One shot nick folio x ofc
rating: explicit | warnings: smoking kink, fire play
breathplay, power dynamics
a/n: this was a request from a beloved mutual, you know who you are 🖤 as always, this is a work of fiction. I have absolutely no idea what nick folio is like in real life and i doubt very much he's anything like this. Please don't take this as a representation of him as a person.
He looks at her like he's deciding whether to kiss her or argue.
Most of the time he does both.
Tonight is not most of the time.
The apartment was hot in a suffocating way, even though the living room window was open.
The cigarette smoke escaped slowly outside, dissolving into the city lights below, but never fast enough. The smell stayed trapped in the air, heavy, intimate, soaked into the furniture, the clothes, him. Mostly him.
She stood watching Folio from the doorway for a few seconds before saying anything.
He was leaning against the kitchen counter, head tilted slightly back as he took a drag, his fingers holding the cigarette with that irritated calm of someone who had already passed their emotional limit hours ago and was now running on autopilot.
The black t-shirt clung a little to his shoulders, his locked jaw betraying his mood before he even opened his mouth. She loved that. Maybe because there was something profoundly wrong with her too.
Or maybe because him angry was easier to bear than him anything else. Angry had a name. Angry had a ready answer. The rest — what came after, what came in silence, what came in hands that gripped too hard and then loosened — that she didn't know what to do with.
— You look like you want to kill someone — she said, letting her bag drop onto the couch.
Folio exhaled smoke slowly through his nose before looking at her. His gaze took its time, dropped down her body slowly, without any shame, before returning to her face.
The rough voice sent heat rising straight through her stomach.
B smiled as she walked toward the kitchen without hurrying, feeling his eyes follow every step. That always happened when he was like this, quieter, more irritated, dangerously close to losing his patience. Folio was never emotionally expansive. Never said much. Everything in him happened in the tension of his body, in the contained brutality, in the hands that gripped too hard, in the way he looked at her as if he were constantly trying to decide whether he wanted to kiss her or argue.
Most of the time he ended up doing both.
She stopped between his legs.
Close enough to smell the nicotine on his t-shirt, close enough to notice he was still genuinely angry, close enough to feel the old impulse to step back two paces and invent some joke to cut the air.
She ignored it. Staying close had a cost. Staying close always had a cost, and that was exactly why she stayed, like someone pressing a bruise to see if it still hurt.
Her fingers slid slowly along his tattooed forearm. The muscle tensed immediately beneath her touch.
Folio took another drag without taking his eyes off her.
That only made it worse, because B particularly liked when he said that in a tone that clearly meant: I'm already at the edge.
She tilted her head slowly.
The silence came down heavily right away.
Folio watched her for a few seconds too long, as if he were evaluating something.
Then his hand slid to her waist, gripping firm. It wasn't affection, it was control. The kind of touch that made her body react before her head could catch up.
— You do this because you know I have no patience for your mouth.
B felt her heart accelerate.
— Maybe I like when you lose your patience.
In his breathing going heavier. In his jaw locking again. In the way his fingers tightened slowly on her waist.
And in one more thing, just one, so fast that maybe no one would notice: his eyes closed for an instant, as if that sentence had hit a place he hadn't expected to expose. When they opened again, they were darker. More closed off. As if he had just locked a door inside himself.
Folio tilted his head slightly to the side, watching her as if he were genuinely annoyed by the effect she had on him.
— You like to play until someone gets hurt.
— And you like to act like you're dangerous.
His eyes darkened immediately.
That was exactly where she liked to push, that specific point where irritation started turning into desire.
And she knew, in some corner she didn't admit to, that it was also the safest place to push. Because as long as it was desire, it was familiar territory. It was body, it was skin. Not the other thing, not the name she didn't say.
Folio held the cigarette between his teeth for a moment before pulling her in, making her lose her balance between his legs.
The air escaped her lungs in a surprised laugh.
The line came out low, without raising his voice, and it was worse for that.
B felt heat rise all the way up the back of her neck.
Because he was still holding her that firm, dominant way, his legs open and keeping her there between them while the smoke rose slowly between them both.
Instead, she brought her face close to his slowly.
His gaze dropped to her mouth immediately.
