Woke up to this in my notifications. Guess my blog is 10 years old :) also thank you guys very much for 300 followers and 1000 likes on my recent post!!!
Minors DNI! 18+ |The Boys Masterlist| |Soldier Boy Masterlist|
!The Boys were teaming with Soldier Boy. You were asked to stay back to babysit while they went on a mission.
The air was particularly cold this morning at the safe house, yet you wore a white v-neck tee with a pair of plaid pajama shorts. Ben was rowdy today, spouting off some nonsense about all the new terms he wasn’t exactly adept at picking up. You were wishing he would just shut his old ass mouth up. He's already smacked your ass twice in the few hours he's been awake: once when you were making pancakes and then the next, when you were standing by the couch looking for the TV remote.
He was now in the spare room, cozied up beneath the covers, whining out your name. You were annoyed at first, then admittedly, you found it cute. You rolled your eyes, chuckling at his pathetic attempts to get you to tend to his needs.
You made your way into the room, leaning on the door frame. "Whaaat could you possibly need?" you ask.
"It's cold" Ben whines.
"And what am I supposed to do about that?"
"Come lay with me" he protests.
You let out a slow sigh, dragging your hand down your face like you were physically exhausted by his existence.
“Ben, you’re a grown man.”
“A cold grown man,” he shot back instantly, shifting under the blankets like he was proving a point. “Come on , don’t be a bitch about it.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but there was no real bite behind it.
“…You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, pushing off the doorframe.
Still, your feet carried you over.
He watched you the whole time, smugness creeping across his face like he’d already won. Which, annoyingly, he had.
"Don't you even think of trying anything" you say pointing at him.
"Wouldn't dream of it" he responds bluntly.
You snuck into the bed, your shorts riding up your legs slightly as you got comfy. He turned towards you, his chest now pressed against your back. Ben scooted closer about an inch, now pressed against you even tighter. His arm found its way around your waist and ended up on the side of your leg. He traced his fingers idly across your thigh, creating shivers throughout your body.
"Ben" you huff.
"What sweetheart, we're just cuddling" he says with feigned innocence.
Heat rises to your face, you're glad he can't see the embarrassing amount of blush in your cheeks.
You were hyper-focused on everything: the way his chest rose behind you, the way his breath felt on your neck, and the feeling of his sneaky little hand snaking its way up underneath the hem of your shirt.
You still weren't used to the feel of his fingers on you. As they traced along your stomach, you got the chills.
They inched further and further up, but you didn't stop him.
His fingers reached your breast cupping it. Your breath hitched. He took this moment to roll his hips into yours.
You didn’t quite realize what he was doing the first time, till he did it again.
Roll- his dick now hardening through his boxers, pressing firm against your ass.
Roll- another slow grind, and a breathy moan slipped from your lips.
“Ben…” you warned, but it came out far too soft, more like a plea than a protest.
“What I’m just trying to get warm, you’re the one squirming against my cock like a little tease" he murmured.
You felt him smile against your skin.
His hand moved, gripping tighter against your waist, pulling you into him just right as he placed wet kisses along your neck and below your ear.
Now you were very obviously whimpering, unable to hide it. Your body was betraying you and there wasn't anything you could do about it.
He tugged your shorts and panties down. You helped him out by kicking them off the rest of the way. He reached his hand between your thighs, rubbing right where you needed him to. You tried to close your legs, but he hooked one strong thigh over yours, pinning you open for him. Two thick fingers dragged through your folds, spreading your wetness before circling your clit with lazy strokes. Your head fell back against his shoulder as he started pumping his fingers slowly.
"Ben- Fuck" you moaned.
He sped up, the wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you filling the quiet room. His cock kept grinding against your ass in time with every thrust of his hand. You were panting now, gripping the sheets, hips moving back to meet both the head of his cock and his fingers. He kept nudging the head at your entrance, making you bite your lip, in a weak attempt to hide any more moans.
He lifted your leg up, making you hold it in place , so he could run his cock through your slick folds.
"Mmm such a pretty and young plump pussy, just for me" he breathes heavily.
He pushed forward, the head stretching you open as he sank into your pussy from behind. The angle made him feel even bigger than usual. A broken sound left your throat as he steadily filled you, inch by thick inch, until his hips were pressed flush against your ass. He didn’t move at first , just stayed deep inside you, grinding in slow circles, letting you feel every inch of him. His breath was hot against your neck as he placed open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder.
His hand found its way between your legs again, rubbing your clit with each thrust. This drove you absolutely mad and he knew it. You moaned louder, unable to stop yourself. He fucked you again and again till you were too tired to go on.
"One more baby" he cooed.
“Cum in me. Please, just cum in me-” you whine in desperation.
He thrusted a few more times and you began to feel his cock twitch. Oh what a sight this was. Him now on top of you, you gripping onto his back creating scratch marks. You both paused at the same moment, mouths ajar, no sound coming from either of you as the pleasure crashed over you at once. Your walls clenched hard around him, pulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. At the same time, Ben came with a deep groan, flooding your pussy with thick, hot spurts of cum.
His hips jerked against yours and he smiled. Ben’s forehead dropped to yours, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat. He stayed buried inside you, unwilling to pull out just yet, his cock still twitching with the last weak spurts of his release.
You didn't do much talking after the fact. He pulled out a smoke and you got yourself cleaned up. You worried about the boys finding you, but Ben wasn't worried one bit.
A/N: Yes I know some of these are probably really obvious lmfao.
!Unspoken truths about each of the guys.
Soldier Boy would definitely treat you like shit, even if he is in love with you. He’s old-school and would believe you need to bow down to him and be his perfect housewife. Hughie would become controlling or possessive, thinking he can decide your every move for you as if you’re not a whole adult yourself. He doesn’t want to lose you like he lost his dad. Butcher would become soft towards you, maybe even have feelings of love for you, but would never forget Becca. It’s something you’d have to deal with or not.. Frenchie cannot give up his lifestyle for you. There are some things he can give up such as the drugs, but he still craves the chaos, the constant need for action. He can’t settle down. Homelander is a lost cause. He would end up falling for you, but control everything you do. The second you can’t provide for him, you’re thrown out. Let’s not forget he’s bat shit crazy.
-I'm thinking of making more of these because I really enjoyed writing this one!
Butcher loves to give you head; You’d think it’d be the other way around, but he melts when your back is arched, legs propped up on his broad shoulders. You grip his hair so hard you swear you’d rip some out. He likes to tease, doesn’t want you to cum too fast, so he’ll wait to use his fingers. Because when he does, he’s got two thick ones buried deep in you, curling just right against that spot that makes your toes curl.
Homelander loves to get head from you; Most of the time, you don’t have a choice, and he makes sure you know it. He’ll occasionally return the favor, but what he really craves is you on your knees between his legs, looking up at him with those wide, doe-eyed, needy eyes while you worship his cock. He loves when you’re eager for it. His perfect little slut, sucking him sloppy, desperate to please. He threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you exactly how he wants.
Frenchie loves to give you head; He takes his time with you, pressing soft, teasing kisses up your inner thighs, slowly working higher until you’re trembling with anticipation. He studies every reaction, every gasp and twitch, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. When his mouth finally closes over your clit, he’s gentle but relentless, sucking and licking with perfect pressure. He’ll slide one or two fingers inside you while his thumb circles and presses against your asshole.
Hughie loves to get head from you; Sweet Hughie turns into an absolute mess the second you drop to your knees. He loves the sight of you crawling toward him, soft kisses trailing up his length, your tongue licking up every bead of precum as you reach the head. By the time you take him into your mouth, he’s already babbling, hips twitching. He gets so overwhelmed that you usually end up climbing on top and riding him because he’s too fucked out to do anything else.
Soldier Boy loves to get head from you; He loves when you angle your head just right and take every thick inch of him down your throat. He props himself up on his elbows so he can watch you suck him, that cocky smirk on his face slowly melting into pure bliss. He’s big, and he knows it, but the way your eyes water and the wet sounds you make turn him on even more. When he finally cums, his mouth falls open in a perfect “O,” and he growls, “Swallow it, little bitch” , all the while he’s enamored with you.
Gaz loves to get head from you; You usually have to stop before he finishes because the second you wrap your lips around his cock, he has to focus hard on not cumming. “Fuck… just like that, love,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re too good to me. Gonna make me lose it before we even start.” You flutter your lashes at him, looking up with the prettiest eyes you can manage, watching the way his abs tense and his hand tightens gently in your hair as he fights to hold back.
Price loves to get head from you; He loves pulling you into his office like you’re in trouble, keeping it sneaky so none of the guys see, but the moment you’re on your knees between his thick thighs he becomes a total mess. “Atta girl,” he rumbles, voice gravel-rough and low, his large hand cupping the back of your head while the other grips the edge of the desk. “Look at me while you do that,” he orders softly, blue eyes dark with heat. “That’s it… good fuckin’ girl.”
Ghost loves to give you head; He keeps the mask on, of course he does. You hold direct eye contact with him as he sucks on his fingers first, getting them nice and wet before slowly pushing them inside you. The noises he makes while his tongue fucks you are filthy and low — “Mmm mm mm, tastes so fucking good,” he whimpers against your slick folds, the sound vibrating through you as he devours you with hungry intensity.
