rearview mirror. annie turns her head slowly from the passenger seat. hughie stops breathing for a second. your stomach drops through the floor of the van. 

had him.

soldier boy’s jaw flexes. “he got away.”

“did you kill him?” butcher asks, voice low. “or did you let him walk?”

soldier boy turns then. the look he gives butcher could strip paint. 

“you had him,” butcher repeats, surprise and arrogance mixing in his tone.

“and you had one job,” soldier boy snaps, voice suddenly harder. “keep your people from getting made by fucking fish boy.”

the words hit before you’re ready. your face goes still. not because he’s wrong. because the insult is a blade with a handle he clearly chose.

butcher leans forward slightly. “careful.”

soldier boy’s eyes stay on him. “or what?”

the van holds its breath.

mm says, “not in my van.”

“mm—” butcher starts.

“not,” mm repeats, sharper, “in my fucking van.”

silence slams down again. the civic center disappears behind you, swallowed by distance and rain and the shifting lights of vought security vehicles redirecting around the front of the building. somewhere behind those walls, homelander’s being moved to a safer exit. black noir has vanished again. because soldier boy reached the van with you. no blood on his hands.

you look down at your wrist where his fingers had been. the skin there still feels warm, held too tightly for too little time. practical. rough. nothing anyone could mistake for tenderness unless they were desperate enough to count any touch that didn’t hurt as evidence.

soldier boy stares out the window. butcher keeps swearing under his breath. nobody says out loud why noir is still alive. only then do you understand that soldier boy made a choice.

You head back to what you were doing before Hughie’s interruption, unloading the takeout you'd brought onto the table. In the midst of placing the burgers and fries and various condiments in the center, you hear the muffled sound of an engine pull up outside and then fizzle off. Car doors slamming follow accompanied by some voices. If you'd been paying attention, you might have realized an additional person chatted along with your expected two.

But you don't catch that until the door swings open. Before you can look, the deep baritone slices across the space right into your ears.

"So, is she part of your team too?" the man asks.

You freeze. Your heart drops into your stomach. It's almost as if your body has a biological reaction to that low, rumbly way of speaking. You recognize it anywhere. It played over speakers and filled your bedroom most nights of the week when you were younger. The face it belonged to had been plastered across every surface that could hold a poster.

But it can't be his. He's been dead since before you were born. For some odd reason, your mind must have decided today would be a fun day to play tricks on you. To make you think the man of your teenage dreams had been resurrected and brought to you through some sort of star-crossed luck.

You shake your head and swallow down the ridiculous idea before turning to face them. But when you do, he is right there.

Soldier Boy stands between your teammates in all his glory, his brows raised as he assesses you. He sports modern civilian clothes rather than his uniform. It's kind of off-putting to see him in something so current, but the discrepancy doesn't keep your heart from racing. Every other part of him looks just like he used to on your tv screen. His features are still perfectly sculpted. His hair sits on his head soft as ever.

You honestly think you might faint. Your knuckles grip the back of a chair to the point of cramping as you stare at him like he'd risen from the grave right before your very eyes.

"Is she mute or something?" he asks next, still looking unimpressed with you.

Hughie glances between you and him in confusion, not understanding what's stolen your words away. But on the opposite side of Soldier Boy, Butcher eyes you with a small smirk on his face. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the wall before walking over to you and patting your shoulder.

"She talks. Must be feeling a bit shy 'round a stranger," he says.

The physical contact seems to snap you out of your little starstruck daze. You straighten up and shrug his hand off.

"I- I'm not shy," you stutter and smooth your clothes out. "I just um... I think I recognize you from like some old movies my mom used to like. Caught me off guard. Sorry."

A shaky breath expels from your lungs, and you hope the cover-up is enough to stave off any further questions. Luckily, that seems to be true as a grin spreads across his face.

"Your mom, huh? She still around by chance?"

You bristle at the sleazy way he asks the question. It's ridiculous to feel jealous over his interest in a lie you made up, but you still feel it prickling at you.

"No," you answer before turning back to the table to empty the rest of the fast food bag.

You shoot a glare at Butcher who's still grinning at you. Of course. This was why he hadn't told you. It wasn't part of his normal failure to consider anyone else's feelings or his typical manipulative ways. He did this to fuck with you.

He was the only one who knew about your soft spot for Soldier Boy. Though, soft spot was an understatement. Attachment might have been more appropriate. Undying love and devotion also good possibilities.

You adored the guy. Part of your lie had been true, you'd gotten it from your mother. She introduced you to his movies and showed you all the tv appearances she'd taped. You inherited her small collection of posters and t-shirts, and styled your room to reflect your Soldier Boy centered world. Eventually, your obsession superseded the one she experienced in her younger years. That was probably because her love for Soldier Boy fizzled out not too long later when she met your father. Yours stayed strong as you kept to yourself and focused on getting through school.

You'd confessed all of this to your team leader one night after too many drinks. Years had passed between now and the height of your obsession, so your drunken-self figured it was fine. The information came out hiccuped amongst a flood of giggling. You had found it so funny, that you had been so hot for a supe when now, your entire life revolved around taking them down.

Honestly you thought, or at least hoped, that Butcher hadn't cared enough to remember it. But clearly you were wrong.

The four of you sit down to eat the food you bought. You're across from Hughie while Butcher takes the seat opposite Soldier Boy. He obviously finds it amusing to dangle the other man in front of you, taunting you with what he knows you want but will never admit to.

You try your hardest not to stare, but it's a challenge. You're not eating much. Your appetite pretty much vanished with the shock of his arrival. Instead you rest your cheek on the heel of your palm, attempting to keep your eyes on the table and not his face.

The whole thing is just too weird. It's like you've been transported to the fantasy world you used to imagine to fall asleep. In there, Soldier Boy, or Ben as you called him in your dreams, went everywhere with you. He took you to the mall, accompanied you to the family gathering you didn't wanna go to, sat beside you on the bench at the park while you listened to music alone. Imaginary Ben stroked your hair when you failed a test, told you he loved you when you cried, and rubbed your stomach when you had cramps.

He was always there for you in those years, filling the void everyone else's lack of attention left. 

That was until he started to fade away. He popped up less and less as you adapted to life and found other people to fill your time. And then one day he just wasn't there anymore. You strolled through the mall with your friends. You went to see your family without anyone on your arm. You sat on the bench alone.

You outgrew the posters and the t-shirts. It all went into a storage bin tucked away in your closet. He went with it. Not thrown away, but no longer a part of your days. Looking back, it feels like you had two different lives — the one when you loved Soldier boy and the other where you remembered him.

But he's actually here now, sitting a foot away from you. Only everyone else can see this version of him, and he writes his own dialogue. Somehow you're just supposed to pretend like it's normal for you.

The guys chatter amongst themselves, but you barely hear it. You consider asking Butcher if you can leave. You'd do damn near anything else to get out of this situation. Your younger self would probably slap you across the face, absolutely maim you for fumbling your chance with him, but you just can't take it. It's like he's radiating humiliation and shame that projects only onto you.

Before you can speak up though, Butcher and Hughie rise from the table. You look up at them, desperation glimmering over your irises.

"Sorry, love. You're on soldier-sittin' duty for the next few hours," Butcher tells you as he goes to grab his coat.

"It's just until we get back," Hughie adds, sensing your discomfort with the situation.

Pouting and rising from your chair, you follow after them. You ignore Hughie and stare right at Butcher putting on his trench coat. "Can I come with you instead? Please?" you ask.

"Why? Thought you would be excited to get some one-on-one time with your-" he starts but you cut him off.

"It's too weird," you whisper. "Plus, he’s not gonna listen to me anyways. Can I please come with you?"

"'Fraid not," he tuts. "This one's for me and Hughie. You'll be fine for a couple hours."

"Butcher," you say, on the verge of begging.

But he holds no sympathy for you. Hughie gives you a kinder look. "Just put on the tv. He seemed pretty interested in filling in his gaps about the world on the drive here."

You weakly nod, watching them gather their remaining things before departing. Their absence leaves you and him alone in the room. It's quiet except for the crinkling of his wrapper and the thundering beat of your heart.

Turning back towards him, you force yourself to return to the room and clean up the other trash Butcher and Hughie had left behind. You gather the greasy papers while trying to keep your hands steady. They're shaking pretty bad, but moving them disguises it. At least you hope so. You don't want him seeing how nervous you are. It's stupid and pointless, but a small piece of you still wants to look cool and collected in front of him.

When you finish, you head over to the small couch that sits against the wall. You can feel his eyes on you. One thing you realize now that your juvenile fantasies failed to account for was that you really had no clue what to talk about with him. What was there to say to someone born nearly a hundred years ago? What could you bring up when he'd missed the last forty years of life? You decide to fill the silence with what Hughie had suggested.

"Do you wanna watch tv?" you ask.

"Not really, but what else is there to do in this shit hole," he says and shrugs.

You nod, reaching for the remote and flicking the screen to life. The first station is on a commercial break. You switch it to the next which is playing a basketball game. Finally, you get to the numbers playing movies and scroll through to find a good one.

While you occupy yourself with the television, he stands from his chair and heads in your direction. He plops down on the couch next to you, spreading his thighs and draping his arm across the back of the sofa. You keep your eyes locked on the screen ahead. There’s no way you’re gonna look over at his open lap. If you do that, you won’t be able to fight off the heat that keeps trying to rise into your cheeks.

You can still feel him looking at you though. The constant weight of his curiosity makes it hard not to shift around in your seat. Your thumb keeps tapping through the channels until you come across one showing something you recognize. It takes you a few seconds to place it, but as soon as you do, you go to skip it.

Before you can, he straightens up. "Wait- what's this? This looks familiar," he says, eyes narrowing.

You glance over at him, blinking a few times before giving an answer. "Um yeah... it's the remake of Red Thunder that came out a few years ago," you explain. You work hard to keep your voice even.

He looks over at you, astounded. "Remake? What do you mean remake? They just did it over again?"

You nod. "Yeah, y'know. Like how Scarface is a remake of the old one from the thirties... Like that."

He scoffs. "They tried to remake my movie?" he asks, still in disbelief. He examines the tv again. "Which one's supposed to be me?"

You wait a few seconds, looking for the updated version of him. "Um... that one," you say and point to the younger actor dressed in Soldier Boy gear.

He laughs, the sound booming across the room. "That guy? That's who they chose to play me?" he mocks. "Jesus, if that's the type of man you kids think a hero is no wonder the world is in the state it's in."

"Yeah..." you say, a little smile rising to your lips. Your nerves begin to settle. This isn't so bad when you keep your mind off your feelings… even if he does talk a little bit like your grandfather. "I like the original way better," you continue.

"Oh do you now?” he asks. That start of a smirk on his face is nearly audible.

"Mhm. This one is just kind of boring," you answer, eyes flitting between him and the screen. "They took all the romance stuff out, and we're not in the cold war anymore so the bad guys are just some vague, random evil army. Plus, I don't understand why they didn't just use one of Vought's new supes instead of imitating you." 

The words flow easily, just as they did to all your friends when the movie had first come out. You don't have as much trouble expressing yourself when the topic of discussion is one of your favorite subjects.

He nods as if he's genuinely interested in your points before commenting. "I thought your mother was the fan?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, your heart rate picking up again under the spotlight of his attention. It wasn't too big of a slip up. You can play it off like you had with your initial anxiety. Though you can't focus enough to answer while gazing into his cocky eyes, so you look down at your lap.

"She was. But I saw some of your movies too. Doesn't take a genius to know they were better than this stuff," you shrug.

There's a little pause. Your heart beats impossibly faster. But he just chuckles and turns back to the tv. "You sure you've only seen some of my movies? Sounds like you know more than a casual fan," he goads.

Hesitation creeps up on you. Maybe this is your opportunity to tell the truth. You can just confess your thing for him like it's an embarrassing story. Maybe then it won't hold so much power over you and this will be a whole lot easier. Your palms flex against your thighs as you steel yourself.

"Well... more than some. I've seen a lot. I just didn't wanna weird you out or anything," you admit, doing your absolute best to seem casual. Maybe they should give you the Oscar they never offered your beloved.

"There you go. Be honest," he praises, and you think you feel something throb between your legs. You glance up at him for a second before your eyes drop back down. He shakes his head. "It doesn't ‘weird me out.’ I'm used to the attention y'know. I lived with it longer than you've been alive."

"Yeah, but I didn't want things to be uncomfortable. Make you think I was like obsessed or something."

"Well are you like obsessed or something?’ he teases. Something in his tone tells you he already knows the answer.

"No," you deny immediately.

"It would make sense if you were. It'd explain why you're so nervous," he says, his voice smooth as polished marble.

"I'm not nervous," you defend.

"C'mon, sweetheart. You can't look at me for more than a second, and I can hear your heart beating faster than a baby bunny runnin' from a wolf."

You practically swoon when he calls you sweetheart, but you force your eyes up and onto his. No matter how many butterflies erupt in your stomach, you're intent on being professional. That little childish crush is a thing of the past, you're sure of it. You're an adult now with a real passion for your job.

"It's just that you're kind of intimidating," you reason. "It's weird seeing a movie star in person."

"A movie star? You flatter me."

Rolling your eyes, an involuntary huff slips from your lips. "You know what I mean. It's just different talking to you like in real life and not just seeing you on a screen. That's it."

"Is that all? I don't know if I believe you, honey. I recognize that look on your face," he says.

"What look? I don't have a look," you say.

"No, you do. You have that look I used to get from the girls hanging around outside set. They'd stand there with their little autograph books, waiting to get a glimpse of Soldier Boy," he says, eyes almost twinkling as he reminisces. "Only every time I'd go over to sign something for 'em, they could never get their eyes off their shoes. Always looking down, stumbling over their words. I don't typically go for you younger girls, but it was pretty cute."

You feel your cheeks heating up along with a small smile forming on your lips. Just like that, your commitment to professionalism has started to wane. It's dumb, but you can't help yourself. He basically called you cute. You just count yourself lucky you haven’t started giggling.

"Yep they used to do that too. That little smile," he continues.

He's making you malfunction with only a handful of words. Your head spins, but you're powerless to stop it. You can't help reacting like one of those girls because, inside, part of you is still one of them.

"C'mere, sweetheart," he says next before patting his lap.

You know you shouldn't. If Butcher and Hughie came back and saw you like this, it would be the humiliation of a lifetime. But you can't resist him. It's easy to declare your commitment to acting professional when the situation is only a hypothetical. When it becomes real, presented right before your eyes, it's a different story entirely.

