Time stood still. Only him and you. Standing in front of your dresser. Hands laid over one another. And it was perfect.
His other hand comes up to your face, his fingertips and the side of his palm softly touching your cheek. Like the embrace of a couple who had been sepearted for a long time, but muscle memory setting in to ignite long-forgotten passions.
His hand slowly trails down your neck, just about stopping at your clavicle. And that is when the silence is finally filled by his deep voice.
“Correct me if I’m wrong but I’m starting to get the feeling this is not about some dresser.”
I'm in the middle of writing the finale for Blue Hills and I legit had to stop to catch my breath. How tf can a kissing scene be that fucking hot? And I wrote that shit. Me!
Anyways, will try to finish the rest the next couple of days. So prepare your blanket, some water and plan for some alone time cuz you're gonna need it, ahahha
non-writers will never understand the mental illness of writing an entire conversation in your head while doing dishes and then forgetting every word the second you open a blank doc
summary: pent up from all the sexual tension between you and cliff, you enjoy some private time in the shower - only for the handyman himself to show up on your door step.
warnings: language, masturbation, shower sex, sexy handyman, faucets, mentions of toys and shitty ex boyfriends, age difference, zaddy!cliff
words: 1,5k
a/n: here we are: 6 months and 72 mental breakdowns later...it's hard being a working girly but hey, at least i got promoted! in any case: thank you so much for your patience. can't wait to share this exciting new chapter with you, angels ahhhh. also: can you tell i know nothing about faucets? lol
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"Say it.” The deep voice vibrates in your eardrum. His lips are so close to your skin, you are sure they are ever so gently touching the hair that is standing up from your body.
“Tell me how much you need me.” The fingertips of his left hand trail down your body, leaving lines every which you try to etch into your memory.
His lips graze your neck, the tingling sensation of his scruffy three day old beard against your delicate skin sends your head falling back, eyes closed. Reveling in this moment.
“I need you.” Your hips buck backwards, meeting his. An instinct to grind your hips against him rises but you withhold the temptation. Yet, you can feel his manhood underneath the thick fabric of his jeans.
“Where?” By now not only his lips are caressing your neck, but also his teeth. They feel like a ceramic blade and if he were to bite you now, you wouldn't even question it.
“Show me” So you do. You grasp his wrist and lead the strong hand down your body. To the place you are aching from. A pit of fire in your stomach.
“Here”, you say as his 2 long fingers have landed on your second pair of lips. Grazing your swollen folds. He watches your every reaction intently.
The warm water from the shower contrasts your cold fingers which are pumping in and out of your slick cunt. A moan finally escaped the confinement of your mouth, echoing off the walls in the empty shower.
Desperately you try to imitate the touch of his hands with your own. You figure that if you keep your eyes closer it will feel like him.
Your pace quickens and you crouch over in pleasure. If your spasming limbs were not signal enough your loud noises should make it clear that you were drawing near the finish line.
You are brought out of the sea of ecstasy into the real world. Cold and damp.
You imagine him bending you over slowly and -
Ding dong!
You try to ignore it but the bell rings a second time. If it was just the mailman 1 ring of the bell would have sufficed so you concur this was urgent.
Unwillingly, you make your way towards the front door, a white towel swung over your body loosely, leaving a trail of wet footsteps behind you. You swear that if the person who was ringing the bell was that group of neighbour kids again you would give them hell.
Leaving a puddle like trail behind, you open your mouth to yell at whoever would face you once you opened the front door. Only to see familiar blue eyes.
“Hey neighbour.”
Your mouth agape. Fuck, fuck, fuckity-FUCK.
You can’t believe your eyes. He was in your head just seconds ago, how could he stand before you? Did he sense it? Did he feel it too? You sound crazy. Maybe you are.
Oh shit, you haven’t said anything yet.
“H-Hi.”
You want to ask what the hell was he doing here but he beat you to it. Of course, he does.
"Rick sent me. Said something needed fixing around here."
That’s when you notice the toolbox hanging from Cliff’s left side. He came fully equipped. White shirt, sunglasses, tool belt hanging loosely from his light blue denim jeans. The hips, which have been a main player in your shower phantasy.
And it made sense. During your last morning catch-up you had mentioned the many shortcomings of your new house. From a dripping faucet to installing some actual lamps (instead of using candles all the time) to giving the walls a fresh coat of colour. You are alone and these things take time so you were really just ranting but in no ways did you expect this. Rick is a sneaky, sneaky man.
"If this is a bad time," he nudges in your direction, signalling towards your dripping hair and barely covering towel. You suddenly feel very self conscious of your own bare shape.
"I can leave. Just say the word, sweetheart." If you're not mistaken, you detect is a seriousness in his tone. A maturity - as cliche as that sounds - seldomely found in guys your age.
And you really, really don't want him to leave.
"Uhm, no, please come in. Sorry." you say abashedly. Making way for the tall man with his clunky boots. As his broad frame walks past swiftly a breeze brushes your bare shoulders, making your hairs stand up.
"I figured." He looked around the kitchen casually. You don't know why, but something about his movements is so enticing, hypnosis practicioners could learn from him. How does he do that?