Soap loves to give you head; He’s the type to brag, and he wants everyone to hear exactly what he does to you. “C’mon, louder—let me hear ye,” he grins, laughing softly when your fingers tighten in his mohawk. He’s got your back pressed against the wall in the armory, one leg hooked over his shoulder, tongue lapping as he eats you out like a starving man. “Tha’s it… give it tae me. I’m no’ stoppin’ ‘til yer shakin’.”
Your The boys fics have been feeding me in this fic drought and I just wanna say I love your writing so much!! I'd love to see more hughie and frenchie stuff 👀👀👀👀👀
Thank you so much!!!! I’m thinking about writing some preference-style posts here soon, and I’ll definitely include them😁
!When (character) almost lose you- how do they react?
Butcher
He told you not to go with them on the mission, but you're too stubborn for your own good. Their plan was to release their supe-killing virus on Homelander, but Soldier Boy got in the way. You wanted to watch Soldier Boy die as much as MM did. You had a gas mask on, you thought you had it on tight enough, thought you did. You let out a cough, then another. Your chest began to tighten, lungs burning like you just inhaled fire. Your hands scramble for the mask, fingers fumbling as your vision blurs. You drop to your knees before you can even call out. “Fuck—” Billy Butcher is at your side in seconds, ripping the mask off your face, tossing it somewhere behind him. “No, no, no—what the hell did I say?” he snaps, but there’s no bite to it—just panic. His hand grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him while you struggle to breathe. Your body begins to go slack against him. “Oi—stay with me,” his voice drops, rough, cracking at the edges now. His hand presses against your cheek, shaking you slightly. “Don’t you dare—don’t you fuckin’ dare do this to me.” “I told you not to come,” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Stay with me, love… just stay with me.”
Soldier Boy
You went with him to fight, you shouldn't have. He was battling against 14 supes and it got to be too much for him. A light began to bloom from his chest, you started to run, knowing that light from his chest was about to explode. You weren't quick enough, you made it to the door, but it was locked. You hid behind a beaten up desk, then boom! You had your eyes shut and ears covered, hiding under that desk. Your vision went black and you collapsed. When he came out of his terror-driven state, that's when he noticed you on the ground. At first, he just stands there, chest still rising heavy, smoke lingering in the air. Then his eyes lock onto you—and everything else fades out. “...the fuck?” he mutters, stepping closer. No response. “Hey—” he drops down beside you, rough hands grabbing your shoulder, shaking you harder than he should. “Hey, c’mon. Get up.” His jaw tightens, eyes scanning you fast, like he’s trying to piece together what the hell just happened. “Shit…” he breathes, quieter now. “Fuck,” he mutters again, running a hand through his hair, pacing once before dropping back down next to you. “Don’t start this shit.” “C’mon…” he says, quieter this time. “Get up.”
Homelander
Billy Butcher. He found out how close you are to Homelander. He didn't think Homelander would find anything real after Madelyn Stillwell. Neither did Homelander. Now, Butcher has you held hostage, tied to a chair, bruised up. Your head hangs low, vision blurry, dried blood on your lip. You can barely keep your eyes open, but you hear it—the distant sound of something ripping through the sky. The door bursts open, homelander standing there, eyes red. "Let her go" he says calmly. Butcher laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. I don’t think I will.” Before you could think about what was happening, Homelander fires his lazers, and Butcher jumps in front of you. You feel a hot sensation on your neck and then all you see is black. You'd just passed out , but Homelander didn't know that. All he sees is that you're not moving. "No..no.no" Homelander says dipping down to your side. “You don’t get to leave me,” he whispers, pleading. “You don’t get to be like everyone else.” “Please…” he breathes, voice breaking completely now.
Hughie
You're in a forest with Hughie and Butcher, trying to find Soldier Boy. they both told you to stay behind as you're not even a supe. They took temp-v behind your back. That really had hurt your feelings, so you decided to come with them because you knew that would hurt him just as much. Before you know it , Butcher triggers a tripwire and jumps back. There's smoke everywhere. Hughie grabs you instantly. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you,” he says fast, already panicking as he focuses. He uses his powers to teleport you back, but something gets tangled along the way. Your body slams hard into a tree, the impact knocking the air out of you completely. Pain shoots through you and you crumple to the ground. “H—hey—” Hughie’s voice comes out breathless as he stumbles toward you, eyes wide, already knowing something’s wrong. He drops to his knees beside you, hands hovering before grabbing your shoulders, shaking you lightly. “Please wake up,” he says, quieter, voice breaking. “Please… I didn’t mean to, I swear.” He lets out a shaky breath, almost choking on it, pressing his forehead against yours for a second. "I'm so sorry he cries out, please".
Frenchie
You grew close to Frenchie, too close. You know most of his past, more than he's shared with anyone else. You're innocent and that alone makes him feel like sometimes that he's not worthy of you. Of your time or care. Or love. You had a complex and thought you could fix him. That was just your dynamic the two of you had. One day, someone from his past comes knocking. They've turned into a supe and they're not happy with Frenchie. You don’t even understand what’s going on at first—just raised voices, tension snapping tight in the air. Frenchie steps in front of you instinctively, telling you to stay back, voice low but urgent. But you don't. The supe moves quicker than you expect—grabbing you, throwing you hard across the room like you weigh nothing. Your body hits the wall, then the floor, the impact knocking the breath clean out of you. “Non—!” Frenchie’s voice cracks, louder than you’ve ever heard it, panic bleeding through instantly. Now, he's at your side, “Mon cœur, stay with me… stay with me,” he rushes out, words tumbling over each other. His hand cups your face, brushing your hair away, fingers trembling. “This is my fault… it is always my fault…”
!Imagine (character) toying with you while you're asleep.
Butcher
He doesn’t take control immediately. He turns over towards you, fingers finding their way beneath the hem of your shirt. His hands cold, calloused, rubbing right beneath your breasts. He can’t help himself but to grab a handful and knead softly. He loves the way you respond- the way your hips move back, pressing firmly against his hard cock. “Yeah you like that don’t ya love?” He coos in your ear.
Soldier Boy
He knows just what you like and he’ll make sure to give it to you. You wake up already moaning, his mouth locked onto your clit, sucking hard. You grab a fistful of his hair which makes him jerk. He flattens his tongue, dragging it slow before shaking his head side to side, making your back arch off the bed. You barely get a second to catch your breath before he’s lining himself up and shoving into you, making you scream.
Hughie
With Hughie, I could see you making a move first. You turn toward him in your sleep, leg hooking over his, slowly dragging it higher. Your hand follows, palming him through his boxers. When he doesn’t move or make a noise, you turn back over. To your surprise, he turns towards you and presses firmly against your back. You can feel him on your ass. He doesn’t waste time and begins rubbing you over your panties, creating a little wet spot.
Frenchie
He likes to test you, slowly, to see how much he can do before you wake up. He’ll start by nipping at your neck, leaving soft kisses. He’ll trace his fingers along your stomach, lifting your shirt up. Then he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, watching for any reaction. If that doesn’t wake you up, he’ll start leaving playful short kisses everywhere until you do.
Homelander
He likes the thrill of you “being asleep” so you know better. You know to act like you’re asleep, even if that’s a lie. He’s the most gentle with you whilst you’re asleep, taking off his glove and tracing soft lines over your thighs. “I don’t want to lose you too” he says, grabbing your ass, squeezing repeatedly. He does a lot of talking to himself, but if he’s in a bad mood, he’ll be pretty aggressive, no talking, just balls deep inside of you, while you lay there pretending to sleep.
! They were never meant to be seen—but one knock at the door exposes everything, and suddenly you’re not just his secret… you’re his weakness.
You settled into Vought faster than you expected.
Not because it was welcoming—far from it—but because you understood environments like this. Places where appearances mattered more than truth. Where people smiled too easily and spoke too carefully. It wasn’t so different from the world you’d already been living in with The Boys, just dressed up prettier.
Your job was simple. Blend in, keep your head down, and watch.
And you did.
Days passed in a quiet routine. You learned which floors stayed busy, which executives liked to hear themselves talk, which assistants knew more than they let on. You listened more than you spoke, collected pieces of conversations, filed away names and patterns. It was slow work, but it was working.
Homelander, though… he remained just out of reach.
You saw him often enough that it should have meant something. Passing through the same hallways, stepping out of elevators, appearing at meetings like he owned the air in the room. People reacted to him instantly—voices lowering, backs straightening, eyes following him like he was the center of gravity.
But you?
Nothing.
You became used to the way he didn’t look at you. Not even accidentally. It wasn’t avoidance—it was something colder than that. Like you weren’t worth the effort of being acknowledged at all. Just another face in a building full of them.
It should have made things easier.
Instead, it unsettled you.
Because you were watching him.
Not obviously, never enough to draw attention, but you noticed things others didn’t. The way his smile lingered a second too long after conversations ended. The way his expression dropped the moment he thought no one was paying attention. The quiet shifts in his posture when he was alone, like he was shedding something heavy no one else could see.
You started to realize that the version of Homelander the world adored… wasn’t the one you were seeing.
And that made him more dangerous.
