Archive of Our Own

Dumpster diving wasn’t supposed to be a metaphor for Lucy’s life, but here she was: sort of sober, arm-deep in trash, and still mad about everything that happened last night.

Like most of her bad decisions, it had started with too many drinks at the Blue Moon.

Mi-an and Elsie had dragged her out for “one quick round,” which turned into shots, which turned into her losing track of time, sense, and most of her dignity. The last thing she remembered from the bar was Pen, looking like the human embodiment of an ego problem, running his mouth about justice, biceps, and how Sandrock would collapse without him.

Lucy hated how much she noticed. Hated how his ridiculous grin and broad shoulders wormed their way under her skin. How every joke he cracked made her want to throttle him. Or climb him.

Fuck.

She didn’t want to want him. He was the most infuriating man in Sandrock. Self-obsessed, loud, absurd. He never missed a chance to flex a bicep or call her “Skinny” with that maddening, knowing little grin. She’d spent months trying to hate him hard enough to exorcise the problem. Late nights with her hand between her thighs, muttering curses into her pillow, determined to just get it out of her system.

It never worked.

Lucy could out-build, out-fight, and out-logic anyone in Sandrock, but she couldn’t out-stubborn her own hormones. Worse, all that simmering, hateful lust had finally boiled over last night.

All it took was whiskey, Pen in that stupid hero suit, and the universe having a sense of humor. Next thing she knew, she’d somehow ended up outside, stumbling toward the oasis instead of home, muttering about his thighs like they owed her gols.

And the universe delivered. Pen had been there (of course he had), probably practicing his Protector Pose™ in the moonlight, all chest and cape and infuriating charm. He’d opened his mouth to say something insufferable about “damsels” or “justice.”

So Lucy had done the only logical thing she could, and grabbed him by the suit, kissing him so hard that she could still feel it in her jaw.

It was supposed to shut him up. Instead, it woke up something wild.

His hands found her hips, hers found his zipper, and the rest got blurry, hot, and reckless. She could still feel the sting of his teeth at her jaw, the rough laugh in his throat, the way his body pressed into hers, big and hot and there.

If Unsuur hadn’t shown up on patrol, she might have finished what she started. Right there, in the moonlight, with Pen’s cape halfway off and her own self-respect circling the drain.

Instead, she bolted.

Ran all the way home. Skin tingling, nerves on fire, heart pounding so hard she thought it would bruise her ribs.

Now, the regret was an ache in her chest. Not just for doing it, but for not doing more. For leaving herself half-crazy and even more obsessed.

And then, as if karma wasn’t done, she woke up to find her work journal missing.

The only copy of her blueprints, commission notes, and the next month’s project schedule was gone. No love confessions, no embarrassing sketches of Pen’s ass (thank the Light), just her entire life as a builder. Every plan. Every carefully cultivated connection.

Every step toward something bigger than this desert town.

After a panicked search, she retraced her steps to the Blue Moon. Still in last night's pants, hair a disaster, barely holding it together.

Owen was behind the bar, wiping down glasses with that easy, reliable competence he always had. Established. Well-liked. Exactly the kind of ally she'd need when she eventually ran for mayor. She'd been considering him as a potential romantic partner. Not out of any real interest, but because a relationship with him would be strategically sound.

Sandrock was too small for casual dating. Every relationship had to count.

She approached the bar, heart pounding. "Owen, hey. Did you happen to see my journal? The work one? I think I might have left it here last night."

He looked up, genuinely sympathetic. "Oh man, Lucy. I haven't seen it. Let me check the bar area." He crouched down, scanning the floor behind the counter. Came up empty. "Nothing here. Sorry."

Her stomach dropped. Six months of documentation. Gone.

Owen straightened, looking apologetic. "I think the trash went out early this morning. If it fell somewhere..." He gestured vaguely toward the back alley, clearly not wanting to say it.

Of course. Of fucking course. Because why would anything in her life be easy? She'd been so careful, so meticulous about keeping that journal safe, and now it was gone because Owen's bar staff couldn't be bothered to check for personal items before hauling out the garbage—

She caught herself. Smiled. Sweet and understanding.

"Oh, that's okay! Not your fault at all." Her voice was warm, grateful even. "You run such a great establishment, Owen. I know how busy you get. I really appreciate you checking."

The irritation simmered beneath the words, carefully locked down. This was how it worked. This was how you built the relationships that mattered. You swallowed the anger and you smiled and you made them like you.

Owen looked relieved. "I can help you look if you want? After the morning rush?"

"You're so sweet, but I couldn't ask you to do that." She touched his arm lightly, let her hand linger for just a second. Testing. Planting seeds. "I'll check the alley. Probably just an overreaction anyway."

Future mayor's husband material, she reminded herself as she headed for the back door. Steady. Dependable. Boring as hell, but that wasn't the point.

And that was how she found herself, still a little drunk, standing in front of a dumpster before breakfast.

This was not in the workshop safety manual. Maybe it should be.

The alley behind the Blue Moon reeked of stale beer and last night’s bad choices. She’d eyed the side hatch, muttered something profane, and forced it open with her shoulder.