Tentatively, you scoot towards him, eyeing his thighs. His hand comes to your back between your shoulders to urge you along.

"I'm not gonna bite you, bunny," he says with that action-hero smile.

More timidity pumps through you at the repetition of that term. You find the courage to close the rest of the gap and crawl into his lap. His arms welcome you, shifting you around on his thighs into a comfortable position.

"Perfect. Feels better like this, doesn't it?" he says.

That palm on your back strokes up and down. He runs it along the length of your spine, bringing a chill over every area it touches. You keep your gaze on your hands in your lap until his fingers tap beneath your chin and redirect your vision onto him.

"Don't hide those pretty eyes from me. That's how I know what you're feelin’. They give so much away.”

You honestly believe you're seconds away from melting into a puddle, from slumping over against his chest and becoming some boneless rag doll for him to play with. You can only imagine how stupid you look if even half of the lovesickness you feel reflects on your face.

"Tell me — have you ever thought about this before? I bet you have," he murmurs.

Of course he's right. You'd envisioned yourself on this very lap countless times when you were younger. But a part of you still clings to the idea that you should hide how absolutely pathetic you are for him. You shrug.

"I guess..." you answer. The words come out airy, almost as if your voice is getting away from you.

He simply smirks at the reply while rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over your chin. "Yeah? You imagined sitting my lap, hm? Dreamed of me holding you close?"

"Something like that," you reply, feeling as though your throat was constricting.

He chuckles at your squeak of a reply. "Well, how do I match up to your dreams? Am I everything you hoped I would be?" he asks. His voice drops, and there's no question about what he wants from you now. Something you would give without hesitation.

"You're doing a pretty good job," you say. You try to adjust yourself to face more towards the tv, but he keeps you pinned in place.

"I haven't really done anything yet," he says.

A little bout of silence rises between you two. Neither of you say anything. The only sound is the hushed chatter of the tv in the background. Despite the lack of conversation, his eyes stay on your face. His fingers caress your cheek before smoothing down to your neck.

"How'd a pretty girl like you get involved with those two jackasses who brought me here anyways?" he asks.

"It's a long story..." you say. Your skin is on fire everywhere his fingers trace. They're working over your throat down onto your collarbone and shoulders. 

"Too long for you to care about right now, yeah?" he asks, completely smug.

You nod though because smug or not, he's correct about that. Recounting how you got involved with Butcher ordinarily wasn't too hard. But in this moment, on his lap, it seems like the effort of a lifetime for your foggy brain.

"You're too soft and sweet for hunting supes," he says. Despite poking fun at you, he remains gentle and soft, careful not to really upset you and break you out of this docile little haze he's got you in.

"It's not so bad,” you say.

"Sure, sure. You're strong and independent, can do anything a man can and all that. I'm just saying-"

Talk talk talk. So much talking, and you can barely focus on a word he's saying. Your eyes are lingering on his lips. They look so soft and smooth. Nothing’s touched them in forty years. He’s definitely noticed your stare. And you know that means you should stop. You can’t though. You want it, and he’s practically offering it up to you.

He continues speaking, however. “- I can think of a few things you’d be much better at. Things that don’t involve your little hands getting bloody.”

“Like what?” you start to ask.

“Maybe something like this.”

That hand on your chin tugs you closer. Before you register what’s happening, his mouth is on yours. Electricity zaps all through your body like a live wire. You lean into it without thinking, pressing closer and molding your lips to his.

He chuckles as your arms slide up to loop around his neck. You swallow up the low, rough sound, not disconnecting from him for a moment. His hand flattens out along your jawline. It allows him to hold you right where he wants you for a series of more kisses, all of which you reciprocate.

“Atta girl,” he mumbles in the brief interval where you’re forced to drawback for breath. “Not so shy now, are ya?”

You shake your head before diving in for more. He receives you by opening his mouth. His tongue gently flicks over your lip. He slides it against your own as things become deeper. The heat inside you no longer holds the sting of shame or embarrassment. It aches now. It burns with pure want, clustering in the pit of your stomach rather than in your face.

He leans back into the sagging couch. His hands ensure you move along with him. With a firm grip on your waist, he boosts you closer and shifts you around so your thighs are parted across his own.

A small whimper leaves you. You can’t help it. Your bodies are even closer now. Your center is pressed right against his lap, right where his cock is. You can’t feel it yet, but the idea is enough to send phantom sensations rippling through you.

You feel his lips curling into a smirk against yours. Those hands leave your waist. They dip lower, sliding across your curves to grip onto the plush flesh of your ass. That gets a real moan out of you. Your head falls back, away from his mouth. He doesn’t let you go too far though. A second later, his affections move to your neck. His kisses are hot and wet, tongue laving over your pulse point and teeth nipping sensitive skin.

Just a few simple touches, and his strength shines through each one. The firmness with which his fingers knead your ass is unlike anyone else you’ve ever felt. You’ve been with muscular guys before, but nothing like this. Strong is too weak a word to describe the undercurrent flowing through his grasp.

You roll your hips down in an exploratory swivel, something faint to see if you could find some friction. He aides you. His fingers tighten around your ass, pushing you down harder and then dragging your core back over his lap. 

You suck in a little gasp.

“That feel good, huh? Your pretty pussy’s getting wet for me, isn’t she?” he asks with another rotation of your hips.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter. You push your upper-half closer to him so that your chest squishes against his own.

To your dismay, he stops you from fully holding on. He nudges you backwards and boosts you off his lap entirely so that you’re standing on your feet. A whine builds at the front of your mouth, but before you can protest, his fingers come to the button on your jeans.

He flicks it open, looking up at you as he yanks your pants down. “Been forty years since I got some tail. Let’s not waste any more time,” he says in explanation.

You nod along and step out of each of your pant legs, kicking the garment aside. You also take your t-shirt off. The fabric lands on top of your discarded jeans. Once you’re left in just your bra and panties, he tugs you back down.

Your bodies come together with a thud. The material of his sweats grazes your tingly inner-thighs. Before you can get back into rutting yourself on him, he runs his palms over your legs. They’re pretty smooth for someone of his age and experience. You always imagined something a little rougher, something that would contrast against the smooth nature of your own flesh. But forty years in a cryo-tank hadn’t given his skin much opportunity to become weathered.

His hands find your ass again, one coming down to give it a quick smack. Your hips jolt in surprise at the sudden sting. He soothes it away by rubbing over the heated area. His fingers dig into your malleable skin harder now that it’s bare to him.

“Skin’s baby-soft,” he murmurs mid-grope. “Been wanting someone rougher to come and mark it up?”

Your eyes flicker over his mocking smirk, heat filling your face. You grind yourself on him again with a whine. It feels so much better with your clothing out of the way. Even though the thin cotton barrier of your panties keeps you from rubbing down on him raw, the material is skimpy enough that it doesn’t impede. Instead it adds a little extra spark to the building pressure between your legs. Your eyes roll towards the back of your head, fluttering as you rock yourself forward and back.

He helps out just like before. His hands rein your movements into a steady rhythm. In between your bodies, his bulge starts to form. With each swipe of your covered cunt across his lap, you feel it becoming more and more prominent; hard and solid right up against your soaked folds.

“Just like that, get yourself ready for me,” he praises with another slap to your backside. “I’ll teach you how to really ride.”

You moan while biting your lip. Your hips work faster on him. Being so close, so lost in his feel and scent, has freed you of your previous trepidation. You’ve lost the ability to be stuck in your head with him like this.

He shifts you over slightly so that you’re lined up with the flat top of his thigh. It makes no difference to you. You keep your hips moving like nothing’s changed, grinding your throbbing clit down onto the firm muscles in his leg.

“Fuck,” you whimper. Your arms wrap over his shoulders once more. You squish your face into the crux of your elbow.

This time he lets you stay. He wraps an arm around you and lazily pats your back. “Good girl. Keep going. I gotcha.” His voice rumbles beside your ear. “Better than any dream, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you whimper. “Fuck- so much better. You- you’re perfect.”

While you continue to pleasure yourself on his leg, he lifts his hips off the couch just enough to push his sweats down towards his knees. He takes his cock out. It’s fully hard now, stiff in his hand as he gives it a few strokes.

You don’t notice at first, so wrapped up in your own bliss. But when he starts pulling you center again, you lift your head and glance down through heavy-lids.

You’d imagined him big, but seeing his cock for real makes you feel like you didn’t imagine big enough. His length is long and moderately thick. It’s flushed for you, the tip shimmery with the slightest bit of pre oozing out.

Your mouth waters. You want to taste him. You want to show him how badly you want it. You want to drop to your knees and think about nothing but how good he fits in your mouth.

But you know you have limited time. Butcher said you had a couple hours, but he’s also unreliable and a liar and purposefully fucking with you today so… you don’t want to take any chances.

He doesn’t seem too eager to have you like that anyways. He gives you a slight boost and pulls the soaked material of your panties to the side. The silky skin of his tip replaces the feeling. He drags himself across your entrance once, twice, and then nudges inside.

Your teeth sink into your lip as your head falls back slightly. You still can’t understand how this is real, but it undeniably is. The feeling of him working himself in, inch by inch, is not a figment of your imagination. That sweet stretch is absolutely real, and it consumes you more with every passing second until your ass is flush against his thighs once more.

He groans. “Shit, that’s good.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “Haven’t felt anything this nice in a longgg fucking time.”

Your walls flutter around him, eliciting another hiss from between his gritted teeth. Every noise he makes feels as good as a physical touch. You can’t get enough of hearing his voice strained with pleasure — pleasure you’re giving him.

You rise on his lap before sinking down. The rhythm is slow to start, a way for both of you to get used to the feeling. His hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bring a little burst of pain. You like it though. You want more of it.

He smacks your ass again. “C’mon, bunny. I know you can do better than that.”

Your hands plant themselves firmly on his shoulders, giving you the leverage needed to go a little faster. You bring yourself up and then down in quicker succession.

“That’s it. Such a good girl. Show daddy what you’ve been dreamin’ about.”

A shudder tears through you. Your muscles feel weak, like the simple string of praise had loosened them up completely. It doesn’t matter though. You start to bounce faster. Your body works with a mind of its own. It doesn’t let you slow down.

He slides in and out easily with how wet you are. Every drag of his cock on your insides is a straight shot of bliss. You feel even better when he grips your jaw and pulls you in for another few kisses. His mouth moves against your own before moving along your jawline to the space below your ear and then onto your neck and collarbone.

“Every inch of you tastes so fucking good. Like cherry pie,” he mumbles. “I’ll have to try out that pussy of yours next.”

“Mhm, fuck,” you whimper.

You keep riding as his teeth nip at one of your bra straps. The noises of your skin on his fill the small motel room. His tight grip on your waist helps you maintain the rhythm, pulling you down hard and boosting you up quick

The tip of his cock bumps up against your g-spot and gets a squeal out of you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as a way of bracing yourself. Neither of you slow down. You stutter slightly, but his hips lift to meet your movements. His fast thrusts strike at that angle over and over until your legs are quivering to the point that it truly feels like they might give out.

Luckily for you, he makes sure you don’t go toppling to the floor. The firm weight of his hands guide you closer to his body. Your weight shifting gives him the leverage to take over pumping in and out of you.

Your cheek hits his shoulder as your head fills with a warm, thick fog. He pounds into that sweet spot inside of you over and over. You can hear him grunting beside your ear, low and strained sounds that have your stomach full of butterflies.

“Pretty, pretty girl. You were worth the wait,” he mumbles alongside another deep thrust.

You whimper, lazily nodding your head against him. “You- mm- you were too.”

Sweet, tight heat coils in your belly. You know release is creeping up on you. Your eyes flutter shut, waiting for it to take over. You don’t notice his hand sliding between your bodies until you feel the pads of his fingertips rubbing at your sensitive clit. Your hips buck into the pleasure, and your walls clamp around him hard.

He lets out a deep laugh that only makes you tighten up more. 

“Yeah, that’s a good girl. I know what you need, babydoll. Let go for me. Let me see how good you look when you cum,” he says.

His fingers keep swiping at the little bud between your legs. Syrupy shots of bliss shoot through you, pushing you along, taking you to the edge. It’s no time at all before a round of shudders rack through you. Your arms latch around his neck while your thighs clamp on either side of his. Embarrassing strings of whines trickle into the air.

“I- I- fuck,” you whimper. “Feels so- so fucking good, god.”

The last word to leave your lips is pitchy and broken. Your release cuts it short. Moans replace any coherent praise you could have given him. You bury your face in his neck and pant against the warm skin. Vaguely, you can feel his arms tightening around you. One of his hands rests between your shoulders while the other stays at your waist. He keeps pumping up into you, fucking you through each and every wave of orgasmic euphoria.

He’s less clingy as he finishes. His hips snap up into you a few more times before he groans loud and deep. He maintains the solid grip he has on you, hands still clamped around your waist as he spills inside. His chest rises and falls under your own, puffing quick with the exertion of finishing.

Your eyes stay closed for another several seconds as the room goes quiet and your nerves stop buzzing. His thumb lazily drags back and forth in tiny lines along the base of your spine. That almost makes you shiver more than anything you did on top of him.

With the fog of lust clearing from your mind, you separate from his chest and sit up straight. He’s relaxed as can be, head tilted back against the couch, watching you with the same lazy appraisal you’re giving him. Now that your entire body isn’t thrumming with want for him, he doesn’t seem so intimidating. You know that’s not the truth, that he could still crush any of your bones with minimal effort if he so desired — but in a weird way, you just don’t feel like you’re perpetually looking up at him now. It’s not negative, but the mystique is gone. The man of your dreams doesn’t exist anymore. Soldier Boy is flesh and blood, sweaty and spent beneath you.

You roll off of him to the other side of the couch. You’re pretty sure not much time has passed, but you don’t want to risk anything. You’re gonna be well and dressed when Butcher and Hughie come back. The two of them will be none the wiser that anything out of the ordinary occurred.

He stretches for a moment before adjusting his own appearance.

“Gotta say, I’m in no rush to do whatever it is they thawed me out for now. You’re much more fun.” His voice breaks the silence.

A small smile cracks on your face. “Yeah… think I’ll be pretty distracted too.” You look over your shoulder at him.

Little comments bounce back and forth between the two of you with nothing substantial really being said. That’s ok with you. The fact that you really just fucked Soldier Boy has left your mind void of conversational skills.

After the two of you are back to looking plain as you had been before, your collective attention returns to what’s left of the Red Thunder remake still playing on the tv.

“Who’s the head honcho nowadays? Was it Homelander they said?” he asks you. “Guy must not be able to get it done if they’re remaking this old shit.”