Folio took a deep drag. She watched the ember light up near his face, briefly illuminating the mustache, the tension in his jaw, his eyes too tired.
He looked beautiful when he was on the edge of doing something stupid.
— Do you have any idea how much you irritate me? — he asked.
That made him laugh. But it wasn't a light laugh, it was short, dry, almost aggressive. The kind of sound that made her stomach clench with instant desire.
Then his hand rose slowly up her back until it caught at her nape, circling her throat until he was holding her as if he were ready to choke her.
B felt her whole body shiver and the sound that escaped her throat was an involuntary reflex.
And with it she felt the urge to leave. Not to leave him, but to leave that. That specific closeness, that grip that was care disguised as dominance, that hand that knew exactly where to hold her to make her lose the ground beneath her feet. It was too soon to feel this much. It was always too soon. She planted her feet on the kitchen floor and stayed. Didn't run. No one would ever know the weight of that small choice, and that was for the best.
Because Folio never did anything halfway.
Even holding her, there was something possessive, controlling, as if he needed to feel that she was still there.
— You never stop provoking me for even a second, do you?
She held his gaze. Challenging, always challenging. That was maybe her toxic trait.
His hand tightened on her throat again, not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to pull out another sound from her, even less restrained this time.
His eyes dropped to the immediate effect on her body, and something shifted in his expression.
That small, arrogant recognition of someone who realizes exactly what power they hold.
— Oh — he murmured, low — So that's it.
B hated how much that turned her on.
The way he noticed everything, the way he turned colder when he understood he had control of the situation.
Folio moved the cigarette slowly away from his own mouth, his eyes still fixed on her.
Then he brought the ember slowly toward the space between her breasts without touching, just close enough for her to feel the heat coming through the neckline of her top.
The air caught in her lungs instantly.
The low laugh that escaped him was almost cruel.
She closed her eyes for a second, but it was enough for her to realize that what had tightened inside her wasn't fear of the ember. It was fear of him knowing. Of him knowing her that much, that fast, with that little effort. It was fear of being read, because being read was being reached, and being reached was the door she spent her life keeping shut. The ember was the excuse. The rest was what mattered, and the rest was what she was never going to say out loud, not under any circumstances.
When she opened them again, Folio was watching her with a dangerously dark expression, as if he were genuinely annoyed that she liked it.
— You get turned on by threats now?
B slowly dragged her tongue across her lower lip.
That finished off what little patience he had left.
Folio rose so fast she barely had time to react before she was pinned against the counter, the impact pulling a sharp breath from her.
His hand still gripping her throat firmly while the other stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray beside them without any hurry at all.
And it was there, in that small gesture, in that hand that stopped to stub it out carefully instead of just tossing it away, that she knew — without wanting to know — that he had decided to give her his full attention now. Folio didn't stub out cigarettes mid-anything. Folio smoked until the filter burned on its own. Stubbing it out was a declaration. And she hated — genuinely hated — how much that undid her. It was easier when he was just rough. When he had gestures, it was worse. Gestures didn't fit inside anger. Gestures gave things away.
B felt his chest against her back, his heavy breathing near her ear, the heat of his body wrapping around her entirely.
And then the slap — sharp, heavy, stinging and burning the skin.
The sound echoed through the kitchen.
She gasped immediately, with the absolute certainty that the imprint of five fingers was stamped on her.
Folio tilted his head until his mouth almost touched her skin, while his hand slipped inside her underwear.
— Answer when I'm talking to you.
The low tone was worse than if he had shouted. Because there was something profoundly controlled in him, a contained aggression, as if he were constantly holding too many things inside his chest and it leaked out that way: in touch, in control, in tension.
He preferred to seem cruel over seeming anything else. It was the same language, translated into the idiom that fit in his mouth. And she — who also couldn't say what she felt without sharpening it first — understood every syllable without needing a translation. That was the problem with the two of them. They could read each other.
B turned her face slightly, enough to see him over her shoulder.
The mustache. The dark eyes. The tired, irritated expression.
She wanted to make it worse.
Wanted to see how far he would go.
— What if I don't answer?
Folio grabbed her jaw immediately.
Forcing her to turn her head and look directly at him.