Of course it was fucking rusted. Why would anything in her life cooperate today?

She’d managed to wedge herself in, boots slipping on an old crate, reaching deeper and deeper through piles of sticky menus and lost cutlery, trying not to imagine what was squishing beneath her hands.

The universe, naturally, waited until she’d found something that might actually be her journal before the crate betrayed her with a loud, traitorous crack.

Now she was half-in, half-out, the hatch biting into her hips, her ass hanging out in the alley like a gift to every passing idiot. Her pants were snagged tight on the rim, and every time she tried to back out, she felt the fabric start to give.

Because humiliation is best served with a side of public nudity.

Bracing her boots against the dumpster wall, she tried to wriggle free. The hatch just clamped down harder. If anyone saw her like this, she’d have to move to Portia. Or maybe just change her name and live among the yakmel.

She couldn’t even see the alley; just a strip of sunlight at her hip and a sinking sense that this was how she died.

There was no way she was calling for help.

She’d survived Geegler attacks, murderous robots, and multiple sandstorms that always generated more work. Hell, five months ago, she'd distracted a white-haired bandit on a train with the oldest trick in the book and somehow walked away the hero.

And for what?

Top of her class at the Builder Academy. She should have been in Atara or Vega 5 or anywhere important in the Free Cities right now, making real connections, building things that mattered.

Instead, she got Sandrock. Middle of fucking nowhere.

Gaudi had made sure of that.

One word from the notorious builder, and her prestigious placement vanished. Buried her in the desert where she "couldn't cause trouble.” Just one more petty cruelty after everything else he'd already taken from her family.

Six months now. Six months playing the humble, grateful Builder while rage simmered under every smile. But Gaudi wasn't watching anymore. That was his mistake. Out here, she could build power he'd never see coming.

And she'd nearly thrown it all away for one night of whiskey and bad decisions.

So when the footsteps started echoing down the alley, Lucy went perfectly still.

No. No, no, no. Anyone but—

A shadow blocked the light filtering in, then a clatter as someone crouched right by the dumpster hatch. She turned to look over her shoulder just as a face popped into the small open space next to her hips.

Smug. Square-jawed. The last person she wanted to see.

Pen.

Shit. Of all the people in Sandrock who could have discovered her like this, it had to be him. Her carefully cultivated reputation as the competent, unflappable Builder was about to take a nosedive, and with it, all the respect she'd worked so hard to build.

“Skinny? Is that you?” His grin was dazzling. Absolutely criminal. “I should have known! After all, these exceptional eyes of mine can identify any citizen of Sandrock from any angle.” His gaze dipped down. “Though I must say, this particular angle is quite memorable. Didn't know dumpster diving was part of your training regimen. Ambitious! I suppose everyone needs creative ways to try reaching my level of fitness.”

Lucy shut her eyes. If she couldn’t see him, maybe he’d disappear.

"You know, Skinny, I'm always telling people to think outside the box, but this?" He folded his hands across the hatch entrance's rim, grinning like he'd just discovered buried treasure. "This is thinking outside the trash bin. Should I alert the Civil Corps to add 'dumpster extraction' to their training exercises? You've certainly set the bar high. Or low, depending on how you look at it."

“Pen,” she managed. “Please. Go away.”

He tsked, mock-affronted. “Abandon Sandrock's most promising builder in her darkest hour? Not a chance! I'm pretty sure that's against the hero's code. Right next to 'never skip leg day' and 'never let a fellow citizen suffer unsupervised degradation.’”

Lucy tried to shift, boots scraping, but the hatch dug in harder. Her pants made a sound she’d never heard pants make before. A clear warning that if she continued, they weren’t going to last much longer.

Pen’s eyebrows went up. “Careful there! That's some serious resistance you're dealing with. If your pants give up the fight, I can't guarantee your modesty will survive. Well, I could guarantee it with my formidable restraint, but honestly? Where's the fun in that?"

She bit down a scream and tried to wriggle back unsuccessfully. She was going to kill him.

He grinned even wider, as if the universe had delivered him the best possible gift, wrapped in denim. “Need a hand? Or two? I could bench press you out of there if you ask nicely. Maybe throw in a compliment about my biceps."

Lucy glared daggers at him. “If you touch me, I swear I’ll—”

He tilted his head, tone shifting to mock sympathy. "Come now, Skinny, you're in no position to issue threats. Literally. I'd say you're caught between a rock and a—" he paused, surveying her situation with obvious delight, "—well, a Blue Moon dumpster."

Her entire face burned. “Just open the hatch. And don’t look at my… just open it.”

Pen gave a chivalrous little salute. “Anything for Sandrock’s finest. And for the record, those glutes really do deserve more appreciation.”

“Fuck off,” she groaned.

He stood, disappearing out of view, though she could catch glimpses of his stupidly large thighs. “Alright, brace yourself, Skinny. On three. Oh, and try not to be too overwhelmed by the sheer excellence you're about to experience.”

Lucy dug her fingers into the rust-bitten lip of the dumpster, jaw locked tight. She didn't trust him to count right, let alone extract her with anything resembling dignity.

"One..."

The metal around her hips creaked, shifting with a long, reluctant groan, like even the dumpster knew how bad this was.