One afternoon, you found yourself in a quieter wing of the building, the kind most employees didn’t wander into unless they had a reason. Your tablet was open in your hands, screen glowing with notes you weren’t really reading. It gave you an excuse to linger, to look like you belonged there.
You heard him before you saw him.
Footsteps.
You didn’t react immediately. You couldn’t. Not without risking everything you’d built so far. Instead, you shifted slightly, angling yourself so you could catch a glimpse without making it obvious.
He stepped into view at the end of the hall, alone this time.
No executives. No cameras. No performance.
For a moment, he didn’t look like the man everyone worshipped. His face was neutral, almost distant, like his mind was somewhere else entirely. The usual sharpness in his expression had softened into something unreadable.
Human.
The thought came uninvited, and you almost scoffed at yourself for it.
Still, your gaze lingered.
And this time—
He stopped.
It was subtle. Just a pause in his stride, barely noticeable unless you were already watching him.
Your stomach tightened.
Slowly, his head turned.
Not fully. Not enough to make it obvious. But enough that your breath caught in your throat as his eyes swept the hallway—calm, controlled, and far too aware.
You dropped your gaze instantly, forcing your focus back onto your tablet like it suddenly mattered more than anything else. Your pulse kicked up, louder than you liked, each beat echoing in your ears.
Don’t react.
Don’t move.
Don’t give him a reason.
Then, just as quietly as it had begun, it ended.
His footsteps resumed.
You didn’t look up right away. You couldn’t. You waited until the sound faded completely, until the tension in the air loosened just enough for you to breathe properly again.
Only then did you risk it.
You lifted your head, just slightly.
The hallway was empty.
But something had changed.
It wasn’t obvious. No confrontation, no words exchanged. To anyone else, it would have looked like nothing at all.
But you felt it.
For the first time since you’d stepped into Vought Tower…
You weren’t invisible anymore.
The first time he spoke to you, it didn’t feel significant enough to matter.
You had been standing near one of the upper floors, close to the glass where the city stretched endlessly below, your reflection faint against the lights. Your tablet was in your hands, something open on the screen that you hadn’t really been reading for the last few minutes. It gave you an excuse to linger. To observe without being observed.
“You’re new.”
His voice came from behind you—steady, controlled, unmistakable.
You turned slowly, careful not to overreact, but there was no preparing for the way Homelander looked up close. It wasn’t just his presence—it was the way he seemed to take up more space than he physically should have, like the air bent slightly around him.
“Still getting used to things,” you said, keeping your tone neutral, polite, forgettable.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just looked at you. Not through you, not past you—at you, like he was trying to decide something he hadn’t quite put into words yet. Then his gaze shifted, the moment dissolving as quickly as it had formed.
“Mm,” he hummed quietly, before stepping past you like it hadn’t mattered at all.
But it had.
After that, you started noticing him more. Or maybe he started noticing you. It was hard to tell which came first.
The encounters weren’t frequent enough to feel deliberate, but they happened often enough to stop feeling like coincidence. A hallway that should have been empty. An elevator ride that ended one floor too soon. A quiet corner of the building where he appeared without warning, like he had been there all along.
And each time, he spoke. Not much. Never enough to draw attention. But enough.
The comments were simple, almost observational, but they lingered long after he walked away. They settled into your thoughts, turning over and over until you weren’t sure if he was trying to understand you… or if he already had you figured out.
You still did your job.
You passed along information to Butcher, kept track of movements, patterns, anything that might give The Boys an edge. You stayed careful. Controlled.
But there were things you didn’t say.
You didn’t mention the way Homelander lingered when he didn’t have to. Or how his voice lost its edge when he spoke to you alone. You didn’t mention the quiet moments where he seemed less like a god and more like something… fractured beneath the surface.
At first, you told yourself it wasn’t relevant.
Then you stopped trying to justify it at all.
One evening, you found yourself back near the windows again, drawn there without really knowing why. The building had quieted, most employees gone, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost unnatural after the constant movement of the day.
“You always end up here.”
You didn’t jump this time.
You just exhaled softly, your grip on the tablet loosening as you turned your head slightly, enough to see him standing a few steps behind you. No audience. No cameras. No performance.
“Less crowded,” you said.
His gaze shifted past you, out toward the city, though you had the distinct feeling he wasn’t really looking at it. “You don’t like crowds.”
It wasn’t a question.
You tilted your head faintly. “Do you?”
That earned you something—small, but real. Not quite a smile, not quite amusement, but something that softened the sharpness of him just a little.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty. It felt… deliberate. Like something was building inside it.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said after a while.
You let out a quiet breath, your gaze dropping for a second before lifting again. “I don’t think anyone ever is.”
After that, the space between you started to change.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t obvious.
It was in the way he stood a little closer when he spoke to you. In the way conversations stretched longer than they should have, drifting into silence that neither of you seemed eager to break. In the way he stopped pretending when it was just the two of you—no smile, just something more honest.
And you let yourself stay in those moments longer than you should have.
You told yourself it was for the mission.
But that stopped feeling true.
The night it shifted, it felt like something you had been walking toward without realizing it.
You hadn’t meant to end up outside his room. You hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought it through, but there you were anyway, standing in the dim hallway with your hand hovering just shy of the door.
For a moment, you considered leaving.
Then the door opened.
He was already there, already looking at you, like he’d known you would come.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated, just long enough to feel it—that choice, hanging in the air between you.
Then you stepped inside.
His room felt different from the rest of the tower.
The lights were low, the city glowing through the windows behind him, casting everything in warm shadows. It didn’t feel like the place of someone the world feared.
You lingered near the center of the room, suddenly aware of how close he was again, how easily the distance between you had disappeared.
“I shouldn’t be here,” you said, though it lacked any real weight.
“I know,” he replied.
But neither of you moved.
The silence stretched, thick with everything unspoken. You could feel it now, stronger than before. Not just curiosity. Not just tension. Something that had been building for days, maybe longer.
“You’re supposed to hate me,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.
Your chest tightened slightly. “I know.”
“But you don’t.”
It wasn’t a question.
You didn’t answer.
Because you couldn’t.
The space between you closed slowly, almost imperceptibly. One step. Then another. Close enough now that you could feel the warmth of him, the steadiness of his breathing, the way his gaze didn’t waver from yours. There was nothing rushed about it. Nothing uncertain. Just a line being crossed, one neither of you were trying to stop.
“You should tell me to leave,” you murmured.
His voice was softer than before. “Do you want to?”
You didn’t say anything. You didn't have to.
He closed the distance, one hand coming up to pull you in as his lips met yours. The contact stole the breath from your lungs, your lips parting in a quiet gasp as the moment finally tipped into something real.
His fingers slid into your hair, gripping just enough to hold you there, not rough but firm—like he didn’t intend to let you go anytime soon. The kiss deepened, slow at first before turning more intent, more certain, his teeth grazing your lower lip in a way that pulled a soft, breathy moan from you before you could stop it.
It felt like everything you’d both been holding back finally slipping through at once.
When you finally pulled away, it wasn’t far—just enough to breathe, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady yourself. The air felt heavier now, charged in a way that couldn’t be undone.
You didn’t need to say it.
You both knew.
Everything had changed.
It didn’t happen the way you expected.
There was no dramatic confrontation at first, no shouting or immediate violence. Just a shift—so subtle you almost missed it. You felt it before you understood it. The next time you saw Homelander, something was wrong. He stood across the room mid-conversation with a group of Vought executives, composed as ever, the perfect image he always maintained. But when his eyes found yours, there was something colder there. Not indifference, not curiosity—something sharper, something that made your chest tighten before your mind could catch up.
You forced yourself to keep moving, to walk like nothing had changed, like your pulse hadn’t just spiked. But you could feel it now—the weight of his attention following you in a way it never had before. You didn’t make it far.
“Stay.”
His voice cut through the room behind you, quiet but absolute. You stopped. Slowly, you turned back, every instinct screaming at you to run, to fix this before it unraveled completely. The room had emptied without you noticing. The executives were gone, the doors shut. It was just the two of you now. He stepped closer, then closer again, until the space between you felt too small to breathe in.
“You’ve been very busy,” he said lightly, though there was nothing light about the way he looked at you. “Running around… talking to people you shouldn’t be talking to.”
Your throat tightened, but you said nothing. He didn’t need you to. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” he continued, his voice lowering, more dangerous for its quietness. “That I wouldn’t hear about you slipping information to Billy Butcher?”
There it was. No room left to pretend.
“It’s my job,” you said, forcing the words out, even though they sounded weaker than you wanted them to.
Something flickered across his face—not the explosive anger you had braced for, but something deeper. Hurt. It was there for only a second before it hardened into something else entirely.
“And what am I?” he asked quietly.
The question hit harder than anything else. You hesitated—and he saw it. His jaw tightened, something raw slipping through the cracks of his control. “Was any of it real?” he pressed, his voice lower now, closer to something breaking than you had ever heard it. You stepped back instinctively, but he followed just as quickly, closing the distance like you hadn’t moved at all.
“It was,” you said, more firmly this time, because that part was true.
That only made it worse.
Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, you thought this was it—that this was where everything ended, where he snapped, where the fragile line you’d been walking finally gave way. But he didn’t lash out. Didn’t move at all. Instead, something in him shifted again, slower this time, more deliberate.
A quiet breath left him, almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Of course it was,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “You wouldn’t have come back if it wasn’t.”
Your stomach dropped slightly, because he was right.
His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your arm—not rough, not forceful. Just there. Testing. Grounding. “You’re still here,” he said, his gaze searching yours now with an intensity that felt less like anger and more like something far more dangerous. “Even after I know.”
You didn’t pull away. You should have. But you didn’t.
Something dark and certain settled into his expression—
“They don’t understand you,” he said quietly. “They never will. They’ll turn on you the second it’s convenient. The second you stop being useful.”
You swallowed, because some part of you knew he wasn’t entirely wrong. And he knew it too.
His hand shifted slightly, resting against you with quiet certainty. “But I won’t.”
The words were soft, but they carried weight—possessive, unwavering, unsettling in a way that made your chest tighten.
“You should hate me,” you said, your voice quieter now.
A pause lingered between you.
“I tried,” he replied.
That landed heavier than anything else.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension between you had changed again. It wasn’t fragile anymore, not uncertain. It was something stronger now, something rooted in truth instead of illusion—
His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, something unreadable flickering there. “You’re not leaving,” he said, not as a question.
Your breath caught, because you didn’t know if you could.
And worse—
You weren’t sure if you wanted to.
The air outside Vought felt different.
Not colder in any real way, but heavier—like stepping out of something you weren’t meant to leave behind. The further you got from the tower, the more it settled into your chest, that quiet, suffocating weight you couldn’t quite name. Every step felt like you were pulling yourself in two different directions at once, neither of them willing to let go.
By the time you made it back, you had already started building the version of the truth you were going to tell.
The door shut behind you with a dull click, and just like that, everything shifted. The dim, familiar space grounded you immediately—messy, lived-in, nothing like the polished illusion of Vought. This was real. This was where you were supposed to belong.
And for the first time since you started, it didn’t feel as simple as that.
“You’re late.”
Butcher didn’t look up right away, his voice casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. It meant he’d noticed. It meant he’d been paying attention longer than he let on.
You set your things down, forcing your movements to stay steady. “Got held up.”
He hummed softly, like he didn’t quite believe you but wasn’t ready to push—yet.
The others were scattered around the room, conversation low, but you could feel it the moment you stepped in. The shift in attention. The way eyes flicked toward you and then away again, subtle but there. You’d been gone longer than you should have been.
You tried not to let it show.
“Anything new?” Butcher asked after a moment, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours.
That was the question.
The one you had already rehearsed for on the way back.
You opened your mouth, ready to give the answer you’d planned—but something caught, just for a fraction of a second. Not enough for anyone else to call out. Not enough to matter.
But you felt it.
Because there was something new.
Too much of it.
“He’s been… more active,” you said instead, keeping your tone even, measured. “More private meetings. Less time out in the open.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Just not the truth.
Butcher watched you for a second longer than necessary, his expression unreadable, like he was waiting for something else—something you weren’t giving him.
“And?” he asked.
Your pulse ticked up slightly, but you didn’t let it show. “And nothing,” you replied, a little firmer this time. “He hasn’t slipped up.”
That one lingered in the air longer than the others.
Because you both knew—
That wasn’t entirely true.
The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t empty either. It stretched just enough to feel intentional, just enough to make you aware of every breath, every small movement.
Then Butcher leaned back slightly, his gaze finally breaking from yours.
“Right,” he muttered.
Just like that, the moment passed.
Or at least, it pretended to.
You exhaled quietly, the tension easing just enough to let you move again, but it didn’t leave completely. It stayed there, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting.
Because the truth was—
You hadn’t just lied.
You had chosen to.
And something told you that was only going to get harder.
Days later, you slipped into an unused mid-level conference room during a quiet afternoon. The moment the door clicked shut, he was there, locking it behind him. He crossed the room in two strides, lifted you effortlessly onto the long table, and stepped between your legs. His mouth claimed yours, tongue teasing as one hand slipped under your blouse, fingers tracing slow circles along your lower back.
The other gripped your thigh, pulling you flush against him so you could feel how hard he already was. He trailed kisses down your neck, nipping lightly, his breath hot against your skin.
“No one comes here,” he breathed, voice strained with restraint.
He only stopped when your hands were fisting his suit, both of you breathing hard. Then he straightened your clothes with careful fingers and slipped out, leaving you aching on the table.
Again he found you; in the private upper-floor lounge late at night. No words passed between you. He pulled you onto the wide couch, guiding you to straddle his lap.
His hands gripped your hips possessively as he kissed you with raw intensity, tongue demanding while you rocked against the hard line of his arousal pressing through his suit. One hand slid up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, fingers brushing teasingly close to where you needed him.
His mouth moved to your neck, sucking lightly as soft moans escaped you. He held you there, trembling on the edge, until he finally whispered against your lips, “Not like this… not until you’re sure.” He helped you off his lap, fixed your clothes, and left you flushed and wanting in the dark.
It started subtly, in ways that were easy to ignore at first.
Small things, barely noticeable unless you were already on edge. A presence you couldn’t quite place, the faint feeling of being watched even when you knew you shouldn’t be, the sense that something had shifted just outside your awareness. You told yourself it was nothing, that it came with the territory, that working with The Boys meant constantly looking over your shoulder.
Then one afternoon, you saw him.
Not as Homelander. Not the polished image, not the cape or the carefully constructed persona the world worshipped. Just a man, standing across the street like he belonged there, dressed in dark, ordinary clothes that didn’t draw attention. No one looked twice at him. No one recognized him. To everyone else, he blended seamlessly into the city.
But you knew.
Your steps faltered for just a second before you forced yourself forward again, your gaze fixed ahead even as your awareness sharpened around him. You didn’t dare look directly, not with people nearby, not with the risk sitting so heavily in your chest. Still, you could feel it—his attention, steady and certain, locked onto you in a way that made your pulse pick up.
He shouldn’t have been there.
That was the part you couldn’t ignore.
You didn’t approach him. You couldn’t—not with the others close, not with the constant awareness that one wrong move could unravel everything. But when you turned the corner, when the crowd thinned just enough and the noise of the street dipped into something quieter—
He followed.
His footsteps fell into place beside yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he had always been meant to be there. “You’re getting careless,” you murmured under your breath, not looking at him as you kept walking, your voice low enough that no one else would hear.
“And you’re avoiding me,” he replied just as quietly.
You glanced at him then, briefly, taking in how easily he disappeared into this version of himself. No one stared. No one hesitated. It was almost unsettling, how normal he looked like this, how wrong it felt compared to everything you knew he was.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.
“I wanted to see you.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than anything else he could have said.
You kept walking, even as he stayed beside you, close enough that your arm brushed his every few steps. The contact was light, almost accidental, but it sent a quiet tension through you anyway, something sharper now that there were no walls, no locked doors separating you from the rest of the world.
This wasn’t hidden anymore.
This was real.
“You’re going to get seen,” you said, lowering your voice further, your eyes scanning the street ahead.
“They don’t see me unless I want them to,” he replied calmly.
You knew that was true.
That didn’t make it any less dangerous.
Without really thinking about it, you turned down a quieter side street, the noise of the city fading just enough to give you space to breathe. He followed without hesitation, closing the distance the moment you slowed, the shift in proximity immediate and deliberate.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, finally turning to face him.
“Neither can you.”
The words landed heavier than they should have, settling somewhere deep before you could push them away. For a moment, neither of you moved, the space between you charged in a way that felt too familiar now, too easy to fall back into.
This wasn’t like before.
There were no walls here to hide behind.
No doors to close.
Anyone could turn the corner.
Anyone could see.
And still—you didn’t step away.
His hand found your wrist, not forceful, just enough to stop you from turning back toward the street. The contact was light, but it grounded you in a way that made your breath catch slightly, your focus narrowing to him and him alone.
“You keep walking away,” he said quietly.
“You keep showing up,” you replied, though the edge you tried to put in your voice didn’t quite land.
“Would you rather I didn’t?”
The question lingered between you, heavier than anything else he’d said.
You didn’t answer.
Because you couldn’t.
His gaze softened then, just slightly, something quieter slipping through the cracks again—the version of him no one else ever seemed to see. “I can’t stay away from you,” he admitted, low enough that it felt like something you weren’t meant to hear.
That should have been enough.
It should have been the moment you stepped back, the moment you ended it before it got worse.
Instead, you stayed.
A car passed at the end of the street, distant enough not to matter, but enough to remind you that this wasn’t safe, that this wasn’t hidden. The world still existed just a few steps away, waiting to catch you in something you wouldn’t be able to explain.
“You need to go,” you said, quieter now.
But you didn’t move.
And neither did he.
His thumb brushed faintly against your wrist, a small, absent motion that didn’t feel absent at all. His gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again, something heavier settling into it, something that felt less like curiosity and more like certainty.
“Say it like you mean it,” he murmured.
You swallowed, your chest tightening.
Because you couldn’t.
The moment stretched just a little too long before you finally stepped back, breaking the contact between you. The loss of it was immediate, sharper than you expected, leaving something unsettled in its place.