And there, in that second when he forced her to hold his gaze, she saw it. The crack. His fingers pressing her jaw one millimeter too hard before adjusting, before loosening, before going back to being just dominance. It was fast, it was an instant. It was him feeling something too large and smothering it before it leaked onto his face. No one else would have seen it. She saw it. And she wished she hadn't, because now she was going to have to carry that along with everything else, now she was going to have to know that he felt it too, and knowing was worse than any ember, any slap, any hand at her throat.
— Don't play with me tonight.
The rough voice slid across her skin worse than any touch.
Because it was exactly that, not the threat, not even the sex. It was the way Folio seemed dangerously close to losing control while still trying to maintain some.
It was all of him there, without the smoke screen for the first time that night, and all of her there, without the armor of a joke, and neither of them was going to call it by its name. They'd call it anger. Desire. Provocation. Anything else that could fit in both their mouths without hurting.
The truth would stay where it always stayed: between the lines, in the grip that loosened, in the cigarette stubbed out with care, in her jaw held one millimeter too hard.
That was how they loved each other.
It was the only language they knew how to speak.
It was in that silence that he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It couldn't be — not in him, not there, not after all of that building between them since the doorway. His mouth met hers with the same authority as the hand on her jaw, and B felt the mustache graze her, tasted tobacco, felt the heat of someone who had been smoking all night. It was the kind of kiss that didn't ask permission. The kind that said I've already decided, and she only had to choose whether to follow.
His hand loosened on her jaw only to drop to her nape again, and B felt her whole body respond before any thought could — in that way that was only with him, in that way she hated admitting. It wasn't a choice. It was a reaction. It was a button somewhere deep in her that only he had learned to press.
Folio bit her lip when he pulled back. Not gently.
— I didn't ask for your opinion.
And he hadn't. The hand at her nape became direction, and he pushed her ahead of him through the kitchen, through the hallway, without letting go, without stopping the breathing that was too close. B laughed quietly on purpose, because laughing was armor, and armor was still necessary, even now, even wanting this so much, even with every step aching with anticipation.
In the hallway she almost stopped. A second, a small stumble that no one would notice — only her, and maybe him.
The old impulse offering an exit again: make a joke, break the mood, get out of this before you feel too much. She kept walking. It was the thousandth time that night she chose to stay, and each one cost the same.
In the bedroom, he turned her toward him and pulled her shirt off with the same lack of ceremony with which he did everything else. Cold hands. Always cold. In contrast with the heat of the room, his body, what was burning between them.
— Look at me — he said, low.
And that was the hardest part of the entire night.
Because looking at him like that, up close, without a cigarette, without distance, with his eyes entirely on her, it was throwing open the door she spent her life keeping locked. Folio noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything in her.
— There she is — he murmured, with that low arrogance that was almost tenderness in his mouth — No big mouth now. Look at that.
His hand still at her nape with that familiar weight. But this time he didn't pull. He pushed. Downward, slowly, with a pressure that didn't ask — it informed.
B felt the air shift between them.
She could have laughed. Could have come back with some cutting joke, some provocation in the tone of who do you think you are. She had an entire repertoire of escapes for exactly this kind of moment, and her instinct lit up all at once, offering every single one.
She didn't use any of them.
Slowly, holding his gaze the entire time. Because if she was going to go, she was going to go her way, with her head held up, with her eyes open, making him a willing accomplice in his own surrender. Folio followed her with his gaze, and she saw the change in his face — saw his jaw lock, saw his breathing fall apart in a way he couldn't hide.
Her fingers found the waistband of his pants.
It was small. Almost nothing. But B caught it, because it was her down there now, with the control of the pace in her hands, and any reaction of his became precious information. He was nervous. Folio. Nervous. The man who had nearly brought a lit cigarette to the middle of her chest ten minutes ago was now holding his breath because she had her fingers at his waistband.
She took her time on purpose.
Unbuttoned slowly. Pulled slowly. And when what was left of his clothes was out of the way, B looked up at him before anything else — and that look, the look first, was more intimate than everything that came after.
What she saw made her breathe in once, deeply.
It wasn't a pose. It was a genuine reaction, the kind that escapes before the mind can organize itself, and she hated that it had escaped and loved it at the same time, because the small smile that appeared at the corner of his mouth was the most arrogant thing she had ever seen from him.