You laugh softly and nod. “Yeah… I’m sure Butcher will tell you allll about him when they get back.”

The two of you watch the remainder of the movie, with you chattering here and there about things you don’t like or little facts you know. It’s nice in a weird way. Feels almost like something you would’ve dreamed up all those years ago.

Your little bubble of fantasy bursts when the car doors slam not too far from the motel room entrance. You sit up a little straighter, smooth out your hair a bit, trying to make sure you look totally normal before Hughie and Butcher walk in.

Soldier Boy makes no such effort. His eyes rest on the tv while his legs stay spread and his posture slightly slouched.

The door creaks open and shuts just as quick. Hughie enters first with Butcher right behind him. You keep your focus on the tv. But even though you’re not looking, you can feel Butcher’s curious stare.

“We got everything we needed, so we should be good to go for tonight,” Hughie says, not giving the two of you any real thought.

You nod and take the chance to look over at him walking towards the table all of you sat at earlier. In your sweep of the room, you catch Butcher’s gaze lingering on the two of you. 

“Seems like everything went well here,” he says. You know from that lilt in his tone the words aren’t as innocent as the untrained ear would believe. You know he wants to poke and prod and expose your new dirty little secret, but you won’t let him.

You shrug. “There wasn’t a ton to do here, so yeah,” you huff like it’s obvious.

His boots squish on the cheap carpeting as he takes a few steps closer. 

“So just smooth sailin’. Nothing out of the ordinary happened?”

You roll your eyes. Does he somehow know what you did? Is he sick enough to have left cameras or something?

“Yeah. Everything’s the same as you left it, boss.”

He laughs, brief and short, a prelude to his killing strike.

“’s funny cause I don’t remember your shirt bein’ on inside-out when we left.”

Your eyes zip down only to find he’s right. The seams on your shirt puff out as they do on the interior side of the fabric. Heat rushes into your face. You grab the lumpy throw pillow jammed between your hip and the couch and chuck it in his direction.

“Shut up,” you huff as you take off towards the bathroom, swinging the door shut behind you.

His laughter carries after you, and there’s a bit of Soldier Boy’s as well, lower and deeper in timbre.

“What can I say? She’s a super-fan.” His voice rumbles through the thin walls.

You want to be offended, to go back out there and tell him and Butcher off, to not put up with any of their shit. But hearing him talk about you in that sugar-coated, condescending tone of voice, openly acknowledging he’d been with you… it wouldn’t be honest. 

He saw the spread of you, the softness, the wet shine where embarrassment and heat had already started betraying you. His cock reacted before his brain caught up, hardening so fast beneath his jeans that he had to shift his stance.

His thoughts about you had never been clean, not once, no matter how many times he’d told himself you were off limits. Now you were right in front of him like every filthy idea he’d ever swallowed down had crawled out and sat pretty between your thighs.

“What the hell are you doin’?” he asked, voice low and rough, but his eyes didn’t leave you. You should’ve snapped your legs shut quicker, should’ve screamed at him like this was horrifying, should’ve thrown the razor at his head for walking in without knocking.

Instead, your thighs only shifted halfway together before hesitation caught you because the way he looked at you made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t pretend was fear. “Ben,” you breathed, clutching the razor like it could save you from your own body. “Get out.”

The words came out too soft to be serious, too breathless to mean anything close to rejection, and both of you knew it the second they left your mouth.

Ben’s mouth twitched like he heard the lie in them immediately. “Yeah?” he said, stepping farther into the bathroom instead of leaving. “That what you want, sweetheart?”

Your lips parted, but no answer came out. His gaze dropped again, openly this time, shameless in a way that made your pulse hammer. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too warm, too full of him and the heavy drag of his attention across your bare skin.

Ben pushed the door shut behind him with one hand, the quiet click of the latch making your whole body tense. He didn’t lock it, but he didn’t need to for the sound to feel final. “Put the damn razor down,” he said. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakably a command. Your fingers tightened around the handle once before loosening, the razor settling against the counter beside you with a tiny plastic tap.

Ben’s eyes followed the movement, then dragged back down to your lap. He looked at the shaving cream on your thigh, the soft hair you’d been about to remove, and the exposed heat of your pussy with an expression that bordered on offended.

“You were gonna shave all that off?” he asked, voice dropping lower. Your face burned so badly you thought you might actually pass out from it.

“I was going to,” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed and failing horribly. Ben’s jaw ticked, and his cock throbbed hard in his jeans as he stared at the part of you he had no business wanting this much.

“Don’t,” he said flatly. You blinked at him, stunned by how serious he sounded. “Excuse me?” Ben took one slow step closer, boots heavy against the tile, eyes dark and unashamed. “I said don’t,” he repeated, like you were testing his patience on purpose. “Hair adds personality.”

The words were so obscene in his mouth that your pussy clenched before you could stop it. Ben saw the tiny twitch of your thighs, saw the way your stomach pulled tight, and his expression sharpened with satisfaction.

“Well, goddamn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You liked that.” Your breath caught hard enough to make your chest rise visibly. “You can’t just say things like that,” you whispered. Ben gave a low, humourless laugh. “Honey, I can say a hell of a lot worse than that.”

You hated how badly you wanted him to. You hated how your body had gone hot all over, how the cool air against your exposed pussy made you feel even more aware of how open you were under his gaze. You hated that he hadn’t touched you once and yet you could already feel wetness gathering, slick and humiliating, making you ache.

Ben watched it happen with the kind of attention that made you feel stripped past naked, like he could see every thought you’d ever had about him. He looked older, rougher, meaner than any fantasy you’d let yourself have, broad and smug and so full of himself it should’ve disgusted you. Instead, it made your thighs tremble.

“You always this mouthy when you’re sittin’ there with your pussy out?” he asked. “Or is that just for me?” Your breath stuttered. “Ben,” you warned, but it came out weak and needy. His eyes lifted to yours, and the amusement there was cruel enough to make your stomach drop. “Don’t use that tone unless you’re askin’ me to fix it.”

The worst part was that you had imagined him fixing it too many times to count. You had thought about Ben when he leaned over you in the kitchen to grab something from a high cabinet, smelling like whiskey, smoke, and expensive cologne.

You had thought about him when his hand brushed your lower back as he moved past you at family cookouts, careless and brief, but enough to make you throb for hours afterward. You had thought about the rough sound of his voice saying your name, thought about him catching you staring, thought about him knowing exactly what you wanted before you had to admit it.

At night, alone in your room, you’d dragged your dildo from the drawer with shaking fingers and pushed it between your thighs while imagining it was him. You’d ridden it slowly at first, knees planted in the mattress, one hand braced against the headboard while the other rubbed messy circles over your clit.

You’d pictured Ben beneath you, big hands gripping your hips, mouth twisted into something mean as he watched you struggle to take him. Sometimes you’d bounced so desperately that the toy slipped against that sensitive spot inside you again and again until your legs shook.

Sometimes you’d buried your face in your pillow and moaned his name into the fabric, terrified someone might hear and secretly wanting them to. More than once, you’d come with Ben’s name on your tongue, your pussy clenching around silicone while your brain filled in the weight, heat, and cruelty of him instead.

Sometimes, when the fantasy got too filthy to stop, you’d whispered Daddy into your pillow and pretended it was his hand in your hair forcing you to say it louder.

Ben didn’t know the details, but he knew enough from the look on your face. He saw recognition flicker there, saw guilt, saw the exact kind of shame that only came from being caught wanting something you’d already touched yourself to.

His cock pressed painfully against his zipper now, thick and hard, the ache making his patience feel thinner by the second. He had tried not to think about you like this because your father was his friend and because there were lines even he understood he wasn’t supposed to cross. But he’d thought about you anyway.

He’d thought about your mouth when you laughed too hard at his jokes, your legs when you crossed them on the couch, your ass in those tiny shorts you wore around the house like you didn’t know what you were doing. He’d thought about bending you over the kitchen counter while everyone else was outside, about pressing a hand over your mouth and making you stay quiet.

He’d thought about how pretty you’d look crying from too much pleasure, how quickly your attitude would disappear once he got his hands on you. Seeing you now, wet and exposed and pretending you weren’t leaning toward him, snapped something ugly and hungry inside him.

“You’ve thought about this,” he said, voice quiet and dangerous. Your eyes widened. Ben smiled without warmth. “Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.”

You swallowed hard, but the denial wouldn’t come. It sat uselessly behind your teeth while his gaze pinned you in place. “I didn’t say anything,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to.” Ben moved closer again until his knees nearly brushed yours, his shadow falling over you in the cramped bathroom. “Your body’s runnin’ its mouth just fine.” Your thighs pressed together on instinct, but the movement only dragged your wet folds against each other and pulled a tiny sound from your throat.

Ben’s eyes dropped instantly. “There it is,” he said, mean satisfaction cutting through his voice. “You’re wet.” Your face burned so violently you had to look away. He reached down and caught your chin, fingers firm enough to stop you from hiding but not painful.

“No,” he said. “You don’t get shy after sittin’ here like this.” Your lashes fluttered, breath trembling under his thumb. “I didn’t know you were coming in.” Ben leaned closer, his voice dragging rough against your skin. “And now that I am?”

The question hung between you, filthy and heavy. You should’ve said something smart, something sharp, something that made you feel less exposed. Instead, your gaze dropped to the front of his jeans. The shape of him was impossible to miss now, hard and thick behind denim, straining like the sight of you had ruined every bit of control he thought he had.

Ben noticed you looking and gave a low laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s your fault.” Your lips parted softly, heat blooming through your stomach at the accusation. “Mine?”

“You’re sittin’ there with your legs open and that pretty little cunt out, and you’re askin’ if it’s yours?” His fingers tightened slightly at your jaw when you shivered. “Don’t play stupid with me.”

A shaky breath escaped you, and your pussy clenched again under the weight of his words. Ben watched your reaction like it fed him. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You really do like it mean.”

You did, and that was the problem. Your old partners had always tried to be sweet, careful, soft in ways that made you feel restless instead of wanted. You’d wanted rough hands and dirty words and someone who didn’t ask you five times if every breath was okay when your body was already begging.

You’d wanted someone who could look at you and know you needed to be handled. Ben looked like exactly that kind of man. He looked like the kind of man who would take your attitude apart one cruel sentence at a time and enjoy every second of it. He looked like the kind of man who would call you pretty and pathetic in the same breath.

Your stomach tightened as his thumb dragged slowly along your lower lip, and you had to fight the urge to open your mouth for him. “What are you thinkin’ about?” he asked. You shook your head faintly, cheeks blazing. Ben’s expression hardened with impatience. “Use your words.”

“I’ve thought about you,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. Ben went very still. The room seemed to shrink around both of you, the hum of the bathroom light suddenly louder overhead. His eyes darkened in a way that made your pulse stumble. “Yeah?” he asked. “How?”

Your fingers curled against your bare thigh, nails pressing tiny crescents into your skin. “At night,” you whispered, voice shaking. “When I’m alone.” Ben’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, and his cock jerked visibly in his jeans.

“Doin’ what?” Your throat worked around a swallow. “Riding my toy.” His nostrils flared, and the grip on your chin turned more possessive. “Moanin’ my name?”

Your silence answered before you could. Ben’s laugh was low, nasty, and pleased. “Course you were.” The humiliation of it made your eyes squeeze shut, but he shook your chin once, forcing your attention back to him. “Eyes open.”

You obeyed instantly, and the satisfaction on his face made you ache harder. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me how you do it.” Your heart pounded so hard you could feel it between your thighs. “I sit on it,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “Slow at first.”

Ben’s gaze dropped to your pussy like he could already see it happening. “Then?” “Then I move faster,” you breathed, the confession pulling heat through your whole body.

“I ride it until I can’t keep quiet.” Ben’s jaw tightened again, hunger turning the line of his mouth cruel. “And you say my name while you’re fuckin’ yourself on it?”

“Yes,” you whispered, and the word came out like surrender. Ben’s breath left him in a rough exhale. His hand fell from your chin, but only so he could brace it against the counter beside you, caging you in without touching anywhere else yet.

You could smell him now, smoke and whiskey and something masculine enough to make your head swim. “Filthy girl,” he said, and the insult landed like praise. Your pussy pulsed openly, wetness slicking between your folds while the shaving cream melted farther down your thigh.

Ben’s eyes tracked everything, taking in the swollen shape of you, the soft hair framing your pussy, the shine of slick gathering where your body had given you away. “You were gonna shave this,” he said, almost offended again.

“This pretty little mess.” Your breath hitched as his knuckles brushed the inside of your knee, not quite touching where you needed him. “Don’t,” he said again, rougher this time. “I like it like this.” Your thighs trembled apart another inch. Ben saw it and smiled. “Good girl.”

The praise made you nearly dizzy. It was worse because it came from him, from Ben, from the man you’d imagined being cruel enough to make you cry and pleased enough to kiss the tears afterward. He crouched slowly in front of you now, still too close, still not touching your pussy, his eyes level with what he had walked in on.

His cock was so hard it looked painful, straining against denim while he balanced one forearm on his knee. “Spread your legs,” he said. You hesitated for half a second, not because you didn’t want to, but because the embarrassment was almost too much to survive. His eyes flicked back up to yours.

“Don’t make me ask twice.” Your knees parted wider, slow and shaky, exposing yourself fully beneath his gaze. Ben inhaled through his nose, controlled but heavy. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Look at you.” Your pussy clenched around nothing as he stared, swollen and slick and framed by the hair he’d just ordered you not to remove. He noticed every bit of it. “Bet your toy doesn’t look at you like this.”

“No,” you breathed before you could stop yourself. Ben’s smile sharpened. “No, what?” Your stomach twisted because you knew what he wanted. “No, Ben.”

His eyes flashed at the sound of his name from your mouth in that tone, breathy and obedient and already ruined. “There she is,” he said. “That’s the voice you use when you’re ridin’ that dildo thinkin’ about me, isn’t it?”

Your hands gripped the edge of the toilet seat, and you nodded faintly. “Say it.” “Yes,” you whispered. “I think about you when I ride it.” Ben’s cock jerked again, and this time he didn’t even try to hide the way he adjusted himself roughly through his jeans.

“You think about me fillin’ you up instead?” he asked, mean and direct. Your body answered with a visible shiver. His gaze dropped, and his voice went darker. “Dirty little thing.”

The bathroom felt unbearably hot now, the mirror faintly fogged from the shower you’d taken before deciding to shave. You were still exposed under the ugly overhead light, one leg braced awkwardly near the tub, shaving cream drying tacky on your thigh.