"Two..."

Something squelched wet beneath her palm. She didn't look.

"Three—"

The hatch gave suddenly with a screeching wrench, and for a breathless second, she felt herself shift forward—freedom within reach.

Then it clamped again, tighter this time, right across her hips.

RRRRRRRRRIP.

The sound echoed like a death sentence.

Lucy went still. So did the world.

Cool air licked across the backs of her thighs. Bare skin, suddenly, unmistakably exposed.

She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her fingers clenched around rusted metal like it might anchor her to reality.

"Oh."

Pen's voice. Quiet. Surprised.

And that was worse.

Because he saw. He fucking saw.

Her pants were gone. Split wide open. Her ass hanging out over the alley, underwear twisted and useless. She was bent over, stuck in a dumpster, and he was standing there, seeing everything.

Mortification hit like a punch to the gut. Her stomach flipped. Her ears rang. Blood surged so violently into her face that she thought she might black out.

"Oh fuck," she croaked into the dumpster wall.

Behind her, she heard him take a breath. Not his usual exaggerated inhale, but something sharper. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its polish.

"Wow. Okay. We have a situation here." A pause, then that familiar showman’s quality crept back in. "That was a full-blown fabric integrity collapse. Catastrophic. Historic even. Your pants gave their lives today in service of the greater good."

"Shut your mouth," she snapped.

"Is that any way to speak to your savior, Skinny?" he asked, and she could practically hear the smirk returning. "Lucky for you, I've got rescue training. If this were a search and rear-covery mission? You'd already be safe and sound."

She squeezed her eyes shut and wished for the sweet release of death.

"I hate you," she hissed.

"You keep saying that," Pen said, insufferably pleased with himself. "But here we are, sharing a beautiful, emotionally charged moment. You, me, and your incredibly brave posterior making its public debut. Some might call this fate."

She didn't respond. Couldn't. Her entire brain was static and rage.

Pen let the silence stretch, then sighed like this was somehow a burden for him. "Alright, hold still. The mighty Pen is coming in. Try not to swoon too much, lest you faint and make my job harder. Although on second thought, I do relish a challenge. Swoon away."

"Don't you fucking—"

Too late. She heard the shift of gravel, the rustle of fabric, and then his hands were sliding through the gaps on either side of her into the dumpster. They were warm and solid, one braced just below her ribs while the other found her side, fingers skimming straight across her shirt fabric.

She flinched. Hard.

"Relax," he said, like he wasn't actively making everything worse. "Just got to get the angle right. Rescue 101."

"Pen—"

He lifted, creating a shift that made the hatch give a little. His palm slid lower.

That’s when she felt his thumb grazing just above her hipbone. Casual. Unbothered. Directly on skin where her pants had split wide open.

Lucy's breath caught.

She wasn't wearing anything that could even pretend to be practical, just a tiny pair of lace underwear she'd thrown on because laundry day hadn't happened yet. Thin enough to be useless and flimsy enough to ride up the second she moved. One more shift and he'd be holding bare skin in his hands, lace or not.

A fresh wave of mortification crashed over her, but this one landed wrong. Or too right.

Lucy was someone who was accustomed to being praised and admired, always in control. This entire town practically bowed at her feet, and she humbly accepted it. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy their reverence— she did. But not because of some grand ego she possessed, like Pen. No, she was working toward something bigger than herself. And every kind word, every good deed, just helped lay the foundation to the life she planned to build.

But this? Being stuck, exposed, and utterly helpless while he, of all people, saw everything?

The contrast to her everyday life was almost…intoxicating.

Her face burned and her stomach twisted, but her body was already betraying her.

Peach help her, she was wet.

Pen shifted again, his thigh brushing the back of her leg while his other hand slid lower, steadying her with skin-on-skin contact that felt confident and unthinking.

She made a noise. Small, sharp, not quite a gasp.

He froze, just for a second.

Then his voice snapped back into place, bright and bulletproof. "Whoa there, Skinny! That sounded like the cry of a damsel in distress—which, lucky for you, is exactly what the great Protector of Sandrock specializes in!"

"I'm fine," she snapped, hating how breathless she sounded. "Just get me out of here."

"Fine? That little sound you just made was definitely not fine. That was the sound of someone experiencing some kind of... sensation. Physical distress, perhaps? Or maybe you're just overwhelmed by my incredible strength and—"

"I said I'm fine!" The defensiveness in her voice was too biting, too quick. Even she could hear it.

Lucy stared into the wall of the dumpster, trying not to breathe, move, or exist. Her whole body betrayed her: pulse pounding, clit throbbing, shame coiling tight in her gut while something hotter burned beneath the horror.

She didn't just hate that he could see her like this.

She wanted him to.

And that was the worst part of all.

"Right! Well, obviously you're just experiencing the natural awe that comes from witnessing true heroism up close." His voice had that familiar swagger cranked up to eleven. "Lucky for you, someone as magnanimous as I am doesn't abandon a rescue mission just because my dazzling presence overwhelms the victim."

If she weren't so mortifyingly aroused, she'd probably find a way to kill him with rusty dumpster parts.