“That’s what I thought,” he said quietly.
There was no anger in it. No frustration. Just certainty.
He stepped away first, retreating back toward the street like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just blurred the line between your two worlds even further. Within seconds, he was gone again, swallowed by the city, just another face in the crowd.
You stayed where you were a moment longer, your pulse still uneven, your thoughts louder than they should have been.
Because this wasn’t contained anymore. It wasn’t just stolen moments behind closed doors.
He was stepping into your world now.
Into theirs.
And sooner or later— Someone was going to notice.
It didn’t take long before the cracks started to show. You thought you were careful. You told yourself you were still in control, that you could keep the two sides separate as long as you stayed sharp, stayed aware. But something about him—about the way he had started appearing when and where he wanted—made that harder than it should have been.
You were distracted and that was enough.
“You alright?”
The question came from across the room, casual but pointed. You glanced up, meeting the eyes of one of the others—lingering just a second too long before you realized you hadn’t been listening to anything that had been said.
“Yeah,” you replied quickly, straightening slightly. “Just tired.”
It wasn’t convincing.
You could feel that immediately.
Butcher didn’t say anything right away, but you didn’t need him to. His silence was worse than anything else. It meant he was watching. It meant he had already noticed something was off and was waiting to see how far it went. You forced yourself to focus, to pull your attention back into the room, but it felt harder now. Like part of you was somewhere else entirely. Like part of you was still with him.
“Run that by me again,” Butcher said after a moment, his tone light in a way that wasn’t light at all.
Your stomach dropped slightly. You hadn’t been paying attention. Not enough to repeat anything. You covered it quickly, shifting your weight, buying yourself a second. “Just going over movement patterns again,” you said, keeping your voice even. “Nothing’s changed.”
That was a lie and he knew it. His gaze held yours for a second longer than necessary, sharp and searching, like he was trying to pull something out of you without asking directly. “Right,” he muttered finally, leaning back slightly. “Funny that.”
You didn’t respond. Because anything you said would’ve made it worse.
The room moved on, conversation picking back up like nothing had happened, but you could feel it now. The shift. The attention that lingered just a little longer than before. The quiet awareness that you weren’t as invisible as you used to be and that was dangerous.
Later, when you stepped outside for air, you told yourself it was just that. A break. A moment to clear your head.
But even as you leaned against the wall, your breath slower now, your thoughts still racing—
You already knew.
If he was anywhere nearby…
He would find you.
It didn’t stop. If anything, it got worse.
What had started as controlled—contained—turned into something neither of you were even pretending to manage anymore. The meetings came closer together, sloppier, harder to justify. You stopped checking the time as often. Stopped thinking through your exits and he stopped caring about the risk entirely.
You noticed the shift in the others before anyone said it out loud. The way conversations quieted when you entered the room. The way questions lingered just a second too long. The way Billy Butcher watched you now—not openly accusing, but not trusting either.
You told yourself it was nothing. That you still had control.
But the truth was—
You were one mistake away from everything falling apart.
And somewhere deep down…
You knew it wasn’t a matter of if anymore.
Just when.
He shouldn’t have been there.
That was your first thought the moment you opened the door and saw him standing inside like he belonged, like he had every right to be in a place he should have never stepped foot in. No cape, no suit—just dark clothes, casual and unremarkable to anyone else. But nothing about Homelander was ever truly unremarkable.
He reached up, pulling his hat off and setting it down on the end table in the living area with an ease that made your chest tighten. Like this was normal. Like he’d done this before.
“The others?” he asked, though his tone said he already knew.
“Gone,” you said, quieter than you meant to.
His gaze lingered on you, something unreadable settling into it before he took a step closer. The door shut behind you with a soft click, and the sound felt louder than it should have, sealing something you weren’t ready to name.
This wasn’t like before. This wasn’t hidden behind Vought walls or empty rooms.
This was reckless. You both knew that.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, but it came out weak, like you didn’t even believe it yourself.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you, that familiar intensity settling in his expression. “You keep saying that.”
“And you keep showing up.”
A flicker of something crossed his face, faint but real. “I told you,” he said, quieter now, stepping closer, “I can’t stay away.”
The distance between you closed faster this time, like whatever hesitation had once existed had already worn down to nothing. His hand found your waist, steady, certain, pulling you closer as your breath caught.
“You’re going to get us caught,” you murmured, though you didn’t move away.
“Then why haven’t you told me to leave?”
You didn’t answer.
His gaze dropped briefly before lifting again, something heavier settling into it—something that had been building for far too long to ignore. “Come here,” he said, softer now.
You were already moving before you realized it.
He led you toward the bedroom without another word, his hand never leaving you, like letting go wasn’t an option anymore. The door shut behind you, quiet but final, and for a moment everything else disappeared—every warning, every consequence, every line you’d crossed to get here.
He backed into the bed, pulling you down with him. He rolled you over so he could be on top of you.
He grinded down, enough for you to really feel how hard he already was.
You gasped, biting your lip at the sensation. He took that as an invitation and lifted your legs up to your chest, so he could grind down further.
The new angle made you moan softly, the pressure delicious and overwhelming. He rocked into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, eyes locked on your face like he was memorizing every reaction.
“Fuck… you feel so good,” he breathed, voice low and strained, the usual controlled tone cracking just for you.
One of his hands slid up your thigh, gripping firmly as he pressed even closer, the hard length of him rubbing right against your core with every movement. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him down until his mouth crashed into yours again—hungrier this time, tongues tangling as the heat between you built fast.
He broke the kiss just enough to whisper against your lips, “Tell me you want this.”
You could barely think straight, but the answer came out in a shaky breath: “I want you.”
That was all he needed. His grip tightened, and the slow grind turned sharper, more urgent, the friction pulling another quiet moan from you as everything else—Vought, The Boys, the danger—faded away.
He pulled your panties off with ease. He teased you, placing kisses all along your legs, close to your core. When he sank down, your head fell back in pure bliss, gripping his hair, hard.
He groaned from your pull, which made him go harder.
He fondled your breasts, taking turns between eating your pussy and sucking on your breasts.
Before you knew it, he was angling his cock just right. He pushed forward, but you could tell it was slow, with care. He watched your expressions to make sure you were doing okay.
Your hand found the back of his neck. It felt so good that you almost couldn't make any noise at all.
"John- Fuck." you moaned.
"Say that again" he groaned.
"Mmm John, fuck me" You gasped.
He obliged and picked up the pace. He curved his cock just right to hit your favorite spot, the one that makes your toes curl.
Then, you , everything went cold.
A thunderous knock slammed against the bedroom door, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot.
For a brief, suspended moment, nothing moved. The world didn’t catch up all at once—it dragged, heavy and delayed, your body still caught in him, your breath uneven, your mind struggling to pull itself back into reality. Then it came again, louder, sharper, impossible to ignore.
“Oi—open the bloody door!”
Everything snapped.
Panic hit fast, cold and immediate, your hands pushing against his chest as you tried to create space, your voice breaking slightly as you spoke. “Stop—get up—”
Homelander stilled above you, not panicked in the same way, but alert, his expression shifting instantly into something colder, something controlled. Still, he moved, pulling back just enough for you to scramble, your fingers clumsy as you tried to fix yourself, to make this look like anything other than what it was.
Another knock, harder this time, rattling the frame.
“Don’t make me kick it in!” Billy Butcher’s voice cut through the door, unmistakable, far too close.
Your stomach dropped.
There was no time.
The handle jerked.
The door swung open.
And everything stopped.
The room fell into a silence so complete it felt like it rang, like the air itself had gone still just to hold the moment in place. Butcher stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, his gaze already locked onto you before it shifted—slowly, deliberately—past you.
And landed on him.
For a second, it didn’t fully register on his face. Like his mind refused to process what it was seeing, like it was giving you the smallest, quietest chance to explain it away.
Then it did.
“What the fuck is this?”
His voice came out low at first, almost disbelieving, like he was holding himself back from something worse. Like he was waiting.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came. There was no version of this that could be explained. No way to twist it into something harmless, something justifiable.
Behind him, the others appeared, drawn by the noise, by the shift in the air that had already spilled out into the hall. Their expressions changed the moment they saw—confusion giving way to understanding far too quickly, settling into something heavier, something that made your chest tighten just to look at.
They didn’t need you to say it.
They already knew.
Butcher let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he stepped further into the room, his gaze flicking between you and Homelander like he was trying to make sense of something that refused to make sense at all.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, though there was nothing amused about it. “All this time…”
His attention snapped fully to Homelander then, something violent flashing beneath the surface. “In our place?”
Homelander didn’t move back. Didn’t hesitate. If anything, he straightened slightly, his presence filling the room in an instant, calm and composed in a way that only made everything worse.
“She came to me,” he said evenly.
The words landed heavy.
And instantly set everything off.
“You shut your fucking mouth,” Butcher snapped, the last thread of restraint snapping clean as his hand went for his weapon, his body already moving forward like the decision had been made the second he walked in.
“I’ll kill you right here—”
“Stop!”
You moved without thinking, stepping between them, your voice cutting through the room sharper than anything else. It was enough to make him hesitate—just for a second—but the tension didn’t break. It only twisted tighter.
