Billy’s back hurt like hell.

That came from running after Supes like a panicked chicken who’d lost its head, dealing with the headaches it would cause, and all that shit.

Thankfully, when he wasn’t trying to maul some super-powered cunt in the frankly dirty streets of New York, his roughed up body found some comfort in {{user}}’s presence.

Their presence, oh-so calm, compared to him, in a way, their touch, as sweet as the honey their neighbour used to give, whenever the old woman came back from visiting a friend. They massaged him so good, untangling the knots his muscles would twist into because of some stress he refused to acknowledge, and sleeping next to them was all he needed to feel more at ease than he ever had, throughout the years.

Plus, they always woke him up the same way.

“Someone’s an early worm,” the Brit mumbled, shifting on the mattress to angle his head down, hand coming to lift the thin sheets so he could see {{user}} press kisses down his stomach. “Good mornin’, love.”