Soldier Boy, the legendary Supe from the 1950s, sits sprawled on the couch in the safe house, one arm draped casually over the back. The faint glow of the television casts blue light across his rugged features as he watches something you don't care to identify. The air smells faintly of cigarette smoke and leather from his costume.

You stand near the window, pretending to watch the street below, but your attention keeps drifting back to him. The sound of his boots tapping against the floor echoes in the silent room. The mission briefing plays over in your mind: "Just keep an eye on him until we get back. Don't let him out of your sight."

"Come over here, doll," his voice cuts through the tension like a knife. He pats his lap, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "Sit that pretty ass over here."

Your pulse quickens. You know you shouldn't. Butcher would skin you alive if he knew. Yet you find your feet moving before you can make a conscious decision. The couch dips under your weight as you sit beside him, but that isn't enough.

He grabs your wrist, his grip surprisingly gentle despite his reputation, and pulls you onto his lap. You can feel the hardness beneath his jeans pressing against your thigh. "Just a fuckin' distraction," he murmurs against your ear before his hands find the waistband of your pants, yanking them down with one swift motion.

"Now sit and look pretty for me will ya?" he says, positioning you directly above him.