"Please ignore the mess." And by the mess you don't only mean the house. "I wasn't expecting any visitors." Especially not the man you just masturbated about. Your fingers are still covered in slick. This whole situation is so wrong.
Cliff brings you out of your trance with a question you couldn't have anticipated in a million years.
"There a reason why you're always wet when you see me?" For a moment you could have sworn he licked his lips.
"What? Uhm...just enjoying good hygiene."
GOOD HYGIENE? What is that supposed to mean??
Oh no, why did you say that?? You could have said soo many different things and you chose that. Great. Now he thinks you're a hygiene freak. A dirty one. And a weird one at that.
Cliff only chuckles. Maybe he was amused at your bluntness, maybe even at your awkwardness. Who knows. The man is a mystery.
"So" he claps his hands, the sound echoing in your humbly furnished home, "what can an old handyman do around here?" he looks left to right, as if to find anything that stands out.
"Yeah, the faucet is dripping non-stop. Been like that since I moved in. It's honestly driving me crazy."
His eyes have already found the occasionally leaking faucet. He moved swiftly behind the kitchen counter after allocating his target. Before you know it he is already turning different screws, occasionally switching the water on and off to check if the stream has fully stopped. You are leaning against the kitchen aisle, the towel feeling gradually more loose with time, your feet slowly dry and a little cold. But he looks so good, his shirt is a light cotton material. You try to sketch what is underneath in your mind.
Cliff breaks the silence again. “Been a long time since I’ve been here…Less boxes.” He doesn’t spare you a glance, still concetrated on his work, but from his voice you know he is hiding a smile. So he remembers. If there ever was a glimpse of a doubt that he hadn’t seen your toys back then, that doubt was eradicated by that small comment.
“About that…” Your contemplated on your next move. He already knows, there is no use in hiding. You should just acknowledge it and clean the air. Even if that meant you would ruin all chances you had with him.
“I had a pretty bad breakup recently. He wasn’t a great guy. Actually, he was a bit of an ass.” You have to chuckle. Cliff’s back is turned towards you and his concentration is still on the faucet but you can tell he is listening.
“The relationship in general was pretty…unsatisfying.” You play with your fingers, keeping your gaze away from him. You can’t believe you are telling him this.
“So my friend Melanie bought me all this…stuff. To help me discover myself, I guess? I don’t know. I haven’t even used it yet.”
And there it was: deafening silence. As expected. You ruined it. How the fuck did you even consider trying to seduce Mr. Booth, a man way out of your league.
Without a word, Cliff stands up to his full height and places the wrench on the counter next to the sink.
“That’s a shame.” He sighs.
You can’t believe your ears. “Wh-what?”
With a rag from his back pocket, he wipes his dirty hands.
“Not getting to use the toys. Shit, wasting your time being with a guy who doesn’t know how to satisfy a lady.”
Finally, he turns around. An expression on his face, you can’t quite descern but that looks familiar. It’s the same one you saw before at the shed. There is something behind his eyes, as if they darkened. You wish you could decipher the meaning behind them.
“You deserve so much more than that.”
Slowly, but decisively he turns on the faucet, a clear stream of water cascading.
“Someone with experience. That won’t leave you disappointed. A real man, not some boy.”
With a gentle grip on the faucets switch, he turns it off. No single drop escapes the metal opening anymore.
And then, purposely slurring the last part, he extends you an invitation. The one you have been waiting for all this time.
➳ three times you and soldier boy have sex, and one time you make love.
Welcome to part three of my standalone trilogy following the fwb-to-lovers pipeline, soundtracked by our lord and savior, Chappell Roan. Other installments include: part one, if it's casual (dean winchester/reader) & part two, someone you couldn't lose (bucky barnes/reader).
WC: 3,325 w. unedited.
Feat. Soldier Boy (Ben)/Reporter!Reader
Masterlist / Requests / Kinktober One-Shots
𝘏𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺. You knew taking this job was a mistake before you even sat down at the table. The whole elevator ride up to the topmost floor of Vought Tower, you debated heading back down and typing your resignation. The very sexism you'd been trying to avoid since graduating from NYU's journalism program seems to have followed you into the workforce. You're not naive enough to think you'll never deal with impossible men, but you hoped your first assignment wouldn't be so transparently superficial.
Soldier Boy likes his reporters pretty, your boss said. Take one for the team, ask a few questions about his newest movie, make him feel special, and I'll give you the front page.
You replied that you didn't want the front page, not for a celebrity puff piece, to which he replied with a thinly veiled threat to your job. So, you put on your least flattering outfit out of spite, clinging to androgyny like a shield, and called a cab to the Tower, close to the end of the day, so as to ensure you could drink your sorrows after.
You don't know what's waiting for you in the Supe's conference room, but you're surprised anyway. He's taller than you expected, for one. And instead of wearing his suit or some movie prop ensemble, he's in a Mets jersey and blue jeans. His eyes, you realize, are impossibly green.
Thankfully, he opens his mouth before you can get starstruck. "I was promised legs for a mile and an ass you could bounce a quarter off," Soldier Boy remarks.