He shifted his grip, and she could practically hear him puffing out his chest. "Prepare yourself, Skinny, for a rescue so flawless, so expertly executed, that musicians will sing songs about it for generations!"

His hands found new purchase on her sides, thumbs pressing into her lower back with what felt like deliberate intent. The hatch gave a promising creak. Lucy felt herself start to shift forward—finally, freedom—

He pulled.

The hatch released with a sudden, violent screech of metal. Lucy lurched forward with the momentum, but Pen had been pulling too hard. Off-balance, he stumbled backward.

And Lucy, still half-stuck and flailing, slipped.

Right onto his thigh.

The thick muscle pressed directly against her soaked underwear, right where she was most sensitive, and the contact sent a bolt of sensation straight through her core.

She moaned.

Not a gasp. Not a whimper. A full, throaty, unmistakable moan of pleasure.

The sound hung in the air between them like a confession.

Lucy's eyes went wide in horror. Had she really just—? Oh Light. Oh fuck. She'd actually moaned. Out loud. Where he could hear it.

Her mind immediately shifted into damage control mode, calculating how to salvage this, what excuse she could possibly give, how much of her carefully built reputation was now in ruins.

Behind her, Pen was silent.

Not the pause he usually employed for dramatic effect. This was different. Calculating.

When he finally spoke, his voice still had that familiar pompous quality, but there was something darker threading through it.

"Well, well, well, Skinny." The way he said it made her skin prickle. "That was quite the... revealing sound. See, I do have this effect on people; it's unavoidable, really. The overwhelming attraction to someone of my pulchritudinous magnificence."

Lucy's face burned. "Shut up."

"But you've been fighting it so hard, haven't you?" His thumb traced a deliberate circle over her bare skin as his voice dropped to something quieter, more intimate.

Dangerous.

"All that hostility, all those eye rolls... and yet here we are. With you making the prettiest little sounds for me."

Her breath caught.

"Tell me about that needy little kiss by the oasis last night.” She could tell he was smirking just by the sound of his voice. "Because something tells me the great Builder has been having some very unprofessional thoughts about Sandrock's finest specimen for quite some time."

"Fuck you!" she snarled, trying to twist away from his touch.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

She kicked out wildly, her boot catching his shin hard enough to make him grunt. But instead of backing off, he laughed, almost delighted by her violence.

"Not in your wildest, most narcissistic dreams," she snapped.

But her voice shook. Just enough for him to catch it, just enough to strip away what little dignity she had left.

She should have been strategizing. Spinning this into something manageable. Already drafting excuses, planning how to turn the tables, twist this into some harmless joke.

Instead, her mind felt like a set of blueprints left out in a sandstorm. Everything blowing apart, every plan gone to hell.

Months of careful work, years of planning, and this arrogant piece of shit was going to ruin it all because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

She could feel her reputation teetering on the edge, but worse than that was the way her body betrayed her. The way she wanted to push back against his thigh, wanted to feel his body pressed against her again.

And she hated that she liked it.

Then, suddenly, he stepped back. She felt the loss of him instantly—his warmth, his presence, the solid weight of him just out of reach. Cold air rushed in where he'd been.

A small sound escaped her throat. Soft. Embarrassing. Needy.

He heard it. She knew he did.

"I don't take what's not freely and enthusiastically given, Skinny." His voice still carried that grandiose quality, but quieter now, almost conversational. Like they were discussing the weather instead of her complete shame.

"But you know what I think? I think you've been fantasizing about this for months. I think you've been touching yourself thinking about me, and now that it's happening, you're too proud to admit how much you want it."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to something more intimate but still so damn pleased with himself. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to ask me nicely. You're going to beg me to touch you. And maybe—maybe—I'll consider it."

Lucy's entire body went rigid with rage. "You arrogant piece of shit." Her voice was low, deadly. "You think this is some kind of game? You think—" But the words died in her throat because he wasn't entirely wrong, and that made her even angrier. "I don't beg," she spat instead, putting every ounce of venom she could muster behind the words.

"No?" His hand hovered just above her hip, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his palm. "Then I guess we're at an impasse, aren't we?"

The bastard was enjoying this. She could hear it in his voice, that infuriating satisfaction, like he'd just won some game she didn't even know they were playing.

"You're sick," she hissed, and this time there was real bite behind it. Fury at him, at herself, at the whole cursed situation. "You're a fucking psychopath."

"Maybe I am." His thumb brushed against her skin again, that maddening barely-there touch. "But you're the one who moaned when you fell on my thigh, Skinny. You're the one who's soaking wet from being stuck in a dumpster with your ass hanging out." His voice had something hungrier underneath now. "Tell me, does the great Builder always get this worked up from public humiliation, or is it just my overwhelming masculine appeal?"

Heat flooded her face. "Shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

The challenge hung between them. Lucy found herself caught between fury and arousal, between the urge to kick him again and the terrible, shameful need to arch back into his almost-touch.

All she could think about was his hands. How they'd felt on her skin, warm and confident and sure. How much she wanted them back, wanted them everywhere. The emptiness where he'd been touching her felt like a physical ache.

She didn't say please. Didn't beg. But her hips shifted back, just slightly, seeking and inviting.