— What? — he said, low, in that rough voice of someone who knew very well what it had been.
— No, seriously. What was that, B?
He laughed — short, breathless — and she hated that too, because it was the most beautiful laugh he'd given all night and it was at her expense.
— You know what to do — he said, and it wasn't a question.
B held his gaze one more second.
Just so he'd know, just so he'd remember afterward, that she had chosen, that nobody had told her to do anything, that she had wanted to, that his control was an illusion fed by her own complicity.
What happened after he would remember in flashes, not in narrative. Because B did it her way — with that cruel patience, that calculated rhythm, holding his gaze every time he tried to close his eyes to get some relief. And he tried to close his eyes. She had been watching his mouth lock, his hand grip his own thigh, the other rise to his own hair and pull back. Folio had never had such trouble knowing what to do with his hands, and she catalogued every one of those difficulties as a silent trophy.
His hand eventually dropped to her hair.
He didn't push. Didn't guide. Just closed there with that desperate need to touch something of her, to keep some point of contact, to prove to himself that she was there, that it was real, that he wasn't losing his mind for nothing.
— B... — he said, at some point, his voice in a place she had never heard before.
She didn't answer. Didn't lift her mouth. Just looked up, holding his gaze the way she knew he hated, and his expression crumbled slightly — just enough for her to see that he had understood she was in charge of this part, and that being in charge was the thing she had come to learn from him that night.
He held on for as long as he could. And it wasn't long.
When he pulled her up it was rough, without warning, with that offended urgency of someone who was going to go over the edge if she kept going. B let it happen. She was pulled up. Rose to his mouth again, and he kissed her with a hunger that was almost gratitude, the closest thing to gratitude that Folio was capable of, translated into a bite on her lower lip and a hand closing with force around her throat.
The rest happened in that specific urgency of theirs. That thing that was half anger half hunger, the only language in which the two of them knew how to ask for each other. He pushed her onto the bed face away from him again, because that was how he preferred it, because facing each other was too much information for them both, because from behind it was easier to pretend it was just bodies. B knew that. He knew she knew. It was a silent pact. It was shared cowardice, and there was something beautiful in being cowards together.
His hand found the back of her head, pressing her against the mattress with enough weight to be an order and light enough to be care disguised as an order. The other dropped to her hip, possessive. B closed her eyes. She couldn't not close them.
What came after was dense, was hot, was the urgency of two people who had spent the entire night avoiding saying what they were now saying without any words at all. Folio took what he wanted the way he wanted it, without ceremony, without asking, with that controlled arrogance that was his way of caring. And the entire contradiction of him was there: his mouth saying mine, that's what you wanted, shut up now, and his hands telling another story. His hands read her body. They loosened when they needed to loosen. Gripped harder when she gasped in a way that asked for it. Every time she arched, his hand was there to meet her, and he would never admit he was paying that kind of attention, but he was. His hands were his truth. His mouth was the disguise.
B felt, at some point, his hand rise along the front of her throat. She remembered. Slowly, he waited — because even angry, even selfish, even the way he was, he waited for that second. She brought her own hand to his and closed his fingers around her own throat. This. Without saying it.
He understood. Tightened just enough. Never the air, never really, just the weight, just the frame, just the feeling of being held by him. And it was there, with his hand there, with his body covering hers, with his rough breathing near her ear, the mustache grazing the side of her face, it was there that B finally let go.
It wasn't orgasm. It was before that. It was her stopping pretending, for one whole second, that this was just bodies.
Her eyes burned. She didn't cry — she didn't cry, she didn't give anyone that luxury — but something rose to the edge and stopped there, trembling. What came after was without words. It was body, it was breathing, it was the two of them going where they needed to go the only way they knew how to go together, through the anger that wasn't anger, through the urgency that was fear in disguise, through the surrender that each of them pretended was just sex.
When it was over, B had her face buried in the sheets and Folio had collapsed across her back, full weight, breathing unraveled, completely soaked in sweat, not moving.
For a while neither of them spoke.
The window was still open somewhere in the apartment. The smoke from the earlier cigarettes had disappeared. All that remained was the smell of him on her skin — tobacco, sweat, something that was only his and that she was going to carry until the shower, and was going to hate carrying, and was going to love carrying, because that was how it worked between them.