Ben looked at you like none of it mattered, like the mess only made him want you more. His eyes were hungry, but not gentle. There was nothing soft in the way he studied you, nothing hesitant in the way his attention dragged over your pussy and made you feel owned before he ever laid a hand there.

“You want me to leave?” he asked suddenly. Your pulse jumped. He wasn’t asking because he wanted to leave. He was asking because he wanted to hear you choose the opposite. You stared at him, lips parted, face flushed so hot it hurt. “No,” you whispered. Ben’s smile turned wicked. “That’s what I thought.”

He stood again slowly, towering over you in the little bathroom until your breathing turned shallow. One big hand came to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair just enough to pull your head back and force your eyes up to his.

The grip wasn’t gentle, and the shock of it made your pussy clench hard. Ben’s gaze narrowed. “You like being handled too,” he said. It wasn’t a question. You made a small sound, something between a whimper and a confession, and his mouth twisted with approval.

“All this time walkin’ around this house actin’ sweet,” he muttered. “Meanwhile you’re upstairs bouncin’ on a toy moanin’ my name.” Your face burned again, but his hand in your hair kept you from ducking away.

“Does your dad know what a filthy mouth you’ve got when nobody’s listenin’?” You shook your head quickly. Ben leaned down until his lips hovered close to your ear. “Good. Because that’s mine now.”

The words punched through you, sharp and wrong and so hot you nearly whimpered out loud. Ben pulled back just enough to look at your face, and whatever he saw there made his expression go even darker. “You want mean?” he asked quietly. “You want me not to hold back?”

Your body trembled under the question, and for once you didn’t try to pretend otherwise. “Yes,” you whispered. His grip in your hair tightened. “Then quit pretendin’ you’re embarrassed.” You nodded, but he clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “Words.”

“I want you mean,” you breathed. “I want you to not hold back.” Ben’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then to your open thighs, then back up again. Your lips trembled before the last word slipped out soft and needy.

“Daddy.” Ben went completely still for half a second, and then his smile turned downright cruel. “Careful, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough with lust. “Daddy’s real good at givin’ spoiled girls exactly what they ask for.”

Ben’s hand stayed buried in your hair for another second, keeping your head tipped back while he looked down at you like he was deciding exactly how much trouble you’d earned. “Daddy,” he repeated, voice low and rough, the word sounding filthy in his mouth, like it had dragged every last decent thought out of the room with it.

His eyes dropped again between your thighs, and his expression hardened the second he saw the razor still sitting on the counter beside you. “All that pretty hair,” he muttered, almost disgusted, “and you were gonna scrape it off like it didn’t belong there.”

His hand left your hair only so he could grip your thigh and spread you open wider, rough enough to make your breath jump. You whimpered immediately, fingers tightening against the edge of the toilet seat while your pussy clenched under his stare. Ben saw it and gave a short, mean laugh. “Look at that. She knows she did somethin’ wrong.”

Before you could answer, his palm came down sharply against your pussy.

The sound cracked through the bathroom, wet and obscene, and your whole body jerked from the sting. Pleasure burst hot and sudden beneath the pain, your thighs trying to snap shut before Ben caught one and shoved it open again.

“Uh-uh,” he said, voice hard. “You don’t get to hide now.” Your mouth fell open around a shaky moan, face burning because the slap should’ve shocked you more than it turned you on. Ben’s eyes darkened at the sound, and the front of his jeans strained harder as he stared down at you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, palming himself roughly through the denim with one hand while the other kept your legs spread. “Knew you were a dirty little thing, but this?” His palm landed against your pussy again, hard enough to make your hips buck off the seat. “This is fuckin’ pathetic.”

“Ben,” you moaned, the name slipping out before you could stop it.

His face changed immediately.

Not anger, exactly, but something meaner and more possessive, like you’d disappointed him on purpose just to see what he’d do about it. “What’d you call me?” he asked softly. Your breath hitched, eyes wide, thighs trembling around the ache he’d slapped into you.

“Ben,” you whispered again, weaker this time, and the second it left your mouth, his hand cracked sharply across your face. Not enough to hurt badly, not enough to scare you, but enough to turn your head and leave your cheek stinging hot beneath the bathroom light.

The shock punched a broken sound out of you, but it wasn’t fear. It was a moan, loud and helpless, your pussy clenching so hard that Ben saw it happen. His jaw tightened like the sight had nearly ruined him. “Try again,” he said.

“Daddy,” you whimpered instantly.

Ben’s hand flexed against his jeans, rubbing the hard shape of his cock through the fabric while his mouth twisted into a cruel little smile. “There she is.” Your cheek burned where he’d slapped you, heat blooming under your skin while your whole body seemed to pulse with the humiliation of how badly you’d liked it.

He watched your face for a beat, making sure you were still with him, still wanting it, and the way your thighs stayed spread for him answered before your mouth could.

“You’re gonna learn real quick,” he said, voice dropping into that rough, old-fashioned arrogance that made your stomach twist, “that when Daddy tells you to keep somethin’ pretty, you don’t go reachin’ for a damn razor.”

His fingers slid down between your thighs then, not gentle, not giving you softness after the sting. He pinched your clit between two fingers, sharp and sudden, and your body jolted so hard your heel scraped against the bathtub. “Oh my god,” you gasped, grabbing at his wrist even though you didn’t pull him away.

Ben clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed by the way you were falling apart already. “No, no. Don’t grab at me like you’re not spread open beggin’ for worse.” His fingers pinched again, controlled and cruel, enough to make your hips twitch up into his hand while your eyes watered from the intensity.

He palmed himself harder through his jeans as he watched you, breath coming heavier now, his own restraint fraying in the sharp line of his jaw. “Look at you,” he said, dragging his gaze over your pussy, swollen and wet and framed by the hair he’d decided belonged there. “Gettin’ all messy because I punished this pretty cunt for misbehavin’.”

Your face went hotter, but you couldn’t stop the needy little sounds spilling from you every time his fingers pressed and released. He noticed each one. He fed off them. “That’s it,” he muttered. “Cry about it a little. Makes you prettier.”

“Daddy,” you moaned again, louder this time, the word shaking out of you like a confession.

Ben’s expression went hungry.

He leaned closer, broad body crowding yours until all you could smell was smoke, whiskey, and him. His thumb brushed over your stinging cheek with a mockery of tenderness, almost sweet if his other hand wasn’t still between your thighs, keeping you trembling and exposed.

“Now you remember,” he murmured. “Had to slap some manners into you, huh?” Your lashes fluttered, and you nodded before you could stop yourself. That made him groan under his breath, rough and pleased, his hand rubbing over his cock through his jeans with less patience now.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick with lust. “You’re gonna be a real problem for me.” Then his eyes dropped once more to your pussy, and his mouth curved into something wicked. “But first, we’re gonna make damn sure you don’t forget who told you not to shave.”

Ben’s smile stayed cruel for one more second before he finally stood to his full height, towering over you in the cramped bathroom like he owned the damn place. His hand dropped from your hair, but the loss of contact didn’t make you feel free. If anything, it made you feel more exposed because his eyes kept you pinned harder than his grip ever could.

The bathroom door was still unlocked behind him, not even fully latched right because he’d shoved it closed in a hurry. Anyone in the house could’ve walked past and heard the low scrape of his breathing, the tiny desperate sounds you kept failing to swallow, or the sharp metallic clink when Ben touched his belt.

He didn’t care. Not even a little. He glanced toward the door once, almost lazily, then back at you like the risk only made him meaner. “Ain’t gonna save you by lookin’ at it,” he said, voice rough and smug. “Door’s right there, sweetheart.”

Your thighs trembled around the ache still pulsing between them. Ben’s hand moved to the buckle at his waist, and he looked down at you with that old-fashioned arrogance that made your stomach twist. “Now be useful and undo it.”

Your mouth went dry as you stared at him, sitting there with your pussy still exposed and your cheek still warm from his hand. Ben didn’t move closer at first, just waited with his head tilted slightly, like patience was a punishment of its own.

The leather belt sat heavy around his waist, dark and worn, the buckle catching the harsh bathroom light. You reached for it with shaky fingers, and his eyes dropped to your hands immediately. “Look at you,” he muttered, almost amused. “Shakin’ already.”

“I’m not,” you whispered, but the lie sounded pathetic even to you. Ben gave a low laugh that made your pussy clench again. “Sure you aren’t.” Your fingertips brushed the front of his jeans, and you felt him hard beneath the denim, thick and straining, hot even through the fabric.

He hissed softly through his teeth when you touched him, jaw tightening like he hated giving you the satisfaction. “Careful,” he said. “You wanted Daddy mean, don’t go actin’ delicate now.”

You swallowed hard and worked the belt open, the metal buckle clicking loudly in the quiet bathroom. The sound made your pulse jump because it felt too real, too close, too far past fantasy to pretend you hadn’t wanted this exact moment. Ben watched you unthread the leather with dark, greedy eyes, his chest rising slower now like he was forcing himself not to rush.

The belt slipped loose in your hands, heavy and warm from his body, and he let it hang there for a second just to watch you stare. “Jeans,” he ordered. Your fingers moved to the button, clumsy from nerves, and he clicked his tongue in irritation.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, you ride a damn toy moanin’ my name but can’t work a zipper?” Heat flooded your face, but the shame only made your body react harder. You popped the button open, then dragged the zipper down slowly.

Ben’s cock strained immediately against the fabric beneath, the shape of him obscene and impossible to ignore. “That’s it,” he said, voice dipping. “There’s the smart girl.”

He shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, and the sight of him made every thought in your head scatter. Ben was thick, heavy, and flushed dark at the head, the skin pulled tight and hot from how long he’d been hard watching you.

He wasn’t neat or pretty in some soft way. He looked obscene, masculine, and demanding, the kind of cock that made your stomach dip before you even touched it. A vein ran along the underside, standing out more when his hand wrapped around the base and stroked once for his own relief.

Pre-cum already glistened at the tip, gathering slowly before slipping down the swollen head. Your lips parted before you could stop yourself. Ben saw it and smiled like he’d caught you stealing. “Yeah,” he murmured.

“That’s what I thought.” He tapped the head of his cock against your lower lip, smearing the first wet streak across your mouth. “Been thinkin’ about this too, haven’t you?” You nodded before pride could stop you. “Say it.”

“I’ve thought about it,” you whispered, voice shaking so badly it barely sounded like you. Ben’s hand moved to your jaw, thumb pressing into one side while his fingers held the other. “About what?” he asked, because of course he wanted to make you say it. Your eyes flicked down to his cock, then back up to his face.

“About your cock,” you breathed. Ben groaned under his breath, a low, filthy sound that made his grip tighten. “Good girl.” The praise hit you hard enough to make your thighs squeeze together. His gaze dropped and caught the movement, and his mouth curled with satisfaction.

“Still tryin’ to rub that needy little cunt together?” he asked. “Greedy thing.” You whimpered, and he dragged the wet tip of his cock across your cheek before you could answer. “Mouth open.”

You obeyed instantly, lips parting around a shaky breath. Ben didn’t let you take him yet. Instead, he dragged his cock slowly across your face, smearing pre-cum over your lips, your cheek, and the corner of your mouth in a hot slick line.

The humiliation of it made your eyes flutter, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. You wanted him too badly, wanted the weight of him, the taste of him, the proof that he’d stopped pretending he didn’t want you back.

Ben watched your face the whole time, his expression cruel and fascinated, like he wanted to memorize exactly how ruined you looked before he even got inside your mouth.

“Look at that,” he muttered. “Pretty face made a mess already.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your lower lip again, smearing more pre-cum there until your mouth felt wet and swollen. “Tongue out,” he said. You stuck your tongue out immediately, and his eyes darkened. “Fuckin’ hell.”

Ben leaned over you, keeping one hand on his cock while the other gripped the counter beside your head. For a second, you thought he was just going to push inside your mouth. Then he spat directly onto your tongue. The wet heat of it landed heavy and humiliating, and your whole body shivered violently.

Ben smiled like the reaction pleased him. “Don’t swallow,” he said. Your tongue stayed out, trembling slightly, the spit shining there beneath the ugly bathroom light. He dragged the tip of his cock through it slowly, smearing his spit and pre-cum together over your tongue in a slick, filthy glide.

Your eyes watered from how badly you wanted him to stop teasing and just use your mouth already. Ben saw the desperation immediately. “Christ,” he said, voice rougher now. “You really are made for this.” He rubbed himself across your tongue again, hips pushing forward just enough to make your throat tighten in anticipation. “Daddy’s gonna ruin that mouth.”

The first push inside was slow enough to make you feel every inch. Ben’s cock stretched your lips wide, heavy on your tongue, the taste of pre-cum, spit, and warm skin filling your mouth all at once. Your hands went to his thighs automatically, gripping the denim bunched low around them for balance. He hissed sharply when your lips sealed around him.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice already darker. “Knew you’d look good with a mouthful of cock.” You made a soft sound around him, and the vibration dragged a rough groan from his chest. His fingers threaded into your hair, not gently, not sweetly, but with control that made your scalp sting in the best way.

“Don’t use teeth,” he warned. “Unless you want me to get real mean.” Your eyes flicked up to his. He smiled down at you. “That’s what I thought.”

You tried to start slow, lips sliding carefully along his length while your tongue pressed against the underside. Ben let you for maybe three strokes. Then his grip tightened in your hair, and he pulled you forward until the head of his cock pushed deeper against your tongue. “No,” he said flatly. “Not like that.”

Your breath stuttered through your nose as he held you there, the weight of him filling your mouth more completely now. “You don’t get to tease after what you almost did to that pretty bush.” He dragged you back slowly by the hair, then pushed in again, deeper this time.

Your throat fluttered around him, and his jaw tightened hard. “Fuck,” he groaned. “That’s better.” He looked down at you with blown pupils and a cruel little twist to his mouth. “Open up.”

You forced your jaw looser, eyes watering as Ben pushed farther in. He watched every tiny reaction, every blink, every shaky inhale through your nose, every way your hands tightened on his thighs. His cock was thick enough that your lips burned around him, and the stretch made your head feel light. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Take it.”

He pulled out just enough for air to rush into your lungs, then pushed back in before you could recover fully. The rhythm made your body jolt, and your pussy pulsed wetly between your thighs. You were painfully aware of it, of how exposed you still were, of the soft hair Ben had forbidden you to shave framing the slick mess your body had become.

He was aware too. His eyes dropped once toward your open thighs, and he actually groaned at the sight. “Still drippin’,” he muttered. “All because Daddy’s using your mouth.”