As it turns out, he's just as vile as you expected. You recoil, eyebrows shooting up. "I'm a journalist, not a hooker."
"Shame," he replies. "Pretty face."
You clear your throat. "Let's just keep this professional, yeah?"
He snorts. "You're no fun, are you?"
"I'm not interested in games."
"That's a shame. I know a good one."
"I'm here to listen to you prattle on about your stupid little movie until I get a soundbite. We're promoting. That's it."
"So you're not a fan."
"Astute observation."
He scoffs. "Well, I can think of a hundred things more interesting than a silly movie."
"Now that we can agree on."
"Ouch," he replies, hand to heart. "Aren't you a piece of work?"
"Pot, kettle."
"And feisty too. I like that." He throws in a wink, and you wish you were a supe, so you could shove him out the window. It probably wouldn't kill him, but it would make you feel better.
You can't hold back anymore. He's staring at you like a piece of meat or a car he wants to buy, and it's enough to tempt you into a homicidal rage. You need to squash his flirting now. Job be damned. "Do you honestly believe the sole function of every woman on planet earth is to stroke your giant ego and your tiny dick?"
Soldier Boy's lips purse. You struck a nerve. Point for you. "On the record? Nothing tiny about it."
"You're unbelievable."
He chuckles like you've said something funny, leaning back in his chair. "You know, I can't figure you out."
You scoff. "This was a waste of time."
"Sit."
The lowering of his voice, the authoritative bark of an order, gets you to oblige him. Maybe it's not too late for a quote or two. You're brainstorming excuses to your boss as he narrows his eyes and skims you over.
"You think I can't hear your heart beating a thousand miles an hour? You aren't scared of me. No, your body seems to like arguing with me. It agrees with you. Makes those pretty cheeks so pink, doesn't it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Never play poker, sweetheart, you'd give yourself away before you ever won a dollar."
"Thank you for your time, Soldier Boy." You rise to your feet, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, the molten lust in your core. He's the kind of extraterrestrial handsome that makes your brain forget he's a crap human being, and you're a professional, not a schoolgirl with a crush.
"Ben," he corrects you. "If I'm gonna make you squirm until you admit I got you going, you call me Ben."
"I admit nothing." But your voice wavers, betraying you. You're not convinced, because he's looking at you like you're the most important thing in the world. Hungry, longing. Poised to drink you like a glass of fine champagne. You imagine he's seen a lot of beautiful women, and he gets them moon-eyed because he makes them feel special.
You gather your things in a huff, realizing you need to get out before he bends you over the conference table.
"So if I reach between those pretty legs of yours, you'll be dry as a bone?" He steps closer, framing you against a wall. "Huh, sweetheart?"
"Don't touch me," you say, without conviction.
"Why? You gonna stop me?" Ben steps closer, pinning you like a butterfly. Something beautiful he wants to keep.
Your eyelashes flutter as you blink furiously up at him. "I... Ben..."
"Like the way you say my name. All breathy and needy. Ben," he mocks you. "I bet you've watched my movies, haven't you? Are you a fan?"
You've seen them. Research purposes. They have nothing to do with his dashing good looks. You know what he's really like: a scoundrel in the gossip tabloids, a party boy, an asshole in the backrooms. And yet, all of a sudden you can't remember why you didn't want to do this interview.
You kiss him. You can't help yourself from slamming your mouth into his, lips tangling before his tongue slips inside and paints you in new shades of pleasure. He tastes like whiskey and spearmint gum, and the heat of his lips dragging over yours sears you down to your toes. He undoes your trousers with a singular flick of his fingers, and when they pool around your ankles, he lifts you into his arms, tosses you down on the boardroom table, and spreads your thighs.
His mouth finds you through your panties, suckling on your clit, tracing your folds through your damp panties and ruining the fabric with his tongue. You gasp for air, tugging at the golden strands at the crown of his head. Just when you're about to come, one high heel dangling precariously off your foot, the other lost in the shuffle, you realize anyone could walk in at any moment, and ruin your credibility.
"Wait," you gasp. "Someone could—"
"No one will. This is a private meeting, and they know better than to ever disrupt a private meeting," he assures you, and the undertone in his voice sends a thrill down your spine, a reminder that he's the darling of Vought, the leader of Payback. He's practically a god.
But he's all man when he undoes his jeans, his cock springing free, and buries himself balls-deep in you without a condom. You're grateful for your implant when he rolls his hips, kissing your cervix with his thick length. The pleasure that washes over you turns your brain to mush, and suddenly, you don't care that this is a terrible, doomed idea.
You cling to him as he shakes the table with every thrust, angling himself just right. You come undone once, and he strokes your clit through it, pounding into you hard enough to make you see stars. He touches you until you're coming again, gushing around his cock. He fills you up with hot ropes of his milky release, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip as he pulls out, tucking himself into his jeans.
You're ruined, sweating and gasping, and he's the picture of ease. Stupid supe stamina.
"So," he says. "What do you need for your article?"
𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺. Of course, you happen to be at the same party. It's a VIP event, a shark tank you're chumming the waters of. You don't know why you made it onto the guest list, but you're not complaining, because you get to wear a Press badge like a professional and get insider scoops on Vought's dynasty. Most journalists would kill for a job like this.
You're two free flutes of champagne into the event, and you feel like an impostor. You also feel like sneaking a flask of rum in was a terrible idea, because you're veering a little too close to drunk territory. How else could you get through this?
You splurged on a fine dress for the occasion, fancy high-heels and updo included. You wear your badge and smile with all of your pearly white teeth, batting your eyelashes too, for good measure. It's easy to catch stories when you're roaming about the crowd, listening to rumors about Black Noir branching out into technology research and Countess's latest diva meltdown.
You find Ben when the champagne settles, face flushed with heat. You're standing near the window, looking out at the Upper East Side. You feel him looming over you before you smell his cologne.
His lips graze your ear. "I was hoping you'd show up."
"So I should thank you for the invitation?"
"Who am I to deny you the chance to practice good manners?"
You roll your eyes, turning to face him. "You're trouble."
"I know."
"Maybe I should run a story about you and Countess," you suggest. "Since she's your girlfriend and all."
He scoffs. "PR is good for a PR relationship, but I thought you were writing more important things these days. Exposés and all that. Heard you got a CEO fired."
You glance away, keeping your voice low. "I wouldn't come to a Vought party to give them bad press. I'd like to be on their good side."
"Theirs or mine?"
"Hopefully both."
He smirks. "You wanna step out for a minute?"
"Stepping out" is code for commandeering a coat closet, jamming a chair under the door knob to lock it, and riding Ben on a pile of other people's jackets. You don't care, mostly because corporate assholes deserve far worse than a few wrinkles.
You lower yourself onto his cock, split open by the position and the girth of him, filling you in every way. He was right, the day of the interview, when he said there was nothing small about him. You didn't appreciate that fact until now, as he's pulsing inside of you, hitting every spot of pleasure as he takes you.
The way Ben looks at you, submits to you, like he's not the most powerful man in the world, like he couldn't have anyone he wants. He looks at you in awe, at your mercy as you place a hand against his chest for leverage and crash your hips into his.
"Ben," you whimper. "Fuck, Ben!"
You bite your lip to muffle the sounds, his fingers gripping your hips and thighs tight enough to leave tiny bruises. You come apart, your walls clenching around him as he buries himself deep enough to kiss your womb. He spills into you with enough hot cum to fill you until you're gushing all over yourself and the front of his slacks.
"Might be time to head back to the hotel," he says, as he helps you fix your dress. "You look like a mess."
"You're worse," you tease.
"Damn right." He kisses you deeply, slipping a room key into your hand. "See you in five."
𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺. After the mixer, you and Ben come to an understanding. One that happens when he's in your neighborhood during a patrol, or a late night at the office, or an event you both happen to be at. You have sex, and occasionally eat together after. No one stays the night, no one knows except the pair of you. He doesn't call to ask about your day, doesn't tell you about his.
Until your boss passes you up for a promotion. You come home in tears, humiliated by the way he treated you, the way he talked down to you in the meeting before giving the job to some wide-eyed boy without a degree whose only claim to the role is a rich daddy playing golf with the paper execs.
You know it's because you're a woman, because you're also the best writer on the paper, and you also write the biggest stories.
Ben has the misfortune of calling while you're sobbing into a couch pillow. You almost let it go to the machine before you see the caller ID. You pick up with a sniffle, voice thick. "Yeah?"
"Hey, sweetheart," he says softly. "What's the matter?"
You sniffle guiltily. "Nothing."
He scoffs. "If it's making you cry, it's not nothing."
"Why're you calling me?" you ask, trying to change the subject, because his voice is soft in a way you've never heard it, and you're trying to keep it together instead of falling apart. Something twists in your chest, affection threatening to rear its ugly ahead.
This is casual, right? Just two people who have sex. One guy who's a famous, notorious womanizer, and the other a journalist who's written a few decent articles, but otherwise, is unimportant. Just a human. No special powers or colorful capes.
Who are you to someone like him besides a good fuck?
"I was in your neck of the woods," he drawls. "Figured we could order in, and you get to be my dessert."
Any other day, you'd say yes. Any other day, you'd give in so fast it might almost be desperate. "Ben, I don't know."
"Well, this is awkward, because I'm at a payphone in the lobby of your building."
You sigh. "Any chance you leave me alone?"
"Not with my favorite girl so down in the dumps."
You hate him for saying it. Hate yourself more for preening at the nickname. You'd let him ruin you in a heartbeat, and you'd give him anything he asked for. All in exchange for pretty, empty words, and a couple of orgasms.
He's knocking a few minutes later. You unlatch the chain, and he holds up a bag of Chinese food. "You got makeup everywhere, sweetheart," he tells you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. He gestures to his cheekbones. "Let's clean you up."
He wipes your makeup away with a wet washcloth, surprisingly gentle. It's so strange, so unlike Soldier Boy. It occurs to you, as he cleans your face, all puffy and swollen and ridiculously emotional, that Soldier Boy and Ben aren't the same man, not at all.