Folio rolled to the side eventually. Reached for the nightstand, pulled out the pack, took a cigarette between his teeth, lit it.
The ember rose in the dark.
She waited. She thought silence would come, the way it always came. She thought he would smoke staring at the ceiling and she would pretend to sleep and the two of them would pretend the night had been just another one.
Instead, without looking at her, he stretched out his free arm and pulled her against his chest.
Rough. Brief. Like someone who didn't want to admit they had done it.
B rested her head there and said nothing. He said nothing. The ember of the cigarette rose and fell in the dark, and his hand stayed resting on her back, heavy, possessive, without tenderness, without any declared affection.
And there, for both of them, was everything that could be said without using the word that neither of them knew how to pronounce.
Later — they didn't know how much later — they ended up in the living room.
There was no conscious decision. It was thirst, it was restlessness, it was B getting up from the bed with that crooked smile that Folio had already learned to dread, going to the living room wearing only his t-shirt, and him following because of course he was going to follow. He always did. It was one of the truths about the two of them that neither admitted: he followed.
She threw herself onto the couch with that calculated carelessness of someone who knows they're being watched. Legs folded beneath her, hair disheveled, makeup running down her face, his t-shirt falling off one shoulder. Folio stood in the living room doorway for a second, watching, with the same tired and irritated expression as always, and beneath it, something he wasn't going to name. Something close to you are my ruin and something close to how much I want you again.
Both meanings of the same sentence, in his mouth.
— Already tired? — she provoked, when he stood in the doorway too long.
She laughed — that short, shameless laugh that was her whole armor. Folio went to the couch, sat at the other end with a calm that was more threat than rest, and lit a new cigarette. The ember rose in the dark of the living room. He took a drag looking straight ahead, not at her, and B hated how much that affected her — him not looking was worse than him looking. It was the kind of thing that made her want to make noise until she forced his gaze.
She stood up. Walked toward him, slowly. Took off the t-shirt — the only thing she had on — and dropped it on the floor between them, with the same carelessness with which she had thrown herself onto the couch minutes before.
Folio looked. Took his time. Took another drag.
— Sit down, B— he said, without looking at her face.
She didn't sit. She tilted her head. That I'm going to see how far this goes that was the definition of her.
Folio rose so fast she barely had time to laugh. His hand found her arm, turned her, and pushed her to her knees on the couch with her hands on the backrest, entirely exposed, entirely his, the red marks from the earlier slaps still visible on her skin.
And then came another one.
B gasped, not from pain, and they both knew it, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw what she had come looking for: him with his hand still in the air, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and the outline of his five fingers now marked in red on her skin. Symmetrical. Possessive. Signed.
— Look at that damage — she provoked, her voice trembling with desire.
— Yes you did — His voice dropped — You just don't like admitting what you ask for.
That landed too close. B opened her mouth to hit back and couldn't, because he was right, because he was always right in that unbearable way of his, and because she hated how much being read by him was the one thing that had no defense.
Folio went back to the other couch. Sat, lay down, took a drag. And then, with the calm of someone who had already decided hours ago:
She went, slowly, stopping in front of him. Folio looked up, holding the cigarette between his fingers, and said, without any ceremony at all:
— I'm not going to ask again, B.
And that — that specific tone, low, with no room for negotiation — made her stomach drop. Because the worst of him was exactly that: when he didn't negotiate. When he simply decided, and her only option was to follow or leave, and leaving was never an option, had never been. She had already lost that war long before the night began.
She climbed on top of him.
Folio did it the way he did everything, with that offended intensity, that angry urgency, as if she had insulted his honor by hesitating and he had something to prove. There was nothing shy in him there. It was the cruelest version of his generosity, if such a thing made any sense. He gave everything. His hands closed on her hips and held her exactly where he wanted her, no room for doubt, no room for choice. And B — who had spent her life not obeying anyone — collapsed forward, hands on the back of the couch, and closed her eyes because keeping them open was too much information.
At some point, without thinking, her hand reached back toward the sideboard. She knew that apartment by heart, knew the pack was there, always was, and the lighter with it. Her fingers found them. She lit a cigarette with a trembling hand, brought it to her lips, took a deep drag, and the whole gesture wasn't a pose, it was her trying to find some ground, something external to hold onto, because the way he was going she was going to come undone too soon if she didn't have an anchor.