The words made you moan around him, and Ben’s grip in your hair went brutal for half a second. “Yeah?” he asked, breath roughening. “You like hearin’ that?” You nodded as best you could with his cock in your mouth, and he gave a short, nasty laugh. “Course you do.”

He started moving his hips then, shallow at first, fucking into your mouth with controlled little thrusts that made your eyes water more with each one. The sound was obscene, wet and muffled and trapped in the small bathroom. Your cheeks hollowed instinctively, and Ben cursed beneath his breath.

“Goddamn, sweetheart.” His free hand came down to your cheek, thumb smearing the pre-cum already drying there. “Look at you.” He pushed deeper suddenly, making you gag softly around him. “That’s it. Let me hear it.”

The gag made him throb against your tongue. You felt it and whimpered, humiliation and arousal twisting together so tightly you couldn’t separate them anymore. Ben’s breath came heavier, his stomach tightening beneath his shirt each time your throat tried to take him. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t slow out of sweetness. He just watched you with cruel hunger, fingers locked in your hair while he used the grip to set the pace.

“You wanted this,” he said, voice low and harsh. “Don’t forget that.” Your nails dug into his thighs, and he looked pleased by the desperation. “Been upstairs ridin’ that toy thinkin’ about me, right?” He thrust again, rougher this time, making your throat flutter.

“Now you’ve got the real thing, and you’re still actin’ surprised.” A tear slipped down your cheek. Ben wiped it with his thumb, then smeared it into the pre-cum across your skin. “Pretty when you cry.”

Your body went hot and weak at that, thighs squeezing uselessly around the ache between them. Ben noticed the motion and laughed again, cruel and breathless. “Poor thing,” he said, though there was no pity in it. “Mouth full and still worried about your pussy.”

He pulled out until only the tip rested against your tongue, letting you breathe for one shaky second. You gasped softly, lips wet and swollen, chin messy. Ben looked at your mouth like it belonged to him now. “Say it,” he ordered. You blinked up at him, dazed.

“Say whose cock you wanted when you were ridin’ that little toy.” Your voice came out broken and wet. “Yours.” His eyes narrowed. “Try again.”

“Daddy’s,” you whispered.

Ben’s whole expression changed.

The word hit him like a match to gasoline, and his cock jerked hard in his own hand before he pushed back into your mouth. “There you go,” he groaned. “Now you’re learnin’.” He fucked your mouth harder after that, no longer pretending he was patient. His hips snapped forward in short, rough strokes, each one forcing your lips wider and your throat tighter around him.

Your hands gripped his thighs as tears gathered faster now, not from fear, but from the overwhelming fullness and the ruthless pace. Ben watched them spill with obvious satisfaction, his mouth parted, his breathing rough and uneven.

“Take it,” he rasped. “That’s a good girl.” You moaned again, and the sound came out muffled around his cock. “Fuck, that mouth.”

The unlocked door sat behind him like a dare the whole time. You could see it in brief, watery flashes whenever your eyes drifted past his body, the simple twist lock untouched, the hall beyond hidden but not distant enough. Ben didn’t even glance back. If anything, he angled himself wider in front of you, broad shoulders blocking most of the room while his hips kept moving.

“You nervous someone’ll hear?” he asked, voice thick with amusement. Your eyes widened around him, and that was answer enough. “Too bad.” He pushed deeper, holding you there long enough for your throat to tighten around him.

“Should’ve thought about that before callin’ me Daddy with your cunt out.” The shame made you whimper, and Ben’s cock pulsed heavily against your tongue. “There she is,” he muttered. “Loves being scared of gettin’ caught.”

He pulled out fully for a second, letting his cock drag wetly over your lips. You coughed once, soft and breathless, saliva clinging between your mouth and the flushed head of him before breaking. Ben gripped his cock at the base and slapped the heavy length lightly against your cheek. “Messy,” he said. “But you can do better.”

Your lips trembled as you looked up at him. “Please,” you whispered before you could stop yourself. His brows lifted. “Please what?” Your face burned. “Please use my mouth.”

Ben stared at you for half a second, then laughed in a way that made your stomach fold in on itself. “Now that’s a polite little slut.” He tapped the tip against your tongue. “Open.”

You opened for him again, and he slid in with less resistance because your mouth was already wet and stretched from him. This time he didn’t bother building slowly. He buried one hand in your hair and braced the other against the wall beside the mirror, hips driving forward until your throat tightened around him.

The bathroom mirror caught the angle of him above you, jeans shoved low, shirt rumpled, jaw clenched, eyes dark with lust. He looked like he’d walked straight out of every forbidden thought you’d ever had and become worse in person.

Meaner. Larger. More shameless. Your own reflection flashed in the corner of the mirror too, knees parted, face messy, mouth full, eyes wet. Ben saw you notice and grinned. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Look at yourself.”

You did, because his hand in your hair gave you no choice. Your face was smeared with pre-cum, spit, and tears, lips stretched around his cock while your mascara had started to blur at the edges of your lashes. Your body looked wrecked and exposed, pussy still bare under the light, the soft hair between your thighs damp with slick.

The sight made you moan around him without meaning to. Ben groaned immediately, hips stuttering once before he corrected himself. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Don’t do that unless you want me to finish early.” He pulled out abruptly, leaving you gasping, and wrapped his hand around himself at the base.

His cock was slick from your mouth now, shining wet, the head darker and more swollen than before. Pre-cum leaked again, thick and clear, slipping from the slit despite the way he held himself back. “Not in your mouth,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Not yet.”

You looked up at him, dazed and needy, throat aching and lips parted. Ben saw the disappointment flicker across your face and laughed under his breath. “Don’t pout,” he said. “You haven’t earned that.” His thumb smeared over your bottom lip, dragging saliva across your mouth before pushing lightly against your tongue.

You sucked it without thinking, and his jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re trouble.” He stepped closer again, cock heavy in his hand, still hard and slick and flushed from how close he’d nearly gotten. “Hands behind your back.”

You obeyed immediately, folding your hands behind yourself while still seated and exposed. Ben’s eyes dragged over you, pleased and mean. “Good. Now you’re gonna sit there and let Daddy decide what he does with you next.”

He rubbed the head of his cock over your lips again, not letting you take him, just painting your mouth with more slick while you fought to stay still. “This is what happens when you try to ruin somethin’ I like,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

“I make a mess of you instead.” Your pussy throbbed visibly beneath his gaze, and Ben’s mouth twisted. “Still wet,” he murmured. “That poor little cunt’s got no shame at all.” You whimpered, shoulders trembling with the effort not to reach for him again.

He dragged the underside of his cock across your cheek, then down over your chin, smearing your own spit back across your skin. “Gonna remember this every time you see that razor, aren’t you?” You nodded quickly, eyes wide and glossy. “Yes, Daddy.” Ben’s smile sharpened. “Damn right.”

He pushed back into your mouth one last time, slower than before but somehow even more possessive. Your lips closed around him, and he gave a deep groan that vibrated through the quiet room. He didn’t thrust immediately.

He just held himself there, heavy on your tongue, making you feel the weight and heat of him while your eyes stayed fixed on his face. “See?” he murmured. “This is useful.” Your throat worked around him, and his cock twitched hard. He hissed and pulled back before he could lose control.

“Fuck.” His hand tightened around himself again, stopping the orgasm that had clearly started to build too fast. He looked angry about wanting you this much, which only made him look hungrier.

“Not yet,” he said, voice wrecked but firm. “Daddy’s not done teachin’ you a lesson.” You gasped softly when he withdrew fully, mouth empty and aching. Ben looked down at you, cock still hard in his fist, and smiled like the night had only just started.

You sat there exactly how Ben had told you to, hands tucked behind your back, shoulders pulled slightly open because you weren’t allowed to hide from him anymore. Your breathing came back in uneven little pulls while your chest rose and fell too quickly, tits bouncing faintly with every shaky inhale as the bathroom light made every inch of you feel exposed.

Your mouth was still swollen and wet from him, lips parted as you tried to steady yourself, but Ben’s eyes weren’t on your face anymore. They had dropped lower, dragging over your bare chest, your trembling thighs, and the slick mess between your legs with the kind of shameless hunger that made your pussy clench again.

He stood over you with his jeans still open, cock hard and flushed in his hand, the head wet from your mouth and still leaking despite how tightly he held himself back.

The bathroom door stayed unlocked behind him, quiet and dangerous, but Ben didn’t even glance at it. He looked like he wanted the risk. He looked like he wanted you to remember every second.

“Hands stay there,” he said, voice rough and mean, his accent thicker now that he was worked up. “You move ’em, I stop.”

Your thighs twitched at that, and his mouth curled like he’d felt it somehow. “Course that gets your attention,” he muttered, stepping closer until his knees nearly brushed yours. “Mouth full of cock, cunt all wet, still sittin’ there like you’re the one bein’ tortured.” He dragged his gaze over your pussy again, slow and deliberate, taking in the soft bush he’d already decided belonged exactly where it was.

“Look at this,” he said, almost under his breath, like he was still pissed at you for nearly shaving it. “Pretty little thing, all soaked and puffy, and you were gonna take a razor to it.” Your face burned, but you didn’t close your legs. You couldn’t.

Ben dropped slowly to one knee in front of you, then the other, big hands landing on your thighs with a grip that made your breath hitch. “Since you wanted to be stupid,” he said, spreading you open wider, “Daddy’s gonna remind this pussy why it doesn’t need fixin’.”

The first rough pull at your bush made you gasp sharply. Ben’s fingers tangled in the soft hair between your thighs, tugging just enough to make your hips jerk and your clit throb. “There,” he said, voice low with satisfaction. “See? Personality.”

Your pussy looked wrecked beneath his stare, swollen from arousal, glossy with slick, the lips flushed darker and parted around the wet ache he’d worked you into without even properly touching you yet. The hair framed you messily, damp near the center from how wet you’d gotten, and Ben looked at it like it was something he wanted to ruin and worship at the same time.

His thumb dragged through your folds once, slow and rude, spreading your slick before he pressed the pad of it against your clit. You whimpered, shoulders trembling as you fought to keep your hands behind your back. Ben watched your face with cruel amusement. “Don’t start cryin’ yet,” he said. “Haven’t even put my mouth on you.”

Then he leaned in.

The first drag of his tongue through your pussy made your whole body jolt against the toilet seat, a broken sound spilling out of you before you could swallow it. Ben groaned into you immediately, the vibration rolling straight through your clit and making your thighs shake harder beneath his hands.

He didn’t eat you gently. There was nothing delicate about the way he opened you with his thumbs, pulled lightly at the hair to angle you how he wanted, then licked into you like he was angry at how good you tasted.

“Fuck,” he muttered against you, mouth wet and rough. “That’s why you were actin’ so dumb, huh?” His tongue pushed inside you suddenly, hot and firm, and your head tipped back against the wall with a helpless moan. “Daddy,” you gasped, already shaking. Ben’s hands tightened on your thighs. “Yeah,” he growled into your pussy. “That’s what I thought.”

He tongue fucked you with filthy, impatient strokes, pushing in and dragging out just to feel the way you clenched around him. Every time your hips lifted, he shoved you back down with one hand and tugged at your bush with the other, keeping you spread open and helpless under his mouth.

“Stay still,” he snapped, but there was a rough smile in his voice. “You wanted to be a big girl and shave this pretty cunt, didn’t you?” His tongue circled your clit before he sucked it into his mouth, and the sudden pressure ripped a loud cry out of you.

“Ben—” His hand came down hard on your thigh, not your face this time, but the warning was clear. He pulled back only enough to glare up at you. “What’d you call me?” Your chest heaved, tits bouncing with the effort of breathing. “Daddy,” you corrected quickly, voice breaking. Ben’s expression softened into something meaner. “Better.”

He went back down like he’d been starving.

His mouth sealed over your clit, sucking until your legs tried to clamp around his head, but his shoulders forced them open again. The scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs made everything sharper, rougher, dirtier, every pass of his mouth leaving you more sensitive than the last.

He kept making those low, approving sounds into you, like he couldn’t decide whether to punish you or praise himself for getting you this messy. “Look at you,” he mumbled between licks, his lips shining with you. “All wet for your dad’s best friend.”

The words made you moan so hard your hands twitched behind your back, and Ben noticed instantly. “Don’t you fuckin’ move those hands.” You froze, breath catching. He smiled against your pussy. “Good girl. Learnin’.”

You were shaking so hard now that staying upright took effort, your back pressed against the wall, knees spread wide, hands locked behind you while Ben worked you open with his mouth. His tongue pushed inside you again, deeper this time, the wet obscene sound of it filling the bathroom while his nose brushed against your clit. You moaned his title over and over, each

“Daddy” softer and more ruined than the last, and every one seemed to make him rougher. He dragged his tongue up to your clit and flicked it fast, then sucked, then pulled back just to spit on your pussy and smear it in with two fingers.

“Messy little thing,” he muttered, rubbing the spit and slick over your swollen clit before replacing his fingers with his mouth. Your body lurched forward, but he shoved you back again with a hand on your stomach.

“No. Sit there and take it.” His other hand pulled at your bush again, possessive and cruel, making you whimper from the sting and the pleasure tangled together. “This stays,” he said against you. “You hear me?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you sobbed.

The answer made him groan like it satisfied something ugly inside him. He licked you harder after that, mouth dragging over every wet, swollen inch of you while his hands held you open like he owned the view. Your orgasm started building too fast, violent and hot, gathering low in your stomach until your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his head.

“I’m close,” you gasped, voice shaking. Ben didn’t pull away. He only looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and mouth slick, and the sight nearly finished you right there. “Then come,” he ordered, voice muffled against your pussy.

“Cum on Daddy’s tongue.” His tongue pushed back inside you at the same time his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, cruel circles that made your whole body seize. You cried out, hands straining behind your back as pleasure finally snapped through you.

You came hard against his mouth, hips bucking despite his grip, thighs shaking so violently that Ben had to hold you down. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, tongue dragging through the slick rush of your orgasm while you sobbed his name wrong once and then corrected yourself into a desperate “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy” that made him growl into you.

Your pussy clenched around his tongue, swollen and soaked, every pulse making your body jolt in sharp little waves. Ben drank it in with a filthy kind of satisfaction, sucking and licking until you were writhing away from him because it was too much. Only then did he finally pull back, lips and chin wet, breathing rough as he looked up at you.

“There,” he said, voice wrecked but still cruel. “That’s what this pussy needed.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed your thigh hard enough to make you whimper. “Not a razor.” His eyes dropped to the soft, damp hair between your legs, and his mouth twisted with smug approval. “Me.”