His hand settled on her lower back. Heavy. Maddeningly high, nowhere near where she needed him. Just resting there, a reminder of how easily he could give her what she wanted. How easily he could refuse.

"Patience, Skinny." His thumb traced a slow circle against her spine. "I'm enjoying the view."

Lucy bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She wouldn't. She fucking wouldn't.

But her body had other ideas. Her hips rolled back again, more deliberate this time, seeking friction that wasn't there.

A low sound escaped him, rough and almost involuntary. His grip on her back tightened. "You're a stubborn thing, Lucy."

Lucy.

Her actual name, not the dismissive nickname he'd been using since she arrived in Sandrock. Said in a voice that had shed its theatrical edge entirely, almost appreciative. The shift sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the morning air.

"Pen." His name broke from her lips before she could stop it. Raw. Desperate. Permission and surrender wrapped in a single word.

He pressed in at last, crowding her from behind as his hand slid up the inside of her thigh, knuckles grazing sensitive skin. Pen yanked her underwear aside, and the cool air hit a moment before his fingers found her.

He didn’t hesitate. Two thick fingers pressed right into her, filling her in a single, firm push that made her cry out. The stretch was dizzying. Her body clutching around him, greedily sucking him in, the ache instantly overwhelmed by how good it felt to finally be touched.

Pen set a rhythm, slow at first, dragging out each thrust. He curled his fingers deep inside, knuckles grinding against her slick heat, searching for the spot that would undo her completely. Each thrust made her hips jolt, her toes curl inside her boots.

She could feel everything: the bite of the metal hatch against her hips, the scrape of the dumpster's edge under her belly, the disgusting alley air on her exposed skin. But nothing compared to the stretch and glide of his fingers working inside her, rough and perfect, claiming her body with every drive.

His other hand slid down from her hip, finding her clit, circling with slow, torturous precision. The jolt was electric. Her body lurched, hips rolling in a helpless answer as a low moan escaped her lips.

She was beyond caring, beyond shame. Her whole world narrowed to the sensation of Pen’s hand fucking her open: fingers dragging out and pressing back in, working tight, coaxing her higher and higher.

Wetness dripped down her thighs, slicking his hand. Proof of how much she needed this; how much she needed him.

He didn’t let up. Every time she clenched around him, his rhythm deepened, firmer, relentless, no mercy. The raw sound of it filled the alley. The pressure inside of her was growing unbearable.

Pen’s voice was a low growl against her back, dark and proud. “Listen to yourself. Filthy little builder, begging to come in the trash.”

She sobbed, hips rocking back with every thrust, chasing the edge. The muscles in her thighs quivered, every nerve lit up and burning. She was right there, so close it hurt, just a heartbeat away—

He stopped.

His fingers slipped free. The emptiness hit so hard she cried out, frantic and guttural, trash crackling under her as she tried to grind back against nothing.

Pen’s hands closed around her waist, holding her steady, making sure she couldn’t move, couldn’t chase the high he’d stolen.

"Think you've earned it, Skinny?" His voice was a sin, laughter and heat and utter control. "I got one word out of you. Now I want more."

Lucy’s vision swam, pleasure and mortification crashing through her. But even as her body quivered, some small part of her stayed sharp. He wanted to see her break, wanted to watch her shatter and beg.

And she hated how much she wanted to give it to him. How the act of surrender, public and debasing, only made her hotter. Hated him for making her need it. Hated herself for wanting it.

But she wasn’t going to hand it over without taking something back.

Fine. She would “beg.” She would make it look good. But every word, every sound would be a weapon, hers to wield, even from her precarious position.

Lucy steadied her voice, forcing down the ragged edge of desperation. This wasn’t begging. This was theater, and she’d been rehearsing her whole life. She softened her tone, let it tremble enough to make his chest puff out.

“Please, Pen,” she whispered, her words hitching. “I can’t… I can’t do this without you. I need you.”

She knew the mask well. The sweet, wholesome Builder, whose only purpose was to work hard and help Sandrock. A mask she wore at fireside meetings, over beers, even when she was bleeding inside from rage. Now she wore it bent over in a dumpster, lace ruined, dignity shredded, feeding it to him with shaking breaths and whispered pleas.

Inside, she seethed. He thought she was his damsel. He thought this begging was truth.

And Peach help her, she wanted it anyway. The ache between her thighs was real, the heat in her gut unbearable. It didn’t matter if she was faking the words — the need was hers, honest and filthy. That was the part she couldn’t forgive herself for.

The things she did to orgasm.

Pen’s hands flexed hard enough to bruise, dragging Lucy back against the edge of the dumpster. Her breath hitched at the possessive grip, nails scraping for purchase on rusted metal. She could hear his breathing, unsteady now.

“You need me?” The way he said it almost gave her pause. Something about his voice sounded different than before. But then, he rolled back into his usual irritating grandstanding. “Of course you do. Who else could handle you? Who else could save you from yourself, from all this,” he grabbed a handful of her ass and squeezed, “except someone as exceptional as me?”

