The first rule you ever made for yourself was simple: never forget what you are. Not quite human, not a monster either, but something caught in between. Even as a child, you learned to open jars that everyone else struggled to grip and could lift stacks of crates in the yard that grown men found heavy. But your strength was never just remarkable, it was impossible - supernatural. An angry slam could fracture brick, a slip of the wrist could bend metal, and an accidental touch could splinter wood or leave bruises where you meant only warmth. It was more than just being strong: it felt like every muscle and bone in your body was built for power you could barely restrain, like a current surging under your skin, restless and impossible to hide. There was always something dangerous simmering beneath your surface, power waiting to break loose. The second rule was harder: never let yourself love like you aren't.

You broke the second rule the moment Frenchie smiled at you like you were something soft. It reminded you of the time he patched up your scraped knuckles in the back of the garage, murmuring an old lullaby under his breath like you were someone worth soothing. You remember the winter night you both spent in the half-lit kitchen, passing a chipped mug of tea back and forth while you played cards, laughter flickering between you in the hush of falling snow. Or the summer Frenchie taught you to ride his battered old bicycle behind the mechanic's shop, one hand steady at your back. Even then, before you understood it, there was something gentle between you, a promise tucked into ordinary moments you tried so hard not to hope for.

But sometimes, when Frenchie thought you weren't watching, he looked at you with a fierce fondness, as if he saw past what you feared in yourself. Maybe he saw the way you always anchored your strength to care: holding back your temper, mending what you'd broken, fixing engines with careful hands just for the satisfaction of helping. He once confessed, voice quiet while grease stained his fingertips, that he admired how you carried all that power without ever letting it turn cruel. You remember a morning after a storm, when he watched you coax a stray cat out from under the car, patience and gentleness unravelling in every slow movement. "Most people don't know how much work kindness takes," he'd said then, his eyes searching yours. "But you do. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to you."

The shock hits you right away and feels strange. It happens so suddenly that you’re not sure it even happened, but your mind scrambles to catch up with what your heart already feels.

One moment, Frenchie is laughing with warm hands and a low voice, teasing you about something silly and ordinary. Next, there’s a sharp crack and a gasp. Suddenly, he’s on the floor. Your hand is still outstretched. You hadn’t meant to shove him. You hadn’t even felt like you shoved him. Just a reflex, a flinch, a moment of instinct when he startled you from behind. But you’re not built for reflexes. You’re built for damage.

“Frenchie-” Your voice collapses halfway through his name. He’s clutching his side, his breath uneven, eyes squeezed shut. It isn’t dramatic or theatrical. It’s just pain. Real, quiet pain. Somehow, that quiet, honest pain cuts deeper. It’s harsher than anything loud could ever be. "Oh, God, no, no." You drop to your knees beside him and stop just short of touching him again. "I didn’t mean to-" He draws a shaky breath, hiding a wince behind a crooked half-smile. "Yeah, I know you didn’t," he says, his voice rough but steady, with just a trace of that easy humour he never quite loses. "S’okay, mon cœur," he adds, softening the words with a low, familiar warmth. "Just give me a tick, alright? Let me catch my breath, yeah?"

A second. You’ve already broken him in less than a second. Unable to breathe evenly, you blurt out, “I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t be here. I told you this would happen.” Now the heaviness of fear hits you fully, pooling in your chest. He lets out a weak huff that might’ve been a laugh on a better day. “You say this every time you bump into a chair too hard.” “This isn’t a chair!” Your voice cracks, louder than you meant. You pull back, as if even your words could hurt him. “This is you. I hurt you.”