Butcher’s gaze snapped to you, and this time there was no disbelief left in it. No hesitation. Just anger—and something deeper underneath it that hit harder than anything he’d said.
“Move,” he said, low and dangerous.
You didn’t.
The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick, suffocating, filled with everything that had just been exposed, everything that couldn’t be undone. No one else spoke. No one else stepped in.
“You picked him,” Butcher said finally, quieter now, but far worse for it. Each word landed heavier than the last. “Out of everyone… you picked him.”
It wasn’t just anger.
It was betrayal.
Your throat tightened, your chest rising with a breath that didn’t quite come all the way in. Because he wasn’t wrong. Because there was no version of this where you could stand there and deny it, no way to step back across the line you had already crossed.
And the worst part—
You didn’t try.
Behind you, Homelander’s presence shifted closer, subtle but unmistakable, his hand brushing lightly against your arm like it belonged there, like he had already decided where you stood.
“They were never going to keep you,” he said quietly, his voice low but carrying through the room anyway.
That snapped something.
“Get out,” Butcher said, his voice flat now, controlled in a way that made it far more dangerous than before. “Before I decide I don’t care if I die trying.”
For a moment, everything hung there, balanced on the edge of something that could explode at any second. No one moved. No one breathed.
!The Boys overhear you having sex with (Character).
Butcher
You two barely made it through the door. His lips were on yours instantly, nipping at your lower lip with that sharp hunger that always left you dizzy. Before you could even catch your breath, Butcher had you pinned against the bed, hands rough and greedy—tugging at clothes, gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs like he couldn’t get you bare fast enough.
The old bed creaked loudly beneath you as he slowly lowered himself into you, thick and unrelenting. You gasped sharply, mouth falling open in a perfect, silent O, eyes fluttering shut at the stretch. He eased in inch by inch, deliberate and deep, a low, guttural groan rumbling from his chest the whole way. No words. Just the wet, slick sound of him sinking into you, your shaky exhale, and the way your nails dug into his back as you braced yourself.
In the next room, the boys were trying—very, very hard—to pretend they weren’t hearing every single second of it.
Hughie’s face burned scarlet, eyes glued to the floor like it might split open and swallow him whole. MM rubbed his temples hard, jaw clenched tight, muttering under his breath about “goddamn animals.” Frenchie leaned back with a smirk, cigarette dangling from his lips, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. Kimiko tilted her head, watching the wall with calm, fascinated curiosity, like she was listening to a particularly interesting song.
Another loud, broken moan ripped from your throat—high and desperate—as Butcher hit that perfect spot deep inside you, making your toes curl tight. The bedframe slammed harder against the wall now, rhythmic and violent. His grunts turned rougher, deeper, almost animalistic snarls every time you clenched around him, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder.
“Christ,” MM finally hissed, voice low and strained. “They’re not even trying to be quiet.”
Frenchie exhaled a slow curl of smoke, soft laugh slipping out. “I do not think they remember we exist right now.”
Hughie made a strangled little noise and yanked his hoodie up over his head like that could possibly block out the sounds—your whimpers climbing higher, Butcher’s heavy, ragged breathing, the relentless creak and thud of the bed.
Back in the room, your legs were trembling violently around his waist, voice cracking into soft, needy whimpers as he fucked you through it, hips snapping with raw, primal force. His breathing was harsh and uneven against your neck, each thrust punctuated by a deep, guttural groan that vibrated through your chest.
One last, wrecked “fuck” tore from him—low and desperate—right as you shattered. Your high, trembling moan spilled out, raw and broken, mixing perfectly with his deep, satisfied growl as pleasure crashed through both of you. The bed finally stilled, the only sounds left being your shared, panting breaths.
Silence—blessed, mortifying silence—settled for half a second.
Then Frenchie’s voice drifted through the thin wall, dry as bone:
“…Well. At least someone’s having a good night.”
You buried your burning face in Butcher’s sweat-slick shoulder, half-laughing, half-mortified at how loud you’d been. He just chuckled darkly against your hair, the sound rough and smug, arms tightening around you possessively.
“Let ‘em listen, love,” he murmured, voice gravelly and low. “Let the whole fuckin’ world hear what you sound like when I ruin you.”
Soldier Boy
The team had only been back at the safehouse for twenty minutes when the noises started.
At first they figured Soldier Boy was just being his usual destructive self—pacing, throwing shit, whatever. But then the bedframe started slamming against the wall in a steady, filthy rhythm. Loud. Unmistakable.
“What the hell is he doing now?” MM muttered, already heading toward the hallway.
Then it hit them: a sharp, breathy gasp—feminine, surprised, melting quickly into a soft, needy moan as the creaking intensified.
The room went dead quiet.
Hughie blinked hard. “Wait… there’s a girl in there with him?”
Another moan slipped through the thin walls, higher this time, raw and trembling. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, faster, paired with deep, guttural grunts from Soldier Boy—low and arrogant, the kind that said he was enjoying every second of wrecking whoever was under him.
Kimiko tilted her head, listening with quiet curiosity as your voice cracked into a desperate whimper, the bed thudding harder.
MM stopped outside the door, hand raised like he was about to knock and tell the asshole to keep it down—until another broken moan rang out, clearer this time.
That voice.
MM froze.
Hughie’s face went pale. “That… that sounded like—”
Your moan cut him off, loud and shattered, as Soldier Boy hit that spot that made your toes curl and your back arch. The rhythm turned brutal—bedframe cracking against the wall, your high, needy cries mixing with his rough, animalistic groans. No words. Just pure filth: the slick, wet sounds of him pounding into you, your legs shaking, voice climbing higher and more desperate with every thrust.
Frenchie’s cigarette nearly dropped from his lips. “Non… no way. That’s not—”
But it was. The next moan was unmistakable—your voice, raw and trembling, cracking beautifully as you tried and failed to stay quiet.
Hughie looked like he was about to be sick. “Oh my god. That’s… that’s her.
MM’s hand dropped to his side, eyes wide with pure shock. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
The pace inside grew frantic. Your whimpers turned into frantic little sobs of pleasure, body jolting with every deep, punishing snap of Soldier Boy’s hips. His grunts got louder, rougher—almost snarls—cocky and satisfied as he fucked you , the headboard slamming like it might break.
Your voice broke on a long, high, trembling cry as you came hard, legs shaking violently around him. Soldier Boy followed with a deep groan, hips stuttering once, twice, before the bed finally went still.
Heavy, ragged breathing filled the sudden silence.
The boys stood frozen in the hallway, stunned into complete silence.
Frenchie was the first to speak, voice hushed and disbelieving. “Putain… it’s really her. With him.”
Hughie pulled his hoodie up over his head like it could erase the last five minutes. “I’m never going to be able to look at her again. Or him. Or… anyone.”
MM just stared at the door, rubbing his temples hard, muttering, “Of all the people… Soldier Boy? What the fuck is she thinking?”
Kimiko’s lips twitched with quiet amusement, shrugging one shoulder as if to say surprise.
Inside the room, you were still catching your breath, face buried against Soldier Boy’s sweat-slick chest, a soft embarrassed laugh bubbling up. He smirked down at you, one big hand lazily stroking your spine, voice low and smug.
“Sounds like the peanut gallery finally figured it out, sweetheart.”
Hughie
You and Hughie had waited until the safehouse felt dead quiet.
The team was supposed to be out for hours, so the second the door clicked shut behind the last person, Hughie had pulled you into his room with that shy, eager grin. Clothes came off fast—his hands a little clumsy with nerves, your laughter soft against his mouth as you tumbled onto the bed together.
He eased into you slowly, careful like always, and the old mattress creaked under you both. You let out a quiet gasp, mouth falling open, fingers digging gently into his shoulders. Hughie answered with a low, shaky groan, burying his face in your neck as he started to move.
No talking. Just soft, breathy sounds—your little moans growing sweeter and higher every time he rolled his hips, his own quiet, desperate grunts mixing with the rhythmic creak of the bed. It felt safe. Private. You didn’t hold back, letting yourself get louder as pleasure built, your voice turning into needy whimpers that made Hughie’s breathing hitch.
The bedframe started knocking gently against the wall. Then harder.
You were both so lost in it—your legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts getting a little faster, a little deeper—that neither of you heard the front door open.
In the living room, the team had just walked in.
Frenchie stopped mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. MM’s expression shifted from tired to confused. Kimiko tilted her head. Butcher leaned against the wall with a slow, shit-eating grin.
Then your moan floated down the hallway—soft at first, then louder, higher, cracking beautifully as Hughie hit that spot that made your toes curl. The bed was really creaking now, steady and unmistakable, paired with Hughie’s low, embarrassed little grunts that somehow still sounded desperate.
Hughie froze for half a second when he heard voices, but you clenched around him and he couldn’t stop—his hips stuttered, a choked groan slipping out as he kept going, both of you too far gone to quiet down.
“Oh fuck…” Hughie whispered against your skin, mortified, but his body betrayed him with another deep thrust that pulled a high, trembling whimper from your throat.
In the living room, the silence was deafening.
Frenchie’s smirk grew. “Well, well. Little Hughie is not so little after all.”