Ben didn’t give you time to come down properly before his hand was back in your hair, hauling you up from the toilet seat with a roughness that made your knees nearly buckle. Your body was still shaking from his mouth, thighs slick and trembling, pussy swollen and wet enough that every step felt obscene.

“Up,” he growled, like he didn’t care that you were boneless and breathless and barely able to think. His grip stayed firm at the back of your neck as he turned you toward the sink, crowding behind you with his open jeans brushing against the backs of your thighs.

The bathroom mirror caught everything immediately, your messy mouth, your flushed cheeks, your tits rising and falling too fast, and Ben behind you looking huge and mean and completely gone on you. “Look at yourself,” he said, voice low against your ear. “Look what Daddy did to you already.”

Your palms hit the counter as he bent you forward, the edge of the sink pressing hard into your hips while your legs shook beneath you. Ben didn’t let you close them, not even for a second. He shoved one thigh between yours and forced your stance wider with his own legs, spreading you open until your pussy was exposed to him in the reflection.

“There,” he muttered, one hand gripping your hip while the other dragged down your spine. “Much better.”

Your eyes flicked to the mirror and immediately tried to drop, humiliation burning through you at the sight of yourself bent over the bathroom sink with your thighs parted and your slick still shining between them. Ben caught your chin from behind and forced your head back up. “No,” he snapped. “You wanted this. Now you watch.”

Before you could answer, two of his fingers shoved into your mouth, pressing down against your tongue until your lips closed around them automatically. “That’s it,” he said, sounding disgustingly pleased. “Drool on ’em.”

Your eyes watered as he pushed them deeper, your mouth stretched around his fingers while saliva gathered fast and messy. He watched you in the mirror, jaw tight, pupils blown, his cock dragging hot and heavy against your soaked folds from behind.

The tease of it made your hips jerk back despite yourself. Ben laughed under his breath, mean and breathless. “Greedy little thing. Mouth full and still tryin’ to get fucked.”

Then he lined himself up and thrust into you hard.

The stretch stole every bit of air from your lungs. Your moan came out muffled around his fingers, broken and wet, while your hands scrambled against the sink for something to hold. Ben cursed behind you, low and rough, his grip on your hip turning brutal as your pussy clenched around him immediately.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dipping briefly against your shoulder. “Tight little cunt’s been beggin’ for this all night.” He didn’t give you time to adjust for long. He pulled back halfway and snapped his hips forward again, shoving himself deep enough that your knees nearly gave out. “Look,” he ordered, fingers still pressing into your mouth. “Look how pathetic you are takin’ it.”

You forced your eyes up to the mirror, and the sight nearly ruined you. Your lips were stretched around Ben’s fingers, drool slipping down your chin, eyes glossy and blown wide while his body crowded yours from behind.

His cock disappeared into you with every rough thrust, your pussy wet enough that the sound filled the bathroom, filthy and rhythmic beneath both of your breathing. Your slick coated him instantly, creamy and clear around the base every time he drove back into you, making a messy shine where your bodies met.

Ben’s hand left your hip suddenly and came down hard across your ass, the slap echoing off the tile. You cried out around his fingers, clenching violently around him. He felt it instantly. “Oh, you liked that,” he said, voice sharpening with cruel amusement. “Course you did. Dirty little slut likes bein’ bent over and used in the bathroom.”

Your pussy tightened harder at the words, and Ben groaned like it pissed him off how good you felt. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, spanking you again, harder this time. “You’re squeezin’ me every time I call you what you are.” His fingers pressed deeper into your mouth, making you drool more, making the reflection even messier.

“That what you needed?” he asked, hips snapping into you with mean, steady force. “Needed Daddy to talk to you like some needy little whore so this pretty cunt would behave?” You whimpered around his fingers, nodding before you could stop yourself. His mouth twisted in the mirror. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Ben fucked you harder after that, like your body had given him permission to stop pretending he had any restraint left. One hand stayed in your mouth, keeping you quiet and messy, while the other alternated between gripping your hip and landing sharp, stinging slaps against your ass.

Each one made your body jolt forward against the sink, and each thrust dragged you back onto him again. “Look at that,” he rasped, eyes locked on the reflection of where your bodies met. “Taking Daddy’s cock like you were made for it.”

Your walls fluttered around him, slick and hot and clenching every time his voice dropped into that cruel, possessive tone. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips stuttering for half a second before he caught himself. “This pussy’s dangerous.”

You tried to say Daddy, but it came out as a wet, muffled sound around his fingers. Ben’s expression darkened at the attempt. “What was that?” he taunted, thrusting deep and holding there until you squirmed. You drooled around his fingers, eyes pleading in the mirror, body shaking from how full you felt. He pulled his fingers out just enough for you to gasp. “Say it.”

“Daddy,” you cried immediately, voice wrecked and breathless. Ben slammed back into you so hard your hands slipped against the counter. “Good girl,” he grunted. “Say it again.”

“Daddy,” you moaned, louder this time, and your pussy clenched down around him so hard he swore through his teeth.

His hand came back to your hip, fingers digging in as he chased that reaction again and again. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough and breaking at the edges now. “Keep squeezin’ me like that.”

You could feel how close he was getting, the way his thrusts turned less controlled, deeper and harsher, each one punching little broken sounds from your throat. Your own orgasm built fast, too fast, pressure tightening low in your stomach until your thighs were shaking against his.

Your cum started slicking him even more before you fully tipped over, wetness gathering thick and messy around his cock, smearing down your inner thighs, making every thrust sound wetter than the last. Ben saw it in the mirror, saw your pussy getting sloppy around him, saw the creamy ring of your arousal coating the base of him. “Don’t you look away,” he ordered. “You’re gonna watch yourself cum on Daddy’s cock.”

The command snapped something inside you. Your body seized against the sink, pussy clamping down around him as your orgasm hit hard enough to make your vision blur. “Daddy,” you sobbed, shaking violently while pleasure tore through you in hot, helpless waves.

Your cum soaked around him, slick and messy, your pussy pulsing so hard it pushed wetness down over his cock and onto your thighs with every clench. Ben groaned deep behind you, his grip turning almost painful as your orgasm dragged his out of him too.

“Fuck,” he rasped, hips driving in once, twice, then holding deep as he came with a broken, furious sound against your shoulder. You felt him spill hot inside you, thick pulses filling you while his cock twitched hard through every wave. The heat of his cum made you whimper, your overstimulated pussy clenching around him again as if trying to milk out every last drop.

Some of it pushed wetly around his cock where he stayed buried, mixing with your slick until both of you were messy and trembling in the mirror. His body pressed hard over yours, breath hot at your neck while both of you shook through it together. After a long moment, Ben laughed softly against your skin, rough and breathless. “That’s one hell of a lesson, sweetheart.”

© CUMKISSED ♡ | EST. JUNE 2026 ˎˊ˗ all original content found here belongs to me. canon material belongs to its respective owners. don't repost it, don't feed it to ai, don't translate it, don't archive it elsewhere, and definitely don't pretend you wrote it. ♡

The silence is perplexing. Your boyfriend is known for his non stop rambling. Even the incident with Tobias Hankel had done nothing to stop it, only momentarily soured his words and his tone, diluted the vivacity in his amber eyes without ever extinguishing the spark. But tonight, on the flight back to Quantico, his silence persists, mingling with the remnants of Hotch and Gideon’s whiskey as it evaporates and colors the air inside the jet with something smoky and vinous. 

He leaves for the bathroom. You follow when nine minutes pass, too much time for regular bathroom activities, especially for Spencer. With the door slightly ajar, the sounds of running water drift to your ears. Spencer’s bent over the sink when you open the door, shoulders slumped in a way that suggests defeat, hands steady under the spray.

You push the door open, uninvited.

“Baby, I know you’re a germaphobe, but isn’t this a little bit of an overkill?” you approach the way you’re used to, mild jokes unrelated to the issue. Something frilly, harmless. “You know you’ve probably used up half of this jet’s water supply, right?”

He doesn’t respond, only closes the tap. You never thought silence could feel oppressive until right now.

“Talk to me,” it’s not a plea. Not yet—you’d do that too, if that’s what it takes to break this impassive facade he’s erected between the two of you. “I already apologized earlier, Spence, you can’t keep holding me at arms length like this.” Not again. Not after everything. Not when the thing I need is to be in your arms. 

Is it unfair to expect immediate forgiveness? Is it unreasonable to expect him to assuage the weight of those near death experiences instead of ignoring you?

He angles his body to you, head cocked in a way that shows off the perfect planes of his face. The air seems to shift, as if the very oxygen you breathe is lighter, brightened by the mere fact that he’s occupying a space closer to you. It’s fine. You’ll take what you can get. Even the slightest hint of acknowledgement gives you enough to persist. 

“Are you mad?” The words slip out soft as a feather and drift the same way, aimless and unhurried, stilling in the air and fizzling out into a silence that stretches so long you’re afraid he hadn’t heard. Or worse, is still pointedly ignoring you. “Spence…”

“I'm not,” he replies finally, two simple words that ease the painful clenching in your chest. “I couldn't be, not really. Frustrated, maybe. Everything in his profile pointed to violence when provoked and you still—” he shakes his head, “But that's done now.”

“You're frustrated,” You repeat, mind already turning over and attempting to find solutions to this. Part of you knows you can't force that feeling away, can't bulldoze his very valid reaction with the sheer weight of your love and will. But you crave some form of comfort, not this stoic introspection. The words feel useless, but you say them anyway, “I'm sorry.”

He turns to look at you, face warm and vulnerable and sad. 

“Stop. You already said that,” He murmurs, “There's nothing to forgive, angel, but it's—I was terrified. You were a few meters ahead of me and then you were gone, falling, you could've broken your neck—”

“I didn't.” Your insistence feels childish, insignificant against the magnitude of his fear. His concern. His love. 

“I know,” the distance between you dissipates with one long stride. He joins you right at the threshold of the bathroom, and pulls you into him. You thank whatever gods are listening for the miracle that is being in his arms, “I know, it just seemed too close, too out of my control—” 

“Too reckless.” You finish for him.

“Don’t—I don’t want to reprimand you.”

“You should,” You mumble, words muffled by his suit as you bury your face in his chest, “Maybe you need to get it out of your system and we’ll be okay again.”

“Do you think we’re not okay?” there's a rising panic in his voice.

“Well, you have been shutting me out.”

“I’m sorry.”

You laugh. “I’m supposed to be the one apologizing.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for. I, however, wasn’t intending to shut you out, and I’m sorry that I inadvertently did.” He replies, hands slipping under your blouse, palm spread on the expanse of your back to remind himself that you’re here, you’re fine, you’re his. “I was—I thought I lost you, angel. It felt like I did, for a brief moment, and that’s the most terrifying thought to cross my mind.”

“You can’t mean that.” With the amount of horror you face on the daily, you could imagine so much worse things.

“Oh, I do.” His breath ruffles your hair, warm and shaky, “I absolutely do. I wouldn’t know what to do if you had—” he chokes, and it rumbles deep in his chest, his body rejecting even the mere idea of losing you.

You feel his lips on your temple. Firm kisses from soft lips, a contradiction just like him. His arms tighten, and your body slots into his with ease that came from practice, from learning after hundreds of trial and error. Everything about your relationship had taken work, incessant effort from two individuals intent on making their differences be a source for more empathy and love, rather than becoming a breeding ground for resentment.

“I don’t want you to think I’m being overprotective,” he continues, trying a different angle. A hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, keeps you safe and tucked in his arms, “You’re an amazing agent, but we can’t take chances like that, just going off on your own. You remember what happened when JJ and I split up.”

Your stomach churns at the reminder, that dark traumatic spot that had put a strain on certain relationships. You’d gotten resentful with JJ, an admittedly unfair projection of blame. Your mind had been consumed by anger, eager to point fingers when you found out about Spencer’s abduction, and then again at his subsequent addiction. JJ had been your unlucky target, although you’ve all resolved it now.

However, those feelings come rushing back—the fear, the inexplicable hollow in your chest when you found out. Spencer’s going through those motions right now, and guilt sinks its ugly claws in the pit of your stomach. 

“I know. God, Spencer, I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful next time,” you whisper into his shoulder. A vow spoken in the skies has to mean something, right? It’s resolute, sober, “I won’t run after unsubs by myself when we’re in unfamiliar terrain anymore.”

“You promise?” his breath is right at your ear, warm, tingly.

“I promise.” 

He hums, kissing your temple again, one kiss for each eye, your nose, and you giggle, looking up at him with hopeful, honeyed eyes. 

“So we’re okay?” you ask, fingers clutching the collar of his blazer.

“We weren’t fighting,” he chuckles, bending down to kiss your jaw, “I was, admittedly, having a moment, but yes, we’re okay.”

“Okay.” your brain is empty, save for the sweet familiarity of relief, “We—oh!”

Teeth find the soft skin of your neck and you have just enough wherewithal to clamp your mouth shut. On the seat just a few paces away, Emily snores loud enough to fill the jet, stirs to a more comfortable position, ultimately remains asleep, but Spencer does not give you any chance for relief. Tongue replaces teeth, drawing a sodden line down your throat, along your exposed collarbone, where his teeth once again make contact with your skin.

“Spence,” half hiss, half moan, volume low, restrained, but it does nothing to disguise the desire in your voice. Pinched and pitiful, you whisper, “Don’t.”

His stop is immediate. “Sorry.” He rests his head on your shoulder, body contorted and tucked to fit your shorter frame. He respects your wishes, but every singular cell in his body is incapable of leaving your space at this moment.  

“No, don’t apologize.” you manage a shaky laugh, running your thumb over his cheekbone, “I just don’t want to get worked up.”

“Were you?”

“What?”

“Getting worked up?” he sounds smug and you almost want to kiss it away. It’d be easy; you’d done it countless times prior (it isn’t countless—Spencer knows the exact amount of times you’ve weaponized the softness of your lips against his incessant rambling. It’s exactly two hundred and thirty nine times, eighty two of which had led to more.) “Over a few kisses?”

“Shut up.” You squirm in his arms, a complete contradiction to your denial. 

He notices, pounces on it the same way he does when you play chess and he sees a weak spot. “Don’t deny it.”

“It’s—I just don’t want to be, you know, indecent. They’re right there.” you tilt your head to the rest of the jet, the distance between you and the closest person (Emily, in this case) could be crossed by a few footsteps.

“Yeah… But they’re asleep.”

“Spence.”

His laughter is music to your ears. “Sorry,” he holds his lips to your jaw, not initiating anything further and you relish his warmth like a cat on a sunny day. 