If she’d been capable of laughter, it would have been bitter. Save me? She didn’t believe in saviors. Not anymore. The world had taught her that lesson too well. She made her voice break perfectly as she gasped, “Yes—Pen…I need you.”

It undid him. She could hear it in the way his breath hitched, feel it in the sudden ferocity of his grip on her hip. He had no idea who she really was. No idea this wasn’t just desperation, but calculation.

And she had no idea either. To her, he was a clown in a cape, the town’s loudest nuisance. She didn’t know what it meant that his hands never slipped, that his movements were too precise, that his body was disciplined from more than vanity.

Two predators circling blind, mistaking the other for prey.

Pen shifted behind her, fabric rasping as he shoved his pants down. The sound was rough in the narrow alley, and Lucy’s stomach flipped at the realization of what was coming next.

“Some people in this town don’t know how good they’ve got it; living under my watchful eye, protected from danger, blessed with the sight of my stunning form daily. But you, Skinny? You're about to receive a very personal demonstration of exactly what makes me Sandrock's greatest asset.”

He pulled his cock free and dropped it heavy across her ass, the thick slap echoing in the alley.

Lucy flinched at the impact, shame burning through her as his triumphant laugh followed. “You wanted the full hero experience, and you’re about to get it. Every magnificent inch.”

“Do you ever shut—”

Her words cut off in a gasp as he dragged the broad head of his cock down her seam, smearing her wetness along his length. The blunt pressure caught against her clit before nudging higher, circling her entrance.

Then he pushed.

The stretch hit instantly. Wide, unyielding, forcing her open in aching increments. Lucy gasped, her whole body taut as he sank into her inch by inch.

Each fraction forward made the heat in her gut coil tighter. Too much and not enough, unbearable in both directions. By the time his hips finally pressed flush against her ass, she thought she might break apart from the fullness alone. The stretch radiated through her, as if he’d filled her chest, her lungs, every hollow place inside her.

Lucy’s forehead pressed to the cold metal wall. She tried to breathe. Tried to think. But all she found was sensation.

Then he moved.

He drew back slowly, the thick drag of him pulling against every tender line inside her. The suction of wet heat around him was obscene, loud in the narrow alley, a slick reminder of how far she’d already fallen. And when he pushed back in, her thighs shook hard enough to rattle her boots against the dumpster wall.

From then on, her thoughts came jagged, breaking against one another.

Too good. Too much. She hated him. Wanted him. He was insufferable. He was perfect.

She was fucked.

The shame of it made her throat tighten, her cheeks burn, and still her hips tipped back to meet him like she needed more.

The alley pressed close around them, the smell of trash and sweat heavy in the narrow space. What if someone saw her like this? Bent over, begging, dripping for the very man she mocked in public.

The thought terrified her. It excited her. She hated herself for it. If anyone turned down this alley, if anyone caught them—she would scream. She swore she would scream.

But even as she thought it, her body convulsed when his fingers pressed against her clit, drawing small, ruthless circles. The sound that left her was high and helpless, echoing too loudly against the walls.

He said nothing, and the silence was somehow worse than his boasting. Without his voice filling the air, all she could hear was the wet drag of his cock moving inside her, the slap of his hips, the broken gasps she couldn’t hold back. The noise made it real. The noise made it undeniable.

She was being fucked in a dumpster.

The rusted metal groaned as his pace built by degrees. Every thrust angled deeper, his hips grinding at the end like he could bury himself further if only he tried hard enough. Each drag of him inside her was slow torture, each push forward wringing another broken gasp from her lungs.

Before now, Lucy hadn’t been touched since that day on the train. In the months that followed, she’d buried that part of herself beneath long hours in the workshop, beneath the weight of her real work. Her mission didn’t leave room for softness, for pleasure, for mistakes. She couldn’t get sloppy in a town this small.

Everyone needed to like her if she had any hope of taking control one day.

But her body was starving. Peach, it was starving. And Pen, smug and ridiculous and wrong in every way, was giving her exactly what she'd been denying herself. Stretching her, claiming her, burning through every wall she'd built until there was nothing left but heat.

Don’t, she begged herself. Don’t give him this. Don’t let him see you break. But her hips betrayed her, rolling back to meet him, greedy for every inch. The shame of it only made her wetter, needier, trembling against his hand as it pressed harder against her clit.

“Fuck—” The word tore out of her. She didn’t know if it was a curse or a prayer.

The coil in her belly snapped like overstressed steel. She broke open around him, walls clenching tight, orgasm ripping through her so violently she nearly sobbed. Her vision blurred, her body shook, and still it went on. Wave after brutal wave of release crashing through her until she thought she might come apart entirely.

It was too much. Too long denied, too dangerous to admit she needed. She wasn’t Lucy the Builder, the woman with the plan, the mission, the mask.

She was just Lucy.

And then—

CRACK.

The hatch gave.

The sudden shift sent her forward and then back, Pen’s cock slipping free with a wet, crude pop. She tumbled half out of the dumpster, hair in her face, knees hitting dirt.

For a moment, she could only gasp, still pulsing from aftershocks.

“Skinny,” Pen started, voice already winding up into one of his unbearable declarations, “you should feel honored, few civilians ever get this close to Sandrock’s most—”

Lucy didn’t let him finish.