Silence settles heavy between you, broken only by his uneven breathing. You pull your hands back into your lap, curling them into fists like you can contain something monstrous inside your own skin. "I forget," you whisper. "Sometimes I forget how strong I am. It's not just being a little stronger than most people; it's something else." A memory flickers and twists in your mind, sharp and unwelcome. You had been ten, playing with your cousin in the backyard, laughter ringing out alongside the peal of rusted swings and the far-off drone of bees in the clover. The grass was prickly and still damp from a morning rain, clinging cool against your bare knees, and the air smelled of cut grass and sun-warmed earth. A summer breeze carried the sweet scent of peonies and something faintly metallic; the tang of old bicycles and tools from the shed. You don't even remember what startled you, a game, a shout, maybe the slam of the back door, but you remember how your cousin's arm bent wrong when you pushed him away in fear, the faint snap muffled by a chorus of cicadas, the way his sudden sobs cut through the golden haze. Afterwards, silence stretched heavy as the sticky heat, and you felt every eye watching you, sweat cooling on your skin and dirt ground into your palms. You remember the look in your aunt's eyes: not anger, but a wary distance, like she could see through you and wasn't sure what she was seeing. The shame claws at you, as fresh now as it was then.

"I once cracked the doorframe just by leaning when I was tired. Last year, I caught a falling shelf by instinct, and it left a dent in the wall like the plaster was nothing." You press your fists together, small shivers running through your fingers. "I forgot I have to measure everything. Every movement, every touch, like I’m defusing a bomb all the time." Your laugh is hollow. "And then this happens, and I remember exactly what I am."

Frenchie shifts slightly, wincing, but opens his eyes to look at you. Really look at you. Not afraid. Never afraid. “You are not a weapon,” he says quietly. You shake your head immediately. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Not right now.” “Then when?” he presses, softer now. “When you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve to be touched at all?” Your breath catches. “That’s not what I-” “You didn’t mean to hurt me,” he interrupts gently. “And I am hurt, yes, but I am not broken.” He exhales carefully, easing himself up onto one elbow. “And you… You look like you are about to disappear.” You swallow hard. “Maybe I should.” Your words hang there between you, heavier than anything else that’s been said, and the hurt you feel floods the silence.

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, slowly and carefully, he reaches out. You flinch. “Hey.” His voice is firm, cutting through the panic. “Look at me.” You force yourself to meet his gaze. “I am choosing this,” he says. “I am choosing you. Not because I don’t understand the risk, but because I do.” His hand stays extended, patient, unmoving. “Come back, yeah? Don’t leave me here alone just because you’re scared of yourself.” Your eyes burn. “I could hurt you again.” “Yes,” he says simply. “You could.” The honesty hits harder than denial ever could. “And you’re still-” “I’m still here.”

Suddenly, the room feels too small and too loud, the air heavy with the smell of engine oil and dust still drifting from the shelves. Claustrophobia presses against your ribs, as if the tang of grease and metal itself carries your fear. Even the dust whirls seem restless, echoing your anxious urge to bolt. Everything sharpens: the harsh hum of the flickering fluorescent light reverberates like your heartbeat, the cold press of the concrete floor against your knees a grounding weight you cannot escape. The cluttered shelves feel like they're closing in, crowding your thoughts. Your anxiety swells in the space created by everything you're trying not to let yourself feel, rivulets of panic running through every sensory detail until the room feels as unsettled as you are.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach for his hand. You expect him to pull back, but he doesn’t. Your fingers barely touch, just the lightest brush, and you hold your breath like it might break something. Nothing does. He squeezes your hand, steady and warm. "See?" he murmurs. "You’re not too much. You just forget to be gentle when you’re scared." Your vision blurs. "I hate this," you say quietly. "I hate feeling like I break things." "You don’t," he says, thumb rubbing softly over your knuckles. "You’re just still figuring it out. We both are." He gives you that crooked smile again, despite the pain. "Besides, I’ve survived worse than you, cherie."

A watery laugh escapes you. “That’s not exactly reassuring.” “Maybe not,” he admits. “But it is true.” You shift closer, careful and measured. Each movement is now deliberate, as if you’re rewriting your own rules in real time. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I know,” he replies. “And I’ll do better.” “I know that too.” You finally let yourself lean your forehead lightly against his shoulder, so soft it’s almost nothing. But it’s something. And this time, you don’t pull away.

Maybe you can’t stop being strong. But maybe you can learn how to be careful without being alone. And maybe Frenchie will keep reminding you, again and again, that love isn’t something you have to hold back. Just something you have to hold gently.