MM rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus Christ. They thought we were gone.”
Butcher chuckled darkly, voice carrying just enough. “Sounds like the kid’s finally getting some. About time.”
Your moan peaked—loud, broken, and completely unaware—right as Hughie’s rhythm turned frantic and uneven. His quiet, ragged groans mixed with your shaky cries until you both fell apart together: your high, trembling voice and his deeper, embarrassed moan echoing through the thin walls as the bed finally stilled.
The sudden silence was brutal.
You buried your burning face in Hughie’s chest, whispering a horrified “Oh my god…” while he looked ready to die on the spot, cheeks flaming red.
From the living room came Frenchie’s amused voice, loud and clear:
“Don’t stop on our account, mes amis! We can wait!”
Hughie groaned again—this time purely from embarrassment—and pulled the pillow over both your heads like it could hide you from the entire team.
You could still hear Butcher’s low laugh and MM muttering something about “kids these days” as your heart hammered with pure mortification.
Hughie peeked out from under the pillow, voice small and mortified. “…We are never living this down.”
Frenchie
The safehouse was supposed to be empty tonight — just you and Frenchie. The rest of the team had left for a lead that would supposedly keep them gone until morning. So when Frenchie pulled you into the dimly lit living room instead of his bedroom, you didn’t argue.
He had you bent over the back of the old couch before you could even catch your breath, skirt shoved up around your waist, his jeans barely pushed down his thighs. No slow buildup this time. He slid into you in one smooth thrust, deep and confident, pulling a surprised, breathy moan from your throat.
The couch creaked loudly under the force of that first thrust. You gripped the cushions tight, mouth falling open in a silent cry as he started moving — steady, rolling hips that quickly turned hungry. Soft, needy sounds spilled out of you with every push: little gasps turning into higher, trembling moans that you couldn’t hold back. Frenchie answered with low, raspy groans, the occasional whispered French curse slipping out like a prayer.
No real talking. Just the wet, filthy slap of skin, the rhythmic creak of the couch, and the way your voice kept climbing — broken and desperate every time he angled his hips just right and hit that spot that made your knees weak.
You were so lost in it that neither of you heard the van pull up outside.
The front door opened quietly. The team stepped in, expecting silence… and walked straight into the soundtrack of Frenchie fucking you over the couch.
Your moan rang out — high, raw, and unmistakable — right as he drove in harder. The couch was really moving now, scraping against the floor with every thrust. Frenchie’s breathing had turned rough and primal, deep grunts mixing with your whimpering cries, the wet sounds echoing obscenely in the open room.
Frenchie froze mid-thrust when he heard the footsteps, but his body betrayed him — hips giving one last involuntary roll that pulled a loud, shattered whimper from you.
Butcher stopped dead in the doorway, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, fuck. Didn’t expect a live show in the living room.”
MM turned his head away fast, muttering, “Jesus Christ, Frenchie…”
Hughie looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. “Oh god… that’s… they’re right there.”
Kimiko tilted her head, a small amused smile tugging at her lips as another desperate moan escaped you — your voice cracking beautifully as Frenchie couldn’t stop himself from giving one more deep thrust.
Frenchie’s face burned, but he stayed buried inside you, one hand still gripping your hip. He let out a breathless, embarrassed laugh against your back.
“Mon dieu… we thought you were gone until morning,” he called out, voice hoarse and thick with accent, trying to sound casual even while he was still pulsing inside you.
Your cheeks were on fire. You hid your face in the couch cushion, mortified, body still trembling around him.
Butcher chuckled low and dirty. “Clearly. Carry on, then. Don’t let us interrupt the romance.”
Frenchie groaned — half embarrassment, half lingering pleasure — and pressed his forehead to your shoulder. He whispered softly against your skin, only for you to hear, “I should have taken you to the roof, chérie…”
The team started awkwardly dispersing toward the kitchen, muttering and laughing under their breath, while you stayed bent over the couch, heart racing, Frenchie still buried deep and trying and failing to stay still.
The embarrassment was overwhelming… but the way he twitched inside you told you he wasn’t entirely sorry.
Homelander
The boys were out chasing another lead, leaving the safehouse quiet for once.
You knew you were making a terrible mistake. You were supposed to be helping them take him down — feeding them intel, staying on the inside. But somewhere along the way the lines had blurred completely. One secret meeting turned into stolen nights, and now here you were: heart racing as “John” slipped through the back door in civilian clothes, no cape, no suit, just that dangerously soft smile that made your stomach flip.
He didn’t waste time. The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both, his hands were on you — surprisingly gentle at first, then hungry. He had you on the bed in seconds, clothes pushed aside just enough. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, your head fell back with a shaky gasp, mouth forming a perfect O.
No loud talking. Just breathy, intimate sounds.
Your soft moans filled the small room as he moved — deep, rolling thrusts that made the bed creak steadily beneath you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound almost vulnerable, every time you clenched around him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as the rhythm slowly built.
You were so lost in him — in the way he felt, in the way he whispered your name like a secret — that neither of you noticed the front door opening.
The team had come back early.
They stepped inside quietly, expecting an empty safehouse… until your voice drifted down the hallway.
A soft, needy moan. Then another, higher, trembling.
MM froze. Hughie’s eyes went wide. Frenchie tilted his head, cigarette halfway to his lips. Butcher’s expression darkened instantly.
Then it came — clear, unmistakable, wrapped in a broken whimper:
“John…”
The entire room went ice-cold.
Butcher’s jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. “Did she just—?”
Another moan from you, louder this time, cracking beautifully as Homelander hit that perfect spot deep inside. The bedframe started slamming harder against the wall, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin growing filthier. Your voice kept slipping out — soft cries turning desperate, repeating that name like a prayer:
“John… John—”
Homelander answered with a low, possessive growl, hips snapping faster, the sounds turning primal and urgent. Just raw need as he fucked you deeper, your moans climbing higher and more wrecked with every thrust.
Frenchie exhaled slowly, voice hushed. “Putain… she’s with him. She called him John.”
Hughie looked sick. “She’s supposed to be helping us… and she’s — oh god.”
MM rubbed his face, voice tight with betrayal. “We trusted her.”
Butcher’s eyes were murderous, but he didn’t move — just stood there listening as your high, trembling moan peaked, voice breaking on “John” one last time as you came hard around him. Homelander followed with a deep, satisfied groan, hips stuttering before the bed finally went still.
Silence crashed down.
Then Butcher’s voice cut through the wall, low and dangerous:
“Well, well. Looks like our little mole’s been playing both sides… and enjoying it.”
Inside the bedroom you froze, face buried in Homelander’s neck, horror flooding through you as reality slammed back in. He just smirked against your hair, voice soft and smug, barely above a whisper:
“They heard you moan my name, darling. My real name.”
Your heart hammered with panic and lingering pleasure. The boys were right outside — and they knew everything now.
I'm thinking of expanding the homelander story. She sees him behind their backs vibes.
Update 4/8/26 - Story has been posted (No More Secrets)
!Men will be men—so naturally, it becomes a competition to see who can make her fall apart first.
They’d taken turns with you before—Gaz, Soap, Price, and Ghost—so you weren’t shy when they all closed in at once. You’re not even sure how it started. You wish it had been something excusable, like a drunk game of truth or dare, but it wasn’t. You’d just been easy for them. You remember it clearly—Gaz joking with Soap about who you’d sleep with, and you, being you, tossing out that you’d fuck any one of them. Supposed to be harmless. A compliment. Just something to boost their egos and stir them up a bit. But they made you eat those words.
And now? They’ve turned it into a competition.
Whoever eats your pussy the best gets you alone after.
Something that had always been strictly forbidden—no one-on-one, no attachments—but you let it slide for this. You can’t help it. You love the tension, the drama of it. You want to see who pushes the hardest, who wants you the most.
Now you’re sprawled out on the couch, bare and open for them, heat pooling low in your stomach under the weight of their attention. They wait in that dangerous, coiled way soldiers do—Ghost leaning against the wall, arms crossed, unreadable behind the mask; Soap already palming himself through his jeans, restless; Gaz watching you with dark, focused eyes.
But they all know how this goes.
Price calls the shots.
Price always goes first.
ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ drops to his knees between your thighs, hands firm as they slide up your legs and hook them over his shoulders, spreading you open for him. The scrape of his beard against your inner thighs makes you shiver. He doesn’t rush—but he doesn’t waste time either. He leans in, dragging a slow, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit, tongue broad and hot, like he’s tasting, assessing. A low sound leaves him, almost approving, and his grip tightens as he settles in, working you steady and controlled—no wasted movement, no hesitation—like he already knows he’s setting the standard the others have to beat.
Gaz watches the whole thing.
And when he takes his turn, it shows.
ɢᴀᴢ is slower, more calculated. He doesn’t dive in immediately—he takes a second, eyes flicking over your face, your breathing, the way your thighs twitch. Then his mouth presses to you, precise, intentional. Every movement is adjusted to you—more pressure when you tense, softer when you gasp, switching it up just enough to keep you reacting. He’s not trying to overpower you—he’s trying to outdo Price, to prove he can get more out of you with less effort. And it works. You can feel yourself giving in to it, body responding before you can even think.