“You’re apologizing again.” You grumble, fingers tangling into his hair. Nails drag through his scalp, second nature at this point. “We both have to work on that.”

“Mhm,” he nods in response, winding his arms tight around your waist. With your face pressed into his sweater, your senses are flooded with the earthy, warm scent of his cologne. It sends a shudder through you, unsuppressed.

He notices. Of course he does. Nothing you do escapes him. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Angel,” he murmurs, “Let me take care of you.”

You still in his arms, feeling lightheaded and unearthed. “But the team—”

“Are asleep.” he reminds you, “And we have an empty bathroom all to ourselves; I say the more you protest,” his teeth sink into your earlobe playfully, “The less time we have to take advantage of this.”

He’s right, of course he’s right. And you’re well past the point of being able to ignore the burning in your belly; your fingers are shaking from holding back. So you nod, looking up at Spencer with a small smile, and he backs the two of you into the bathroom.

The door closes with a click louder than you would have liked, but there had been no way to gauge the volume because Spencer had been the one to pin you to the door and cause the sound. His lips run over your neck again, one hand hiking up your skirt, the other fumbling with the lock on the door. The team may be asleep, but neither of you are taking any chances. 

It’s messy, graceless. You’re half convinced Spencer is too tall to be doing this in such a limited space, limbs bent awkwardly as he kisses you fervently while trying to find that scrap of fabric beneath your skirt. Your boyfriend isn’t known for his multitasking or his physical prowess, but somehow he manages to do both with enough skill to elicit soft whimpers from your mouth. 

It turns into a low, indulgent moan when you feel fingers slip past lace and run over your core.

“Shush, angel,” he chuckles, a gentle reproach, but two fingers slide into your entrance and you’re decidedly unable to shush. 

“Mhm, more,” you gasp, hips canting forward, walls squeezing his fingers desperately. Your own hands are lost in his hair, tangled deep in the strands and tugging as you whine, “Please, Spencer.”

“Baby, you have to be quiet,” He sucks at your bottom lip, and you can’t fathom why he keeps telling you to be quiet while committing acts that he knows are bound to make you mewl. His fingers curl, withdraw, before plunging back in at a better angle, knuckle deep and soaked with your arousal. Spencer anticipates your next moan and swallows it with a deep kiss, tongue pushing past your lips to explore your mouth. He groans at the taste of you, kissing to pour out his love, his relief that his time with you isn’t yet cut short.

You melt, white-hot and velvet soft, into his body as he works both fingers and tongue at opposite ends, the combination leaving you reeling. 

Spencer fingers you like he’s trying to commit the very shape of your walls to the skin of his fingers, reaching deep inside you to eliminate any edges of him and you as individual entities. 

You almost collapse from the intensity, knees buckling. You don’t even get the chance—his arm is wound tightly around your waist, his body pinning you to the door. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he says like it’s a thing of marvel, and not a normal biological reaction to the heat knotting low in your belly from his ministrations, “God, I love you so much.”

He withdraws his fingers. Your whine of protest is free to tumble from your lips now that he’s pulled away slightly. “If you love me so much, then won't stop.” you pout.

As a response, Spencer hoists you up and settles you precariously on the sink. His voice is low, ragged with desire when he replies, “Oh, I’m not stopping, angel.” 

Your panties are pulled off with deft fingers, disappearing into one of the pockets of his slacks. Under normal circumstances, you’d tease him for that and watch with pride as his cheeks bloom pink. Right now, you’re too busy trying to take those pants off, or at least enough to free him. 

“Need you,” you gasp as he’s finally exposed to your sight, a hand wrapping around his base and squeezing lightly. The familiar girth has you nearly drooling, breaths shaky as you stroke through his length once, twice, each movement pulling the prettiest, neediest whimpers from his lips. Eyes glinting with mischief peek up from long lashes, meeting his own honeyed ones. You grin, saccharine and mocking, “Shush, Spencer.”

He glares, but it’s so half hearted you can’t help but laugh. “We’re gonna get in trouble.” he murmurs, angling himself to line up the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

“If they find out,” you reply, “Besides, I almost died, remember, I think Hotch would be a bit more—agh!” the sentence dies, morphs into something more raw and unrestrained, as he stretches your slick entrance. “Oh, god.”

“I know, I know,” his thumb finds your clit, drawing soft circles onto the sensitive bud to help lessen your tension, “You have to relax, baby.”

Truthfully, the semi-public tryst has you feeling anxious, tensing more than usual as he pushes inch after slow inch. But with the stimulation to your clit, you ease up enough until he’s sheathed to the hilt. A pause. Your walls flutter and adjust as he rains kisses along your jaw and neck, patient and gentle even though you can feel every needy throb of his shaft inside you. 

“You can move.” you say, the words featherlight. You’re dizzy from the fullness, but hungry for more. For everything. 

He nods, placing both hands on your hips to anchor himself. Your softness is familiar beneath his palms, and he squeezes hard, wanting to commit every inch of you to his memory. Every inch etched into his very being, your sweet sounds and expressions tucked in his brain and the exquisite feel of you imprinted on his skin. 

His pace is slow, shallow, barely pulling out, before slamming back into you, like he’s his goal is simply to be inside you for the most possible amount of time and nothing would stop him, not even a good rhythm. Any apprehension you may have of this lacking any real pleasure for him is silenced by the look on his face—bottom lip ravaged by his own teeth as he tries to contain every potential sound, brows furrowed, eyes burning into yours with an intensity that steals your breath. 

“Feels so good,” he groans, forehead dropping to yours, his pace growing rapid, more desperate, “Can’t believe I almost lost you.” Every word is punctuated by a grind of his hips, and another whimper escapes your lips, fills the cramped space, the reality of your very close call with death dawning upon you the moment he thrusts and hits that sensitive spot deep inside your body.

You wrap your arms around his neck, urging him as close as he can get, legs haphazardly thrown around his hips and locked right above his ass. An irrational part of you is completely unwilling to let go, not after your very real escape from death. “I’m here,” you gasp, voice wavering with overwhelming emotion, “I’m here, Spencer, I’m okay.”

 He can barely move now, bound to your body like something cursed. “I love you,” one hand cups your face, thumb catching the tear that slips from your eye, “I love you so much, angel, don’t cry.”

The sincerity in his voice brings another wave of tears, and he leans in to kiss them away, lips gently running over your cheeks as he continues to roll his hips against yours. “I love you,” Spencer repeats, kissing down until he finds your lips. 

You taste your tears on him, salt on plush lips, and you push yourself further into his arms, on the precipice of something he’s all too acquainted with. He kisses you harder, leans his body over yours until your back presses up against the smooth glass behind you, and then begins to move. The sudden rapidity has you groaning, squeezing around his length as he pistons in and out with singleminded, relentless focus.

“Come on,” he groans, stifled by your lips and your teeth which are currently clamped on his bottom lip, “That’s it, you’re close, baby, I can feel you, please, please, come for me.”

“I love you,” you sob, thighs quivering around his hips. He hoists your legs up higher, finding an angle that hits you perfectly, and you’re burying your face into his shoulder with a cry, walls tightening around him as your orgasm ripples through your limbs. “I love you, Spencer—”

It’s broken by a gasp as he continues to rock into you, his lips on your temple and blowing heavy puffs of warm air against your skin. “I know, you’re all mine, you’re all mine, I love you so much.” he repeats the sentiment like prayers on rosary beads, lulling into a soft chant dedicated only for your ears. I love you. 

You feel it everywhere, his love. In the slickness of the sweat you’ve exchanged, in the ache between your thighs, the tacky warmth that fills your body and seeps out of your slit as he slowly pulls out. He takes you in, so beautiful even in ruin, and smiles. 

“You okay?” he smooths down your hair, tucks a wayward strand behind your ear, before his hands rest on your waist.

You nod, returning his soft smile with one of your own, teeth bared, lips stretched so comically wide it makes him chuckle. 

“Can’t talk?” soft, balmy lips land on your forehead, “Was it that good?”

“Don’t get smug,” you grumble, before nuzzling into his neck. 

He holds you tightly for a moment, and allows himself to relish the afterglow. “You love it,” he murmurs, “You love me.”

“That I do. Very much.”

⟡ Dean Winchester… who is SO loud during intimacy. He’s shameless about groaning, so much so that you’ve even considered him being proud of it; empowered by it. But when he whines, he gets sooo embarrassed. He tries to deepen his voice afterwards, and his checks get flushed. You ignore it once or twice but when it happens again you assure him that it’s okay, and even open the possibility that you like it. That sends him off the edge.

⟡ Dean Winchester… who is a certified munch!!! He’d wake you up with soft kisses along your neckline, trailing down the valley between your breasts, illuminated by the morning sun that soaked its way through your curtains. His faint stubble would tickle your sensitive skin, sure to wake you up. Once you were he would migrate his kisses to your stomach. He’d stall until you finally gave him the routine ‘okay’ by running your hands through his hair and urging him to remove whatever clothing survived the night. He’d start slowly; changing paces, tensing and flexing his tongue, moving down to lick a long strip and then going back up to suck and tease until you were silently begging. He’d drag your pleasure out for as long as he could, you’d tug on his hair as he worked you closer to the edge and he would groan into you, making you moan in return.

⟡ Dean Winchester… who loves being on top, but would melt if you took control.

⟡ Dean Winchester… who loves teasing you during intimacy. He’d make sarcastic remarks, not to make you feel bad, but to hear you groaning his name in the stern warning-like tone you always used. He’d do it to feel your own body betray itself as your pleasure slowly spread throughout your body.

𝓓iv - cursedcarmine

On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the opposite—he loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.

Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.

Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.

Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.

And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.

He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.

Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you like—swinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.

He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.

So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.

Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.

So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.

In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existed—Penelope probably would make one if prompted—simply because it's true.

And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.

He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore it—proudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.

But sometimes, they make it too obvious.

The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.

And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.

Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.

But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.

He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voice—snapping and testy—and the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.

"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"

The man sputters.

Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.

"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."

Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.

The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."

"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."

"Oh please, you're not even—"

"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."

"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.

The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.

He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.

"Hey."

"Hi, handsome."

All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding it—lightheaded and trippy and effervescent—all from the sight of your smile.

He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"

"I'm perfect. You came just in time."

"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."

"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."

There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.

At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.

He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.

"That was really hot, by the way."

He chuckles. "What was?"

"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."

"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."

"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."

"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as it–"

Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."

"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"

"You know how."

"Explain it to me, genius."

He huffs. "I hate you."

You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"

Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."

"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."

You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"

"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.

"I've already forgiven you."

"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.

He won't ever get enough of this—the weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing him—neither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.

He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.

There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.

The bartender looks unamused.

Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.

Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.

He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.

"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"

Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.

His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.

The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.

You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."

Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.

It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptance—encouragement, even—of his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.

It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.

Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.

He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.

He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.

"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"

Oh. Right.

He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.

His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.

"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.

Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.

Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.

At least there's no one around.

He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.

He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.

You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong there—and you do.

He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.

You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.

"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.

A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.

Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."

He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortable–"

"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more… assertive."

"It-it's hot?"

"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.

He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.

"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to… just be… like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just… exist."

He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.

Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.

"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.

"It's true. It's true, you just… You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.

"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."

He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.

You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.

When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.

The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feeling—your body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.

Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.

Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.

Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.

So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from this—the exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.

But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.

He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you want—need—more.

"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."

You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painful—and it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.

Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.

"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.

"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.

"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."

"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.

"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.

"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."

He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.

You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.

You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.

He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.

After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.

You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.

He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.

"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always so–oh!"

Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.

"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, this—mhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.

Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.

He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.

Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.

For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.

And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.

"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."

He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.

"God, Spence, yes, just like that."

"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"

He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.

Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.

Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.

There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.

The car's rocking is obscene.

And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.

"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.

"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."

Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."

He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."

He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.

Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.

just a narrow kitchen, a living room with two couches pushed against bare walls, three bedrooms that smell of dust and shut windows, and the clutter of a hurried arrival still sitting wherever somebody dropped it. duffels near the front door. stolen manuals spread across the table. frenchie’s equipment occupying one corner of the counter. a half-open box of cereal somebody brought from the old place in the rush, crushed slightly along one side.

home didn’t follow you here.

maybe that’s for the best.

soldier boy has been unconscious for thirty-one hours. you know because hughie keeps checking the time. every hour at first. then every half-hour after the first day slips into a second night and the sedative still hasn’t fully released its hold. 

frenchie insists the dosage was calculated carefully. enough to put him down without harming him. enough to give the team time to move locations before noir reached the old safehouse. enough to prevent him from tearing butcher apart in a motel room with walls too thin to contain the consequences.

enough.

you’ve started hating that word.

frenchie checks his pulse twice. annie checks on him once more after that because she trusts frenchie but not the amount of guilt sitting visibly across his face. mm refuses to let anyone restrain soldier boy while he sleeps. no rope. no gas. no cuffs. no clever little precaution tucked beneath the mattress because somebody might decide preparedness justifies repeating the ugliest possible thing.

his shield stays inside the room, propped visibly against the wall near the bed.

the door stays unlocked.

you sit in the chair across from him because leaving feels worse. not even remotely close to touch him accidentally when you shift. not anywhere he could mistake your presence for another trap if he wakes disoriented. the chair is pushed near the far wall with several feet of bare floor between you and the bed, positioned close enough to the corner that the doorway remains completely open. if he wants to leave, he can. if he wakes and never wants to look at you again, there is nothing standing in his way.

the temp v is gone. 

you feel that absence everywhere. the strange electric hum beneath your skin disappeared first, burning itself out sometime during the drive to the new safehouse. then, the sharpened edges of the world softened again: sounds returning to their normal distance, your body settling heavily back inside its ordinary limits, exhaustion sinking into your muscles so completely that walking from one room to another started feeling far more demanding than it had any right to. the headache remains. so does the bruised pressure behind your eyes. the faint soreness beneath your nose after hours of wiping away blood. the shame sitting somewhere lower and harder to reach. your body is yours again. 

you keep looking at soldier boy and wondering whether he can say the same.

morning arrives slowly through the gap in the curtains. ugly gray light creeps across the floorboards, reaches the edge of the bed, and catches along the rough line of his jaw. he hasn’t moved much. one arm lies near his side. the other rests over his stomach, hand loose rather than curled. his chest rises slowly beneath his shirt somebody changed him into after the motel, a clean one dragged from the duffel because his other clothes were dusted with plaster and marked by the room falling apart around him.

you haven’t slept properly. you drifted once in the chair sometime before sunrise, head tipping against the wall for less than twenty minutes before a sound from the kitchen startled you awake again. since then, you’ve been staring at the floor more than at him, fingers folded tightly together in your lap, trying not to imagine the exact expression that’ll cross his face when his eyes finally open and memory reaches him.

the room shifts. there’s a change in his breathing first. no dramatic inhale. no violent movement. only the faintest interruption in the rhythm you’ve been listening to for too long.

your head lifts. 

his fingers curl once against his shirt. then his eyes open. the disorientation lasts less than a second. maybe not even that. his gaze finds the unfamiliar ceiling, the pale morning light, the shield propped near the bed. his body goes rigid beneath the blanket before he has moved at all. then he sees you and memory returns visibly. not in pieces. not slowly enough for mercy. 

your mouth opens as you begin to stand. “ben—”

he’s across the room before the name finishes leaving you.

he moves with the kind of speed your body has learned to fear and answer at the same time. not think. answer. the chair legs shriek against the floor as you shove yourself sideways out of it, heart slamming so violently that for half a second the room narrows to his hand reaching for your throat and the place where you know his weight will land if you let him close the distance cleanly.

weeks of training save you before bravery gets involved. 

you duck under his first grab. his fingers catch air where your neck had been, and the force of his missed grip brushes hot against your cheek. you twist away, shoulder clipping the wall, one foot sliding on the bare floorboards as you scramble toward the open space near the dresser.