The smoke rose above them both, white against the half-light of the living room.
And it was like that — with the cigarette in her mouth and her eyes closed and Folio being Folio beneath her — that B started getting there. It came slowly and it came completely, in that way that only came with him, in that way she would never admit to, and she bit down on the cigarette between her teeth to keep from making too much noise, because making noise was giving herself away, and giving herself away was the door again, and the door was the thing she spent her life keeping locked.
She always gave herself away with him, that was the whole problem.
When her body stopped trembling, Folio slid out from beneath her with the same lack of ceremony as always, and raised his hand.
She took a second to understand. She took the cigarette from her mouth, still breathless, still half out of herself, and handed it over. Folio held her by the hip with his free hand and positioned her with her knees on the couch, all at once, without warning.
Then he brought the cigarette to his mouth.
She watched him take a deep drag, hold the ember between his lips, hold it there — and exhale the smoke through his nose, slowly, in two white lines that dissolved in the air between them. Both his hands were occupied with her — closed, possessive, one on each side, the red marks from the slaps still warm beneath his fingers. He didn't remove the cigarette from his mouth to smoke. He couldn't, didn't want to. Kept it between his lips, drew in through his mouth, exhaled through his nose, and continued.
B turned her head to look at him and almost came just from looking.
It was unfair how sexy it was. The mustache, the ember between his lips, the smoke rising from him in two columns through his nose, his eyes half-closed with desire and exhaustion, his hands firm on her. It was the whole image of what she had come looking for all night, condensed into a single frame.
So she did what she always did.
— Can you actually smoke and fuck me at the same time, Folio?
He didn't answer. Took a drag. Exhaled through his nose. His hands tightened, nails pressing into the soft skin of her hip.
The ember rose. The smoke fell.
— Did you go quiet because of the cigarette, or because I finally shut you up?
The cigarette left his mouth with an offended swiftness, landed in the ashtray on the side table — not stubbed out, left to burn again, the way it had already happened once that night — and both his hands rose along her back and pulled her against his chest with force.
— You don't know how to stay quiet for even a minute.
— I do. I just don't want to.
He tightened his hand around her hair. That grip. That grip.
— You like to test things — he said, low, close to her mouth — One day I'm really going to lose my patience with you.
But she tempted him. Tempting was the definition of her. She kept moving against him, slowly, shameless, and Folio holding the back of her neck with a firmness that was care disguised as dominance.
— You can't even stop for this — she provoked — Not even for me.
— Liar. You'd die before putting that cigarette down.
His hand found her hip. The other went back for the Marlboro, and he leaned over her back — not touching, not yet, just hovering, and she felt the heat of the ember before anything else. A point of heat floating near her skin, too close, and her whole body shivered in a wave she couldn't hide.
— Keep talking — he said, low, near her ear — See what happens.
— Or what? — Her voice came out rough. She turned her head just enough. — Are you going to stub that cigarette out on my back, Folio?
And she felt him stop. Felt the ember hover there, the heat radiating in a small, warm circle just above her skin, close enough to be a promise, far enough to be only that. His breathing had changed.
— Do it — she whispered, and the desire in her voice was wide open now, without any defense at all — If you have the nerve.
The entire room hung suspended at that point of heat.
And then Nick moved his hand away. Brought the cigarette back to his mouth, took one long drag, and B felt the breath leave him like someone setting down a weight. The ember pulled back. The heat left her back and left behind only the shiver, only skin that was too aware of itself, only the warm emptiness of something that had been close and hadn't happened.
— No — he said. His voice rough — You'd enjoy it too much.
And that undid her more than the ember would have. Because he had understood. He knew what she wanted and was denying it on purpose, and that was a thousand times crueler and a thousand times more intimate than giving in.
— I hate you — she said, with no hatred in it at all.
And it wasn't hatred. They both knew it wasn't. It was the closest word either of them could get to the other one, the real one, the one that locked-down Nick and armored B wouldn't say under any circumstances. Hatred was what was left when you took courage out of the equation. And they had very little courage and a great deal of desire and an entire ashtray full of unsaid things.