She surged up before he could finish whatever annoying line he had in mind, grabbing his jaw so hard her nails cut skin. Old training surfaced. Weight, leverage, force. Lucy used his shock to her advantage as she slammed him back against the dumpster with a metallic crack.

She yanked him down into a kiss that was nothing like the doe-eyed theater she’d fed him earlier. It was a punishment, a hunger, a quick and dangerous confession.

For years, she’d been holding it together. Denying herself of every want, focusing on her objective: To get power.

To get revenge.

But now, in the span of one day, she’d allowed herself to risk it all for this arrogant behemoth of a man.

She wanted to kill him. Maybe she would. Maybe she’d want him again in an hour.

Her lips crashed against his, teeth scraping, her body pressed flush as if she could devour him whole. Every ounce of rage and humiliation poured into it, raw and reckless.

When she broke away to breathe, her grip still locked on his jaw, she met his eyes.

And froze.

For the first time since she’d known him, he wasn’t grinning. Not smirking, not preening, not hamming it up for an audience that wasn’t there. His gaze was steady, sharp, and darker than she’d ever seen it.

It hit her low in the gut, that shift.

Because under the cape and the speeches and the unbearable arrogance, there was something else. Something harder. Weightier. Not a clown in a suit. Not the Protector of Sandrock, at least not the way he liked to play it. This was…something she didn’t have a name for. Something that made her heart slam against her ribs in warning, in want.

Her nails dug deeper, testing him, daring him.

Pen didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to break her hold. He just looked at her, jaw tense under her hand, eyes so dark and focused it sent a chill racing down her spine.

Lucy’s breath caught.

She didn’t know what the hell this was—what exactly she’d just uncovered in him—but it wasn’t what she expected.

It wasn’t safe.

And Light help her, it made her want him more.

Her breath came ragged, chest heaving against his. She still had his jaw in a punishing grip, nails biting deep, and for a heartbeat, he let her hold him there. Let her think she had him.

Then Pen moved.

He tore her hand away, not rough enough to hurt but strong enough to remind her exactly what kind of body she’d just picked a fight with. In the same motion, he spun her, slammed her back against the dented steel wall of the dumpster, and stepped in so close she couldn't draw a full breath.

The impact knocked a gasp out of her, but before she could curse him, his hands hooked beneath her thighs.

The world tilted.

She was hauled up like she weighed nothing, her legs forced to wrap around his waist or else dangle helplessly. Instinct took over. Her ankles locked, her nails clawed at his shoulders, dragging him closer until she could feel every inch of him straining between them.

Lucy’s hand dove down between their bodies and shoved beneath his shirt like she had a right to it. Her palm hit skin, slick with sweat and burning hot, stretched tight over muscle so defined it felt impossible. She dragged her hand down, slow at first, over the ridges of his abs, then up across the deep cut of his side. Her fingers stuttered on a scar near his ribs. Old. Ugly. He didn’t even flinch.

He was built like a fucking statue.

No softness anywhere. No wasted space. Just raw, brutal function, the kind of body that only happened when a man punished himself daily and liked it. She’d guessed. Wondered. Fantasized.

She hadn’t been close.

He was perfect in the worst way, and her cunt clenched around nothing for it.

“You’re such an asshole,” she hissed, dragging her nails across the slab of his abdomen. “You don’t get to be this fucking hot.”

His laugh broke against her lips, short and dark and maddened. Then he retaliated.

Pen’s hand dropped, fisting the hem of her shirt. He shoved it up in one rough jerk, baring her stomach, her ribs, her bra. He didn’t hesitate. His hand found her breast, dragged up under the cup, and closed over it with a low, claiming groan.

His palm was huge. His grip bruising.

Pen’s thumb found her nipple and rolled it once, then again. He squeezed harder, rougher than she expected, like he wanted to mark her.

Lucy gasped, her body jolting in his arms.

The sound cracked the last thread of sanity between them.

Too close. Too much. His chest crushed to hers, their mouths colliding again, teeth and tongue and fury.

He kissed her like he meant to consume her, like he’d never stop, like he’d never let her breathe again. She bit him, he growled into her mouth. The sound rumbled through her whole body.

Then he shifted his hips, and she felt the thick head of him drag up through her dripping cunt before he drove in.

Lucy bit back a scream, the sound catching hard in her throat as he bottomed out in one savage thrust. The stretch was brutal, splitting her wide around him, the angle forcing him so deep she thought she might shatter.

Her nails carved into his shoulders, jaw clenched tight as she tried to keep quiet. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her fall apart again. Not like in the dumpster. Not when his face was this close, when he could see every flicker of weakness in her eyes.

But Pen didn’t make it easy. He set a rhythm that was merciless, hips slamming into her with obscene force, grinding deep every time like he wanted to force the breath out of her lungs. Each thrust jolted her whole body, rattling the steel wall at her back, her breath spilling in broken gasps she couldn’t quite smother.

The slick noise of it filled the alley, impossible to ignore. The slap of skin, the wet drag of her cunt clutching at him, his harsh panting against her mouth. Every sound screamed how far gone she was, how much her body wanted this no matter how hard she should have fought it.