So tonight, when you stand to make tea again, you promise yourself you’ll let him help with the mug, letting your hands overlap for a moment longer than comfort allows. Tomorrow, you’ll fix the broken shelf together, letting Frenchie balance the boards while you hold the screws, measuring your strength not by what you keep away but by what you dare to reach for. You will practice a little each day, letting connection become your new habit, not something you have to fear. Those are your next steps: trusting yourself to stay, to try, to let yourself hope.

The dim light of the safehouse filtered through cracked blinds, casting long shadows across the worn couch where you, Frenchie, and Kimiko had collapsed after another chaotic day dodging Vought's goons. Your body ached from the fight, but the warmth of their presence soothed the tension. Frenchie sprawled on one side, his arm draped lazily over your waist, while Kimiko curled against your other side, her head resting on your shoulder. The air smelled of gunpowder and Frenchie's cologne, a mix that had become oddly comforting.

Frenchie chuckled softly, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. "Mon amour, you were fierce today. Like a wildcat with claws." His accent wrapped around the words, making your skin tingle. Kimiko lifted her head, her dark eyes sparkling with agreement. She signed quickly, her hands moving with graceful precision: You saved my ass. Again. Then she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, her lips lingering just long enough to send a spark through you.

You smiled, turning to kiss her back, your mouth brushing hers in a gentle exploration. "Team effort," you murmured against her lips. Frenchie watched with a grin, his hand sliding up to cup your breast through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened. "Oui, but now… we celebrate, non? No more running tonight. Just us."

Kimiko nodded, her fingers tugging at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up to expose your skin. She nuzzled your neck, teeth grazing lightly as Frenchie shifted closer, his breath hot on your ear. "Let me taste you first," he whispered, his voice rough with want. You arched into their touches, the exhaustion melting away under the heat building between you three.

Frenchie captured your mouth in a deep kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, demanding and playful. Kimiko's hands roamed lower, unbuttoning your pants and slipping inside to cup your pussy through your underwear. She rubbed slow circles over your clit, drawing a moan from you that Frenchie swallowed hungrily. You reached for him, palming the growing bulge in his jeans, feeling his cock twitch under your touch.

They worked in sync, a rhythm honed from countless nights like this. Kimiko peeled your pants down your legs, tossing them aside, then hooked her fingers into your panties and yanked them off. She spread your thighs wide, settling between them, her breath ghosting over your exposed folds. Frenchie stripped off his shirt, revealing the scars and tattoos that told stories of his wild life, then helped you out of your top, his mouth latching onto your breast. He sucked hard on your nipple, teeth nipping just enough to make you gasp.

Kimiko dove in without hesitation, her tongue flattening against your pussy, licking from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke. She hummed in approval, the vibration sending jolts through you. You threaded your fingers into her hair, holding her close as she sucked your clit into her mouth, her fingers parting your lips to delve deeper. Two fingers pushed inside you, curling to hit that spot that made your hips buck.

Frenchie groaned, watching her eat you out. "Putain, she's so wet for you, chérie." He freed his cock from his jeans, stroking himself slowly, the thick length hard and leaking pre-cum at the tip. You reached for him again, wrapping your hand around his shaft, pumping in time with Kimiko's thrusts. He kissed you messily, then pulled back to guide your head down, pressing your lips to his cockhead.

You opened wide, taking him in, your tongue swirling around the underside as you bobbed. He tasted salty and musky, filling your mouth as you sucked. Kimiko's pace quickened, her fingers fucking you harder, her free hand pinching your thigh. The dual sensations overwhelmed you—her mouth devouring your pussy, Frenchie's cock sliding deeper into your throat.

You came first, your walls clenching around Kimiko's fingers as waves of pleasure crashed over you. She lapped up your release, not stopping until you trembled. Frenchie pulled out with a wet pop, his eyes dark with lust. "My turn to fuck you," he growled, flipping you onto your hands and knees.

Kimiko knelt in front of you, shedding her clothes quickly—her lithe body bare and inviting. She spread her legs, guiding your face to her pussy, already glistening. You licked her eagerly, tasting her sweetness as Frenchie positioned himself behind you. His hands gripped your hips, and he thrust in with one smooth motion, his cock stretching your pussy wide.