Soap’s already impatient by the time Gaz pulls back.
“C’mon, let me have a go,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-serious, like he can’t stand watching any longer.
But when he gets between your thighs, he switches.
Slows down.
That’s what throws everyone.
ꜱᴏᴀᴘ's mouth finds your clit, sucking just right while his fingers slide inside you, curling deep, deliberate, hitting that spot over and over. He keeps that rhythm, steady and mean about it, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to you and wants to drag it out. It’s not rushed like usual—it’s controlled, almost competitive in its own way. Like he’s trying to pull more from you than the others did, make you react louder, harder.
And you do.
By the time Ghost steps forward, you’re already sensitive, already worked up, your body twitching at the slightest touch.
He doesn’t care.
If anything, he uses it.
ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ finally gets to you, you’re already sensitive, already worked up, and he uses that. He pulls you forward roughly, hands gripping tight as he buries his face between your thighs. His pace is faster, rougher, mouth relentless as he works at you like he’s trying to push you over the edge on sheer force alone. It’s overwhelming, intense, your fingers digging into his shoulders just to ground yourself as the sensation builds too fast, too much.
He grips you and pulls you forward, rougher than the others, spreading you open like he’s claiming his turn properly. There’s no hesitation, no buildup—he just goes in, pace faster, harsher, mouth relentless as he works at you like he’s got something to prove. It’s not careful or measured—it’s intense, overwhelming, like he’s trying to push you over the edge by force alone.
Your hands claw at his shoulders just to ground yourself, the sensation too much, too fast—
—and behind him, the others are watching, waiting, judging.
By the time it was all said and done, you almost picked Gaz—but your heart went with Soap. Those pretty blue eyes, that cocky grin… and the way those soft lips and calloused fingers worked you over? Yeah. There wasn’t really a competition after that.
The moment you say Soap’s name, the room shifts.
There’s a beat of silence—then— “Oi, fuck off!” Gaz groans, throwing his hands up. Ghost huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh from behind his mask, shaking his head. “Biased.” “Absolute robbery,” Price mutters, though there’s a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth as he watches you.
Soap, on the other hand, looks insufferably pleased with himself. “Knew it,” he grins, already stepping toward you. “Could tell.”
“Your ego’s unbearable,” Gaz shoots back.
“Aye, but I’m right,” Soap fires off, not even sparing him a glance.
Before you can say anything else, Soap’s hands are on you—warm, firm, a little impatient as he pulls you up off the couch. You let out a surprised laugh as he tugs you against him, already backing toward the hallway.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, low enough just for you, his grin softening into something a little more focused. “Won fair and square, didn’t I?”
Behind you, the others start up immediately—“Don’t take all night!” Gaz calls. “Yeah, some of us are waitin’ on a rematch,” Price adds dryly. Ghost just crosses his arms again, watching the two of you go. “Shut the door this time.”
Soap snorts, flipping them off over his shoulder as he drags you down the hall anyway, your laughter echoing behind you while the others keep up their mock complaints and jeers.
The bedroom door barely gets a second to close before the noise fades, leaving just you and him.
And the very obvious fact that he’s been waiting for this.
Sorry guys 😭 I was in a writing slump and then suddenly dropped like 5+ posts all at once lol. Also… I just hit 100 posts and 150 followers. Thank you guys sm🥹
!Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz take their turns with you—no competition, just the shared goal of making you come undone.
You’re all in the safehouse. Lights dimmed low, curtains drawn. You’re spread out on the old sectional couch—shirt rucked up, jeans and panties long gone, thighs parted wide. They’re all still mostly dressed, sleeves rolled, watching like predators deciding the kill order.
ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ goes first. Always does. He kneels between your legs, cigar still clamped between his teeth, smoke curling lazy. His rough thumb circles your clit once, twice—then he sinks two thick fingers in knuckle-deep, curling slow against your front wall. “Easy, love,” he rumbles, voice gravel from years of shouting orders. “Breathe through it.” He pumps steady, thumb never leaving your clit. When you start clenching, hips lifting, he leans in, beard scraping your inner thigh as he growls, “That’s it—give Captain what he wants.” You come hard around his fingers with a broken moan; he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, then pulls out slow, sucking them clean while his eyes stay locked on yours.
He stands, nods to the next man. “Your turn, Lieutenant.”
ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ moves like a shadow—silent. He doesn’t kneel; he sits on the coffee table in front of you, gloved hands gripping your thighs to spread you wider. The skull mask stays on; it’s part of the game tonight. One gloved finger traces your soaked entrance, teasing, then pushes in—slow, stretching. “Fuckin’ drenched” he mutters, voice muffled and low. Adds a second, scissoring gently at first, then harder, curling to hit that spot that makes your back arch. His free hand presses down on your lower belly, increasing the pressure inside until you’re whimpering. “Quiet,” he orders, but there’s heat in it. His thumb finds your clit—rubbing precise circles through the gloved leather—and you shatter again, thighs clamping around his wrist as you sob his name behind the mask. He withdraws, wipes his glove on your thigh like it’s nothing, then shifts back.
“Next.”
ꜱᴏᴀᴘ practically dives in—eager, grinning like he’s won the lottery. “My turn, bonnie.” He drops to his knees, hooks your legs over his broad shoulders, and buries his face first—tongue flat and hungry, lapping broad stripes before focusing on your clit with quick, filthy flicks. Two fingers slide in easy, pumping fast while he sucks hard enough to make your hips buck. “Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, accent thick. “Been dreamin’ of this pretty cunt.” He crooks his fingers relentlessly, tongue never stopping, until you’re cumming on his mouth—back bowing, nails in his mohawk, crying out as he drinks every drop. He pulls back glistening, licks his lips and winks.
“Gaz—don’t keep her waitin’.”
ɢᴀᴢ is last, and he takes his time. Slides onto the couch beside you, pulls you half into his lap so your back’s to his chest, legs draped over whis thighs. “Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, soft London accent soothing even as his hand dips between your legs. Fingers—long, precise—circling your oversensitive clit lightly at first, building you back up slow. “You’ve done so well for us.” He slips two inside, then three, stretching you gently while his other arm bands around your waist, holding you steady. Palm grinds against your clit with every thrust; he whispers praise in your ear the whole time—“good girl, look at you dripping down my wrist.” When you start trembling again, close, he speeds up just enough—deep, curling strokes—and you come undone one last time, clenching hard around his fingers as he kisses your neck, murmuring, “That’s it, love—let go for me.”
They don’t rush after. Price lights another cigar. Ghost leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Soap wipes his face with his sleeve, still grinning. Gaz keeps you tucked against him, fingers idly stroking your thigh.
No one speaks for a long minute—just heavy breathing, rain on the roof, and the quiet understanding that this won’t be the last time.
“Round two?” Soap finally asks, eyes gleaming.
Price exhales smoke. “Give the lass a breather first.”
But the looks they give you say the night’s far from over.
The bedroom is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside and the slow rhythm of Johnny’s breathing against your neck, the two of you tangled under the duvet—naked, warm, still hazy from the lazy make-out session that started when he slipped into bed, his arm heavy over your waist, cock already thick and hard against your back from whatever dream had him worked up. He stirs first, lips brushing your shoulder, then your ear. “Hey, bonnie,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and want. “Ye awake?” You hum and arch back into him, and that’s all he needs—his hand sliding down your stomach, fingers slipping between your thighs without hesitation, finding you already slick, already wanting. He groans low, middle finger circling your clit slow and teasing. “Fuck, listen to that… so wet for me even in yer sleep. Dirty wee thing.” He rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs, duvet draped over you like a secret, hooking your knee over his arm to spread you open before dipping his head, tongue dragging a slow, hot stripe up your center. You gasp, fingers tangling in his mohawk as he grins against you, eyes flicking up to watch your face. “Gonna make ye come so hard ye see stars, love… but I want more than that tonight. Want ye to fuckin’ soak me.” He doesn’t hold back—tongue working fast, then slow, sucking, dipping inside, two fingers push in, then curl hard against that spongy spot inside that makes your toes curl. Your body tightens around him. “There it is,” he growls, picking up the pace, palm slapping wetly with every thrust. “Feel that buildin’? Don’t fight it.” You’re already trembling, breath breaking, thighs shaking as he keeps going—focused—his free hand pressing down on your lower belly to intensify everything. “Johnny—fuck—too much—” “Nah,” he rasps. “Ye can take it. Come on, bonnie—squirt for me. Drench my fuckin’ face like I know ye can.” The pressure snaps. It’s not just an orgasm—it’s a flood. Your back bows off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as you gush around his fingers, soaking his hand, his chin, the sheets beneath you. He groans like he’s the one cumming, lapping at you through it, drinking every pulse until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and shaking. He finally pulls back, lips and chin glistening, eyes blown wide with pride, crawling up your body to kiss you deep so you taste yourself on his tongue. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, cock throbbing against your thigh. “Look what ye did to me sheets… gonna have to do that again tomorrow.” You laugh weakly, breath still uneven as he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapped tight, already half-hard again. “Sleep now, love,” he whispers, kissing your temple, though his hand drifts back down between your legs, gentler now, stroking through the mess he made—just in case you wake up wanting more.