She tried to stay quiet. She really did. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, buried her face against his neck, strangled the noises in her throat until her chest ached from the effort. But then he shifted his angle, thrusting deeper, harder, hitting a spot inside her that made her whole body shudder.

The moan ripped free before she could stop it—high, broken, too loud.

Pen’s laugh was triumphant. “Listen to you, Skinny. Half the town can hear you falling apart for me.”

Her head snapped back, fury sparking even through the haze of pleasure. She bared her teeth in something like a smile. “I’ll say you attacked me.”

He stilled, just for a heartbeat, eyes wide and wild. And then the grin came back, sharper now, edged with something she hadn’t seen before. “The Protector of Sandrock… attack a civilian?”

Her legs locked tighter around him, dragging him in deeper until she was gasping again. “I’m not just a civilian. I’m the nice, quiet, helpful Builder. And if they had to choose?” Another moan clawed up her throat, breaking her words, but she forced them through. “They’d pick me. Every time.”

Something in him snapped. His hips slammed forward with brutal force, fucking her harder, faster, like her words had torn the last leash off. The dumpster shuddered under the violence, metal groaning in protest as he drove into her over and over.

Lucy couldn’t hold it anymore. Every thrust hit that devastating place inside her, battering it until her body arched and spasmed against him, nails raking his back hard enough to draw blood. The pressure coiled savage and hot, building too fast, tearing through every wall she had left.

Her scream broke free at last, raw and unabashed, torn straight from her chest. Pleasure exploded through her in violent waves, her cunt seizing around him so tight she dragged him down with her.

Pen cursed, his rhythm breaking into wild, punishing bucks as he spilled inside her. The heat of it flooded her, pulse after pulse, each one wrung out of him by the vise of her orgasm.

They stayed locked together, panting hard, her body still shaking from the intensity of it. His eyes burned into hers, stripped of the grin, stripped of the act.

Then, slowly, Pen slid out of her and set her down. Lucy’s knees wobbled, barely holding, but she caught herself against the dented wall.

He tucked himself back into his pants, movements efficient and controlled. Then his hands were on her again—not demanding this time, but careful. He tugged her shirt down from where he’d shoved it up, smoothing the fabric over her skin before his cape came off with a flick. He draped it around her waist, hiding the ruin of her pants, the mess he'd left inside her.

The gentleness of it caught her off guard. After everything he'd just done to her, this tenderness felt more dangerous than the fucking had.

The world barely had time to tilt back into place before pounding footsteps shook the alley.

“Lucy!” Justice’s shout cracked through the morning air. A beat later, Unsuur rounded the corner, weapon half-drawn, his face set grim. “We heard screaming!”

Pen froze. For a breath, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched her. His chest still heaved, his hand still ghosted at her hip, eyes wide, waiting.

Lucy felt it. The moment of power. If she opened her mouth and told them he’d attacked her, it was over. No more Protector. No more Pen. Sandrock would turn on him in an instant, and she’d walk away unscathed.

The power of it thrilled her. A taste of everything she’d been working toward—respect, fear, control—all wrapped in one fragile, perfect moment.

Lucy’s face crumpled, her voice breaking as she collapsed against the dumpster wall, gripping the cape tighter. “It was horrible,” she gasped. “A rockyenaroll chased me back here and pinned me in the dumpster. It ripped my pants, and I…I thought I was done for…but then Pen—” she looked up at him, wide-eyed, trembling. “He saved me.”

His eyes flared wide before the mask slammed back down.

“Of course I did!” Pen boomed, puffing his chest out and flexing for effect. “No beast stands a chance against the Protector of Sandrock! You should’ve seen it, fangs like knives, but not even a whisker grazed our brave Builder while I was on duty!”

Justice and Unsuur both sagged with relief. Unsuur muttered something about checking the alleys, already convinced.

It was then Owen came jogging around the corner, slightly out of breath, eyes wide with concern. "Everything okay? Justice and Unsuur just ran past saying there was screaming—" He stopped short, taking in Lucy wrapped in Pen's cape, her torn pants, and crying face.

"A vicious attack," Pen declared, puffing his chest out. "Rockyenaroll had our Builder cornered, but fear not! The magnanimous Pen arrived just in time to—"

Lucy tuned him out. Because there, clutched in Owen's hand like it had never been missing at all, was her journal.

“Is that my—” she breathed, cutting off Pen mid monologue.

Owen followed her stare, and his face lit up. "Oh! Right, I found this right after you left this morning! Fell behind the bar, must've slipped out of your bag last night." He held it out to her, oblivious to the way her face had gone completely white. "I was going to bring it right over, but then the breakfast rush hit and I got slammed. Was actually heading to your workshop when Justice and Unsuur came tearing past."

Lucy took it. Stared at it. Felt Pen's cum sliding down her inner thigh.

Behind the bar. The whole fucking time.

Her laugh came out strangled, half-hysterical. She caught it before it could spiral, turned it into a sob. Let them think it was relief. Let them think she was just overwhelmed with gratitude.

"Thank you so much," she managed, voice breaking.

Pen smirked.

This was going to be a problem.