His hand found her back, and moved down the length of her spine with a slowness that was pure possession, marking territory he already considered his. The other hand brought the cigarette to his mouth, one last long drag, and then he leaned down and stubbed the ember out right in the middle of her spine. Slowly. Turning the filter until the last spark died — the shape of a threat that was no longer a threat at all, it was proof.
It was him saying, with that passing between her shoulder blades, for anyone else it would have been nothing, but she knew his vocabulary, and that was him saying you have my full attention now, the only way he knew how to say it.
And what remained of the cigarette was the brown stub, harmless, no ember, nothing — and even so B felt her stomach clench just from looking at it. Because she knew what that filter meant in the history between them. Knew what it had been in the bedroom, earlier. Knew the entire vocabulary of that goddamn cigarette.
Folio noticed her looking at it. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything in her.
And he smiled, for the first time all night, a real smile, and it was a bastard of a smile. The smile of someone who understood the exact opportunity before the other person did.
Folio dragged the warm filter slowly down her spine, and B felt the orgasm rise from nowhere, no warning, no build-up, just came because her mind had decided that this was the most erotic thing that had ever happened to her and her body was simply obeying.
Folio held his breath. B felt his chest rise and stop, felt his hands grip her waist harder, felt him registering it with the precision of someone who was never going to forget. The filter fell to the floor at some point. Neither of them saw it.
— Holy. Fucking. Hell. — he said, low, in her ear, his voice almost laughing in disbelief — You're more of a problem than I thought.
He sat back on the couch and pulled her on top of him, fitting her against him again so he could find his own relief now.
That was when B, still trembling, still breathless, still undone in that way that only he could undo her, raised her hand and slapped him across the face.
Not hard. Just enough to sting. Just enough to make him turn his head slightly and look back at her with an expression she was going to carry for the rest of the week. Surprised, offended, dark, fascinated.
— You — she said, breathless, her voice trembling with desire and whatever that other thing was that she wasn't going to name — just created a monster, Folio.
— Yeah — She brought her face close to his, too close, shameless, owning the room — And you'd better be ready for it.
Folio dragged his tongue slowly across the corner of his mouth, where the slap had landed. Drew a breath in through his nose. His hands rose to her face, and he tilted his head with that same tired calm as always — which now carried something new in it, something close to respect, something close to acceptance, something close to you won that one, you disaster.
— I can handle it — he said, low — But you're going to pay for that slap.
He sat back on the couch and without any ceremony — one hand, one movement, done. He didn't ask. He didn't need to. It was his entire language condensed into a single gesture: stay here, the way I want, because I decided.
Because when he was like this — no game, no pose, just necessity barely disguised as anger — it was impossible not to stay. It was the version of him she couldn't pretend she didn't want.
He held the back of her neck and pulled her closer, his mouth coming near her ear with his breathing already heavy.
— Now stop provoking me — he said, low — And stay quiet.
She didn't stay quiet. Of course she didn't. But she stopped talking, which was the most generous concession B was capable of making, and she moved against him in the way she knew destroyed what was left of his control. Folio held his breath through his nose. The hand at her nape tightened. The other went to her hip and anchored there, setting the rhythm he wanted, that heavy, impatient rhythm that was the most honest version of him.
B held onto his shoulders and stayed, because the alternative was coming undone, and coming undone in front of him was the one thing that still scared her.
When he got close she felt it before any signal — she knew the entire vocabulary of his body by now, every shift in breathing, every tension of muscle. His hand on her hip gripped too hard for a second.
And then he pulled her back just enough.
Not far. Never far. His hand closing firm around his cock as he came, spilling his cum over her skin, over both their skin, without any clear border between them, possessive until the very end, his whole signature.
Folio stayed with his forehead against her shoulder, his breathing coming apart, both hands still holding her as if letting go meant admitting something he wasn't ready to admit.
B didn't move. She held his weight. Felt his heart fall out of rhythm beneath her chest.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were heavy, his expression in that bare place she only ever saw in him after, never before, never during.
He looked at her for a second too long.
Folio closed his eyes. Let his head fall back against the couch cushion. But the corner of his mouth moved, just a little, just for a second, and B saw it, and he knew she had seen it, and neither of them said a word about it.
It was the closest thing to surrender that Folio was ever going to give.
And for both of them, it was enough.
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