He pounded into you relentlessly, skin slapping against skin, each drive hitting deep. You moaned into Kimiko's folds, your tongue flicking her clit while she ground against your face. Her hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as she rode your mouth. Frenchie's pace faltered, his breaths ragged. "Gonna fill you up, amour," he grunted, slamming harder.

Kimiko shattered next, her thighs quaking around your head, juices coating your chin as she came with a silent cry. The sight pushed Frenchie over the edge; he buried himself deep, cock pulsing as he pumped hot cum into your pussy. You followed again, the fullness and friction tipping you into bliss.

He pulled out slowly, cum dripping down your thighs. Kimiko pulled you up, kissing you deeply, tasting herself on your lips. Frenchie wrapped around you both from behind, his arms encircling you in a warm embrace. "Perfect," he murmured, nuzzling your neck. Kimiko signed Love you both with a sleepy smile, her head on your chest.

You peered through the wavering grass and wall of mist, searching for what it was that Frenchie was so eager for you to see. 

And then your eyes landed on something poking out of the grass. It was out of place, looking like something made of metal rather than leaves and stems. Curious, you walked toward it. Frenchie followed you, still grinning from ear to ear. 

The strange thing became multiple strange things, all arranged in a group where the grass was thin. It was a series of miniatures, like little dolls, all of them clearly handmade but still easily recognizable. 

Homelander. A-Train. The Deep. Black Noir. Translucent (which had its head and hands cut off to imitate his invisibility). There were even a couple of other Supes that had terrorized your family in one way or another: Stormfront, Termite (which was a fraction of the size of the other dolls), Crimson Countess. There were also two dolls that weren't Supes at all. According to their tiny, painted-on outfits and the paper label attached to them, they were Stan Edgar and Madelyn Stillwell. 

“Babe, what is this?” 

“It's something I've been working on. You hate the Supes as much as we do, and it's nearly impossible to get close enough to kill any of them. Translucent is dead, thanks to Petit Hughie, as well as Stormfront, Termite, and Crimson Countess. And Madame Stillwell.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Sometimes it can feel so hopeless, like we are just sitting around. Sometimes it feels like there is nothing we can do. You feel angry about it too, no?” 

“Yes, you know I do.” 

“So many unimportant Supes are dead, but it feels like we are treading the water. So I think to myself, what can I do? What will make a difference? I, alone, cannot do anything. But I think of what I can do for you, how I can make you feel less hopeless. And, voilà!” He motioned to the miniatures in the grass. 

“You made me dolls?” 

“Oui, mon ange. But not just any dolls. Dolls of the people who have hurt us most – who have hurt you most. Dolls of the people who have ruined lives, and who don't care about it. They treat us like their dolls all the time. They think that because we are humans, because we don't have V running through our veins, we are nothing, that we can be picked up and discarded like a child's toy. So I say, we can do the same thing to them – even if just for pretending.” 

You looked at French, his warm smile nearly hiding the pain in his eyes. You reached out and brushed your fingers along the side of his head, feeling the shaved stubble of his short hair. 

“What did you bring me out here to do, my love?” 

He grinned again and dug into his pockets. He pulled out a stick of dynamite and a lighter. 

“I want you to blow up these dolls. All of them. And I want you to remember that we will kill them, mon ange, even if it takes more time. I promise you, I will kill every member of the Seven for you.” He pressed the dynamite and lighter into your hand. “Envoie-les en enfer!” 

You kissed Frenchie warmly, his hands cupping your face as you did so. When you broke apart, you lit the fuse, tossed the dynamite stick among the pile of miniatures, and ran back toward the treeline where your car waited. As you ran, Frenchie clasped your hand and laughed loudly. 

He must have been counting the seconds because he stopped suddenly, pulled you to the ground, and pointed back toward the grass where the miniatures were hidden. One, two, three seconds passed … 

The dynamite exploded with a deafening boom. Dirt, grass, and the nearly-vaporized miniatures were sent into the air. Debris floated among the mist for a moment, then came drifting back to the earth in a fine spray.