And you're in love with the real thing.
But he can't know that, because he'll break your heart into a thousand pieces and go right back to cocaine and plowing Payback superfans with tighter asses and more cleavage.
You can have this, though. Whatever this is.
So you eat dinner with him, and then you kiss him, climbing into his lap and carding your fingers through the golden strands of his hair. He stops you, gently, green eyes folded into silent questions.
"What are you doing, sweetheart?" he asks. He's hesitating, ready to go without sex, like this isn't a transaction, like this is something real. Something sweet, like a friendship.
"Just want to feel better," you answer.
"We don't have to do anything."
"I want to," you insist, kissing his neck. "Please."
You need to do it, just one last time. Remember him like this, before you have to push him away and let him go. It's the only hope you have of making it out of this without falling apart.
This, you decide, is the one time you'll let yourself pretend he loves you too. This Ben can be yours, just this once.
He carries you into your bedroom—a place he's never been before. You usually don't make it past the couch, and one time, the shower, but he's never done this with you before. Had you in your most sacred space. But you don't have time to marvel at the newness, because he has you on your back in seconds.
He kisses gently down your torso, kneeling in front of you to worship you, and then he spends a half an hour sucking and teasing and bringing you to the edge again, and again, and again. Until you're slick on your thighs and bleaching his beard and so overstimulated you feel like you'll explode.
When he comes up for air, and you're trembling and puffy, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before he kisses you softly and asks, "Wanna talk about it?"
You promptly burst into tears.
His pants never come off. Instead, he holds you in his arms and listens to you babble about work and make excuses for what's really bothering you, the deeper issues, and how much you love him.
No, Ben can never know about that.
He just pets your hair until you're all cried out, and keeps watch over you until you're asleep.
He's gone when you wake up.
He doesn't call for six months.
𝘏𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺. You're patched up, but broken up. You're still hopelessly in love with Ben. You read every story you see, every magazine spread at the bodega two blocks over. You watch the TV interviews, the movie reruns, and you think about him all the time. He consumes you, every morning and night, constantly on your mind.
Ben. Ben. Ben.
You don't know how you let this happen, let yourself get mixed signals. You're better than this, aren't you? You know how to separate casual sex from a romantic connection. You're a professional. A serious journalist who's going places.
And now you're a silly girl pining after a man you can't have.
He turns up on your doorstep after midnight, a bag over his shoulder, his beard grown out. He looks tired, but triumphant. You're standing there in your nightgown, eyes sleepy, exhausted from a weekend spent moping over your shitty coworkers and the one bright light in your life that's gone out.
"Ben?" you whisper. "You... What are you doing here?"
He doesn't wait for an invitation before he pushes past you and walks inside, talking over you. "I have a story for you."
"What are you—"
"I have a story," he says again, more insistent. "Soldier Boy retires."
"W-What?" you stammer out.
"I'm cashing in on my fifty million and leaving Vought," Ben explains. "Finished my contract and decided not to renew it. I'm older than I look anyway, and I want to start living, properly. I want to do it with you."
You're flummoxed, eyes wide, shocked. Of all the things you've fantasized about, good and bad, you haven't considered this before.
"You don't have to be with me," he continues. "I know this ain't... that we had an agreement. No strings, no feelings. But the other night, that night six months ago, I realized what was right in front of me, and I thought, fuck Vought. I'm gonna retire, and I'm gonna marry the hell out of that reporter who drives me insane. Because I love her. And I didn't know I could feel that way about a person, and I'm a selfish bastard, but I'll be your selfish bastard, if you'll have me."
You laugh, and then you start to cry. "I love you, too, Ben."
"Fuck yeah, you do."
He kisses you hard, pressing you against the door, and he whispers sweet nothings against your neck as he tugs your panties down, lifting you into his arms, and slipping inside you quick as a wink.
Every thrust is an apology, and every kiss is a promise. He sings his song against your mouth, swallowing your gasps with a steady I love you, over and over again.
You run one last story with the paper, covering his retirement front and center before any other publisher. And, on page eight, your engagement announcement becomes the second biggest story of the week.
Like what you read? You can Buy Me A Coffee ☕️ and, if you're feeling spicy, feel free to browse my masterlist for more dirty old men.
NOTES: I really have nothing to say for myself. Based on this ask <3 as always, keep on sending in those requests!
TW: smut, dirty talk (like. a lot), younger!reader (20s in my brain but I don’t think I mention an age), fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex (p in v), brief oral near the end, lots of kissing, lots of profanity, very Ben, intense sex, and so very much dirty talk, this is filthy I’m so sorry, Ben’s done with old ladies!!!
Masterlist
You hadn’t meant to go home with him.
It was supposed to just be a drink. One drink. Maybe two. You’d gone out with a few friends who’d already bailed by the time you spotted him across the bar—broad shoulders, smug smirk, leaning back like he owned the fuckin’ place. You’d recognized him instantly, of course.
Everyone did.
“And here I was thinking I was done with the young ones,” he muttered when he slid onto the stool beside you, voice like smoke and gravel, loud enough for you to hear over the music. “Then you had to walk in lookin’ like that.”