“stop!” the word comes out rough. panicked. ordinary. nothing happens.

soldier boy turns toward you. your stomach drops.  he knows how to read your face. he always has. his eyes sharpen.

you step back again. “ben, stop.”

still nothing. no flicker in his body. no pause. no command wrapping around his muscles. just the brief, ugly flash of something across his face when you say his name and pair it with an order that no longer has teeth.

then he comes at you again. you try to pivot the way he taught you. weight low, shoulder turning, hand catching his wrist before he gets the angle he wants. for one stupid heartbeat, your body remembers being stronger. remembers shoving him into a dresser. remembers the sharp, awful thrill of power answering panic.

but your fingers close around his arm like human fingers. small. breakable. useless against him. he tears through the defense like it isn’t there. your wrist slips. your balance breaks. the dresser catches the back of your hip hard enough to make pain flare up your side, and you barely manage to throw one forearm between his hand and your throat before he changes grip, faster than your eyes can follow.

“ben—”

his hand clamps over your mouth. your breath stutters violently against his palm. the message is clear before he says a word: no voice. no commands. no chance. 

his eyes are dark, viciously awake now, and close enough for you to see the exact shape of his fury. “don’t,” he growls. low. deadly. “you don’t get to do that anymore.”

you make a small sound against his hand. not a word. barely a noise. his gaze flicks over your face, searching for the glow of something unnatural, the confidence of temp v, the thing that made you dangerous enough to strip him of choice. he doesn’t find it fast enough. or maybe he does and refuses to trust it.

you shove at his chest. nothing.

your nails drag against his wrist. nothing.

then his hand leaves your mouth and drops lower. your spine hits the wall hard enough to knock air from your lungs before you understand that his hand is already around your throat. fingers closing. palm broad and hot against the front of your neck. the cheap framed print hanging behind you jumps crooked from the impact. your feet leave the floor.

for one horrible second, your body doesn’t react. shock gets there first. then instinct slams through you all at once. your hands claw at his wrist. your nails drag uselessly against his skin while your legs kick beneath you, toes searching desperately for floorboards that remain several inches out of reach. your lungs lock around the pressure. your mouth opens, but the breath inside you cannot find a path out.

soldier boy stares into your face. he expects resistance. you see the exact moment he realizes it isn’t coming. no surge of borrowed strength. no hand catching his wrist and throwing him backward hard enough to split furniture against the wall. no doubled voice reaching beneath his skin before he can stop it. only your fingers straining uselessly around his arm. your shoes scraping against plaster. your pulse racing frantically beneath the grip he has closed too hard around your throat.

human. entirely, painfully, weakly human.

his expression changes by almost nothing. then his hand opens. 

you drop. your knees hit the floor first. one palm slams down beside your thigh to keep you upright while the other flies immediately toward your neck. air tears back into your lungs in a harsh, ugly gasp that turns into a cough halfway through. your throat burns. your eyes water automatically, blurring the floorboards beneath you for one humiliating second.

soldier boy takes one step back. his chest rises once. his hand remains suspended near his side, fingers curled slightly inward as if your throat is still there beneath them and he resents the memory of it.

you drag in one breath. then another. each one scraping painfully on the way down. when you look up, he’s staring at the faint marks already beginning to rise beneath your jaw.

he doesn’t apologize. you don’t expect him to. the silence stretches until your voice becomes possible again. 

“it wore off.” the words come out raw and hoarse, damaged enough that you almost don’t recognize them as yours. you swallow and immediately regret it when the motion drags against the bruise forming beneath your skin. “the temp v. it’s gone.”

his jaw tightens. “figured.”

you push yourself slowly onto your feet. your knees shake once before locking properly beneath you. soldier boy watches the weakness move through your body without stepping forward, without offering the hand that spent weeks settled against your back at night as though holding you had become the easiest thing in the world. you miss it so suddenly you hate yourself.

you stare at him for a second. hair still messy from unconsciousness. shoulders squared. eyes stripped of every quiet thing you spent weeks finding beneath the anger. there’s nothing familiar in the way he looks at you now except for the cruelty, and somehow even that feels worse because it used to carry something warmer underneath it.

“do you really think,” you say slowly, “if that shit was still in my blood, i wouldn’t make you forgive me?”

the words leave you husky and painfully human.

soldier boy goes still.

you hate the sentence as soon as it exists. hate how pathetic it sounds. hate the truth living inside it—not that you would ever do that to him again, not that forgiveness could be forced into anything real, but that you want so badly to erase the look in his eyes that a small, shameful part of you understands the temptation.

your lips tremble once. “i feel like shit,” you whisper. “i know what i did. i know i can’t make you forgive me. i just—” your voice fails briefly. 

“you made me fucking kneel.” the words hit hard enough that your breath catches. his voice doesn’t rise. it doesn’t need to. every syllable lands with the same rough force as his hand around your throat, blunt and impossible to soften after the fact.

“i know,” you whisper.

“you shut my mouth with a sentence.”

“i know.”

“you told me to leave, and my body listened to you instead of me.”

“i know.”

“stop saying that.”

your mouth closes immediately. not because of power. not because anything remains inside your blood capable of forcing obedience from either of you. because the words have started sounding unbearable even to you. thin. useless. an acknowledgment too weak to resemble accountability.

soldier boy stares down at you. “you don’t know. you got no fucking idea what that feels like.”

“you’re right.”

that seems to make him angrier. maybe because you don’t fight back. maybe because anger becomes harder to sustain cleanly when it has nowhere easy to land. maybe because he wanted the sharp version of you, the one who always found something ugly enough to throw at him before the silence had a chance to become honest.

you take a careful breath. “i didn’t know hughie was going to drug you.”

that makes something flicker behind his eyes. not exactly surprise. “you expect me to care which part of the lie belonged to you?”

your throat tightens around an answer. “i expect you to know i didn’t plan any of that.”

“you planned enough.”

“i made a mistake!”

“fuck you.”

the words land quietly. no shout. no violence. nothing dramatic enough to make them easier to survive. only the full weight of his anger and his hurt.

you nod once. 

soldier boy turns toward the bed and takes his shield. the leather straps drag faintly against the floor before he lifts it properly, sliding one arm through with the familiar ease of a movement learned long before you knew him. you remain near the wall. don’t reach for him. don’t say his name again.

he crosses toward the door.

your throat tightens around the silence. still, you force the words out before he reaches the handle. “ben—”

he stops and glances back over his shoulder. “you don’t call me that anymore.”

his eyes settle on the marks around your throat for less than a second before returning to your face. whatever moves beneath his expression never reaches the surface.

“it’s soldier boy.”

then he leaves.

the main room goes quiet when he steps into it. conversation doesn’t fade naturally. it dies. mm rises slowly from his seat beside the kitchen table, one hand still resting near the stack of manuals he’s been reading through since before sunrise. butcher sits at the opposite end with a mug of coffee untouched near his elbow and a bruise darkening one side of his jaw from the motel fight. hughie stands near the counter with both hands wrapped tightly around a glass of water he’s forgotten to drink. frenchie’s beside him, face drawn with exhaustion. kimiko occupies one corner of the couch, legs pulled beneath her, attention sharpening instantly. annie turns from the window. her eyes find soldier boy first. then you.

you step into the hallway behind him, slower than you want to. one hand still resting near your neck. annie’s gaze drops to the bruises. her entire face changes. faint light gathers instinctively beneath her skin, soft at first, then brighter. “what happened?” she asks.

you shake your head once. “annie.”

her eyes snap toward you. “did he—”

“not now.” your voice is rough enough that everybody hears the answer inside it.

soldier boy doesn’t look back. his gaze moves across the room once. frenchie. hughie. the equipment bag. butcher. 

mm stands slowly. “hold on.” 

the words fall deaf to soldier boy’s ears. 

butcher leans back in his chair and looks up at him with the exhausted irritation of a man either incapable of reading danger or stubborn enough to resent it for being obvious. 

“sleep well?” butcher asks, tone typically mocking. 

soldier boy stops beside the table. “you drug me again, i’ll kill you.” 

butcher’s mouth curls faintly. “i’ll take that as no, then?”

soldier boy hits him. 

the punch cracks loudly enough to make the mugs jump against the table. butcher leaves the chair sideways, body thrown hard into the wall near the kitchen entrance. his shoulder hits first. then his head. then the rest of him drops heavily against the baseboard, one hand catching the floor too late to make the landing anything close to clean. coffee spills across the manuals. for one stunned second, nobody moves.

then everybody does. annie lights up beside you, gold sharp beneath her skin. kimiko pushes off the couch with a smooth, immediate motion, body lowering into a stance built for violence. hughie steps backward before forcing himself forward again, face draining of color as his eyes flick toward the empty space beside soldier boy like he’s already calculating whether he has time to juice up on temp v again before getting snapped in half.

frenchie’s hand moves toward the duffel.

mm sees it. “don’t,” he snaps.

frenchie freezes. soldier boy turns his head slowly toward him. the room quiets again around the movement. “try it,” he defies, waiting for an excuse to move.

frenchie’s fingers hover several inches above the bag. after one long second, he pulls his hand back.

butcher coughs once against the wall. blood shines faintly at the corner of his mouth. he wipes it away with the back of his hand and looks at the smear with an expression more amused than hurt. “feel better?” 

soldier boy turns back toward him. “not yet.” he takes one step. 

mm moves between them. not touching soldier boy. not reaching for him. not giving anybody another reason to turn a confrontation into a war. he simply plants himself in the space and holds his ground with the kind of steadiness that makes the whole room recalibrate around him.

“you kill him, you lose the leads,” mm says.

soldier boy’s jaw tightens. “move.”

“no.” the word lands plainly. no fear underneath it. no attempt to posture beyond what already exists between them.

soldier boy’s gaze sharpens. “you protecting him?”

“i’m protecting the mission.”

“same mission that put a needle in my neck?”

“the same mission that gets you noir.”

that stops him. not fully. but enough.

mm keeps his eyes fixed on soldier boy’s face. “black noir’s still out there. homelander’s still out there. vought has the parts for that chamber. you walk out now and start hunting blind, you lose every advantage we’ve got.”

“i can find noir.”

“maybe,” mm says. “eventually. while he keeps finding us first.” 

the words settle badly across the room because they’re true. noir found the safehouse. noir followed you through an alley. noir’s moving through a plan none of you fully understand yet with enough silence to make every new location feel temporary before the bags are unpacked.

butcher pushes himself upright against the wall with a wince he refuses to show properly. one hand presses briefly near his ribs before dropping again. 

“deal still stands,” he says.

soldier boy looks toward him.

butcher spits blood faintly into the empty mug on the edge of the counter, then wipes his mouth with his thumb. “we get noir. we get homelander. we put an end to the whole bloody nightmare.”

silence stretches.

soldier boy’s shield rests heavily against his arm. dust clings faintly to his shirt from the bedroom wall. his hair remains messy from sleep. his jaw’s locked tightly enough to sharpen every line of his face.

his eyes move toward you. you remain near the hallway beside annie, one hand hovering close to your throat without touching it. kimiko has shifted nearer too, simply placing herself within reach if you decide you need somebody. hughie stands near the table with guilt carved plainly across his face. frenchie watches soldier boy from beside the duffel, visibly aware that one wrong movement will become a promise neither of them can undo.

you meet soldier boy’s gaze. you don’t speak.

he looks away first. “deal changed.”

butcher’s mouth tightens. “how?”

“no more needles.”

nobody argues.

“no more gas.”

mm nods once.

“no more tricks. no more secret shit.”

butcher breathes out faintly through his nose but remains quiet.

soldier boy’s eyes go to frenchie. “nobody touches me.”

frenchie lowers his gaze briefly. “oui.”

“and nobody uses that shit on me again.”

his stare shifts toward you.

you hold it even when something deep inside you wants to look down. apologize again. say something softer than the room can tolerate. ask him whether the boundary includes an emergency, whether there’s any possible circumstance where saving his life might matter more than his agency, whether he understands that you never wanted any of this. you say nothing.

soldier boy’s face turns colder. “she stays the fuck away from me.”

the sentence doesn’t need your name. everybody knows. 

mm speaks first. “fine.”

butcher watches you for half a second too long. calculation flickers briefly behind his exhaustion before his attention returns to soldier boy. “fine.”

the word settles.

soldier boy looks around the room once more, making sure everybody understands exactly what the terms mean and exactly how little patience remains beneath them. then he turns away.

the hallway swallows the sound of his footsteps one by one. he passes the bedroom where you waited. reaches the final door at the end of the hall and opens it without checking whether somebody else claimed it first.

the door closes behind him.

for a moment, nobody speaks. butcher wipes the remaining blood from the corner of his mouth. hughie stares at the floor with his shoulders drawn tight. frenchie kneels beside the duffel and zips it shut slowly, careful not to let the metal catch too loudly. kimiko’s gaze stays on you. annie turns toward you fully now, eyes dropping to the bruises darkening beneath your jaw.

“let me see,” she says.

you almost tell her you’re fine. the lie has become too exhausting to lift. so you let her tilt your chin carefully toward the light. her touch is gentle enough that your throat tightens for reasons that have nothing to do with pain.

down the hallway, soldier boy’s door remains closed. you tell yourself the distance is fair. necessary. the first thing you’ve given him freely since your voice became something dangerous. it still feels like losing him.