You didn’t flirt, not right away. You just laughed, tucked your hair behind your ear, and let him look. And he did—openly, shamelessly. Like he wasn’t in any rush.
And God, you let him.
You liked the way he spoke—cocky, unfiltered, every word dipped in that scratchy drawl. You liked the way he spread his legs when he talked to you, the way his hand brushed your knee once, twice, before settling there like it belonged.
By the third drink, your chair was so close that your thigh was pressed against his. By the fourth, he was talking into your ear, his expression growing more self satisfied with every giggle he pulled from you.
“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” he asked, clearly not expecting an answer. “All sweet voice and big eyes, sittin’ there so fuckin’ pretty, and so fuckin’ young—I’m almost worried for you with all the dirty shit I wanna do to you.”
You smiled at him then, slow and soft, and said, “I’m not the one you need to worry about.”
That’s when he stood up, tossed a few bills on the bar, and reached for your hand.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, smirking. “Let’s go find out.”
If only you’d known then.
“Holy fuckin’ hell.”
Now, Ben’s voice is shot—ragged and stunned, like he just stepped into a wet dream he didn’t think was real. He’s on his knees between your thighs, hair a mess, jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock as he spreads you open on the bed like he’s about to devour you.
“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he groans, dragging two fingers through your soaked folds, then holding them up, dripping, gleaming in the low light. “This is from me? Just talkin’ to you?”
“Yes…?” Your voice ticks up at the end, clearly confused. He almost sounds shocked.
He looks at you then—really looks. You’re all blown pupils and parted lips, because you want him.
“Fuck,” he mutters again. “I forgot this is what young pussy does.”
You whimper, but you still don’t close your legs. In fact, you tilt your hips a little higher, thighs trembling, one hand sneaking down to run your fingers over yourself.
And Ben nearly stops breathing.
“Ohh, fuck yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and holding it there like he wants to frame the image in his memory. “Hold it open for me, baby—just like that. Let me see that sweet little pussy drippin’ for me.”
You shudder as he leans in, nose brushing your inner thigh, breath hot and wrecked.
He lets out a breath, thumbing lazily across your clit just to watch you jolt, and the slick sound it makes punches a groan out of him.
“Fuck, hear that?” he says, stunned. “That’s all you, baby. Music to my fucking ears.”
You gasp, clutching his arm as he moves, rocking up to meet him without being told, chasing the pressure like it’s instinct.
“I love when you touch me,” you say, breathless. “Feels really good.”
“Yeah,” he huffs, clearly amused, rubbing over your clit so slowly it shouldn’t even feel good but god does it ever. “I can fuckin’ tell. You’re a damn natural, sweetheart.”
“You have any idea how many chicks I’ve fucked?” he mutters, almost annoyed, like it’s your fault he’s so floored. “Decades of fucking. Hundreds of women. Thousands. Models, porn stars, you name it. The women my age, they needed convincing. Time. Half of ‘em wouldn’t even get this wet with help.” His fingers press just right and you cry out. “Had t’fuckin’ spit on my hand just to fake what you’re doin’ all by yourself.
He looks up at you, dark eyes wild, voice low and reverent.
“And here you are, soakin’ through the fuckin’ sheets before I’ve even fucked you proper. How the hell’s that fair?”
Your eyes flutter, lips parting, a high whine slipping free as your hips buck up toward him.
“Then fuck me,” you breathe. “Please, Ben—just… I need it. Need you.”
That breaks him.
He doesn’t answer—just grabs your thighs, yanks you closer, and really get to work, his fingers plunging in as deep as they can go with a wet squelch that makes you both moan.
“Goddamn, baby, listen to that,” he grits out. “So fuckin’ wet. So tight. You’re suckin’ me in like you don’t ever wanna let go.”
You whine, rocking against his hand now, chasing every curl of his fingers like you’re desperate for more. “Faster,” you beg. “Please, Ben, faster.”
“Greedy little thing,” he grunts, but he does it—fucks you with his fingers until your slick is dripping down his wrist, obscene and sloppy. “I bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you stupid with half the block watchin’, wouldn’t you?”
You moan, nodding, mindless, grinding down into his hand.
“Yeah,” he breathes, twisting his fingers just right, thumbing your clit until you squeal. “That’s what I thought. You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”
You’re trembling, your whole body pulsing around his fingers, and when he pulls out, you whine at the loss—until you see what he’s doing.
“Look at this,” he groans, dragging his soaked hand across your stomach. “This cunt’s been waitin’ for me since the day you were born.”
“Ben, please,” you sob, desperate.
He grabs himself, thick and hard and already leaking, and presses the head of his cock against your entrance. His eyes stay locked on yours, hungry and unhinged.
He growls—actually growls—and not a second later, he’s pressing in, slow and deep, hips flexing, his jaw clenched tight as your heat swallows him whole.
“Christ on the cross, sweetheart,” he snarls. “You’re better than I ever could’ve fuckin’ imagined. Tightest, wettest little thing I’ve ever been inside.”
You both groan when he bottoms out, and then he’s moving—hard and deep, the wet slap of skin and the obscene squelch of your slick echoing like music in the room.
“M’fuckin’ spoiled now,” he pants, eyes locked on the way your tits bounce with every thrust, hands gripping your thighs like he’s holding on for dear life. “I’m not pullin’ out. Not ever. You hear me, sweetheart? I’m stayin’ in this pussy ‘til I die. It’s mine.”
You nod, breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him even deeper. “Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”
And Ben just grins, cocky and ruined all at once.
“Damn right it is.”
He’s fucking you hard now—deep and relentless, hips slapping against yours in messy, soaked rhythm. The room smells like sweat and sex and heat, the bedframe groaning with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even form words anymore. Just whimpers. Gasps. Breathless, broken sounds as you cling to his back, your nails biting into his skin like you’re afraid you’ll slip under.
“Shit, baby,” he pants, jaw tight, voice wrecked. “You feel that? How you’re milkin’ my cock?”
You nod—barely. You don’t even know if you’re saying yes or just trying to stay conscious at this point.
His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like it’s second nature, and the moment he presses down, you’re gone.
You come with a strangled moan, your whole body seizing beneath him. Back arching. Vision white-hot. It hits you like a punch—shaking, pulsing, wet and overwhelming—and Ben feels it.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he snarls. “Keep squeezin’ me, sweetheart. Just like that—fuck, I’m—”
He drives in one last time, deep and brutal, and grinds his hips down into you as he comes. He curses—loud, raw, guttural—as he spills inside you, hands gripping you firmly, every muscle in his body pulled tight as he rides it out.
It’s messy. Loud.
He stays buried inside you, both of you panting against each other’s mouths, too stunned to speak for a long moment. Your legs twitch around his waist, and his body’s still shaking a little above you.
Then, slowly, he lowers himself down until he’s resting fully on top of you, helping move your legs back down onto the bed.
Your fingers find their way into his hair, and he lets you hold him there.
You feel him smile against your neck.
You don’t even realize you’re crying until Ben leans over and presses his mouth to your cheek—rough and warm and still catching his breath—and feels the damp there.
“Aw, fuck,” he all but groans, voice sounding more resigned. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head fast, but the tears keep coming. You’re not sobbing, not panicking—just raw. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Wrung out in every way a person can be.
“No,” you suck in a deep breath. “No, you didn’t. I’m okay. Just…”
You trail off, and he waits. Doesn’t push. Just keeps breathing against you, thumb rubbing circles over your hip like it’s the only thing he knows to do.
“I feel like I just got hit by a truck,” you laugh a little at the absurdity of the entire night.
He huffs a low laugh in return. “Yeah? You and me both.”
You blink up at him, lips parted, dazed. He’s still inside you—softening, twitching, warm—and you don’t want him to move.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, quieter now. Still gruff, still him, but the edges are sanded down.
“Uh-huh,” you nod slowly. “I just can’t feel my legs.”
That gets a real grin out of him, crooked and proud. “Hell yeah,” he mutters. “Still got it.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are softer than you expect—dark, but not wild anymore.
He leans back down and kisses your neck. Slow. Lingering. Then the curve of your shoulder. Then your chest, right between your breasts. His stubble drags across your skin with every lazy shift of his mouth, warm and heavy.
“I don’t think that performance can be outdone.” he mumbles against your skin. “You have absolutely ruined me for anybody else.”
You hum quietly, eyes heavy and dazed. “Wasn’t trying to.”
“That makes it even worse,” he huffs a laugh, mouth still moving—lower now. Lazier. “You don’t even know what you’ve got goin’ for you. Just layin’ there all sweet and soaked and lookin’ up at me like I hung the fuckin’ moon. It strokes a guy's ego, sweetheart.”
You shiver under him, overstimulated and spent, but there’s a flutter low in your belly.
“Damn near lost it the second I got inside you.” He drags his nose across your collarbone.
You hum quietly, nails scratching gently at his scalp and he moves. “You did good.”
“Fuckin’ right I did.”
His hand slips back between your thighs to feel just how messy you still are. “Yeah,” he mutters, grinning against your skin. “That’s what I thought.”
You twitch when his fingers brush your oversensitive clit, and he pulls back just enough to look down your body at the wet shine still dripping down your thighs, now mixing with his own release spilling out of you.
“You’re still fuckin’ soaked.”
“Ben…”
“Relax,” he drawls, voice going low again, predatory and reverent all at once. “I’m not gonna fuck you again.“
His mouth drags down your stomach, his hands warm on your hips.
“I’m just gonna clean you up a little.”
And when he settles between your thighs again, mouth hot and open, he doesn’t say another word.
or... tyler asking his sweet girlfriend to check if the factory's still functional after a few low blows.
warnings : suggestive leaning to smut!!<3
( 🏷 @callme-holly )
♱ *ೃ.⋆
Steam coils in the small bathroom like it’s trying to suffocate the light. You’ve got a candle lit on the edge of the sink, something vanilla-scented and soft —violently out of place next to the man slouched in your bathtub.
Tyler's arms hang lazily on the porcelain edges. There’s a bruise blooming along his left ribs, a little smear of dried blood by his eyebrow, and his split lip glistens pink in the warm light. He looks like hell.
You’ve got a sponge in one hand, fingertips gentle as you trail it along the curve of his collarbone. You’re focused, dutiful even — until his breath hitches for the third time in less than a minute.
"You're starin'," he murmurs, one eye cracking open. "You like watchin' me take it like a champ, huh?"
You hum, not even indulging that line of thought. Not yet. “You’re filthy. You stink like blood and smoke and bad decisions.”
Tyler laughs, short and raspy. “Mmm. Bad decisions taste the best though.”
“Mm-hmm,” you hum, rolling your eyes. “The only thing you're tasting is blood, and we both know it.”
He grins through swollen lips. “Babe. You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You don’t answer. You just sigh in exhasperated affection tilting your head, lips pressed together as you rinse the cloth, drag it down the line of his spine again. Tyler shudders under your touch all twitching muscle, half-lidded eyes, and the occasional groaned hum, like the water itself is some decadent sin.
You press the cloth to a bruise on his ribs, and he hisses—not in pain, no, Tyler Durden doesn’t do pain like normal people—but in something closer to amusement.
"Fuck, baby, you’re gonna rub me raw before I even get to the good part,"
You roll your eyes, running the sponge down his arm. He's got a split lip, half-healed, but he keeps licking at it like a dog worrying a wound. He groans quietly as your hand brushes a particularly dark bruise on his ribs.
You’ve seen him beaten worse. You’ve also seen him completely feral from a fight. But tonight? He’s somewhere in between —drunk on adrenaline, half-limp from satisfaction, and resting all his weight against the warmth of your body with his head tilted back against your chest.
"Fuck, that was a good one," he sighs, tilting his head back against the porcelain, eyes half-lidded. His voice is rough, wrecked from shouting, from laughing, from winning. "Bastard got me with a right hook like his wife caught him cheating. Worth it."
You laugh softly, shaking your head and dragging the washcloth over his shoulder, tracing the knotted muscle there. He’s warm under your hands, alive in that feral way he always is after a fight: electric and loose, like a live wire stripped bare.
Then, without warning, he shifts, water sloshing as he spreads his legs wider, knees bumping the sides of the tub. "Speaking of hits," he drawls, voice dropping into something lazy, dangerous, "got a few good shots to the family jewels tonight. Real fuckin’ thoughtful of ‘em."
You blink. "…What."
He cranes his neck to look at you, grin is all teeth, crooked and bloody at the edge. "Y’know. Nut shots. Dick punches. The ol’ sack-tap special." He rolls his hips slightly, water rippling, and your eyes flick down—because of course they do—before snapping back up to his face.
"You’re fine," you mutter, going back to scrubbing his collarbone like you weren’t just staring.
"Am I?" His voice is syrup-thick, mocking. "You sure? ‘Cause I’d hate to be walking around with damaged goods and not even know it."
You frown at him in the candlelight, washcloth paused in mid-air. "You’re joking."
He spreads his legs wider under the water lazyly, the movement sending a small wave sloshing over the edge of the tub. "Do I look like ’m joking?"
He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Instead, with all the delicacy of a toddler demanding attention, he grabs your wrist and guides your hand under the water, trailing it very intentionally southward with a low, satisfied groan.
"Tyler—"
"C’mon, doc," he groans, voice dripping with exaggerated agony. "Gotta make sure the factory’s still operational."
You glare at him. “You’re not even planning to have kids.”
“Exactly,” he groans. “That’s why these two are purely recreational, sweetheart.”
You’re torn between laughing and shoving him under the water. But his skin is hot under your touch, and despite his bullshit, he’s half-hard already, because of course he is—Tyler could get shot in the leg and still pop a boner if someone looked at him the right way.
“Just—” He pants dramatically. “Just check if everything’s still… functional. For science. I’m worried.”
You can’t help the huff that escapes you, exhasperated. He’s such a menace like this: flushed cheeks, sore muscles, and still managing to grind himself slightly against the edge of the tub under your hand, half-whining with every motion.
"They seem fine," you mutter, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens.
"Gonna need a more thorough inspection," he purrs, guiding your fingers over himself, his breath hitching when you (against your better judgment) give in and curl your hand around him.
“God, you’re lucky you’re hot,” you mutter.
“Correction,” he says, eyes fluttering shut again as your fingers skim low on his abs. “I’m lucky you’re hot. And that you let me in your house. And your bath. And—fuck—your hands.”
You pull away just to mess with him. He lets out a pitiful whine.
“Hey! No, nononono—”
“You’re fine,” you say, suppressing a smirk. “They’re not broken.”
“But I might be,” he whines, shifting around dramatically in the water. “Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually.”
“Spiritually,” you echo.
“I almost died, babe.”
“You got a black eye.”
“That’s a pre-death warning.”
“Uh-huh.”
Tyler pouts. Actually pouts. Lips bruised and pink, his jaw stubbled and wet. He tilts his head back with a pitiful moan, dragging your arm hand down again.
You quirk an eyebrow and splash water directly into his face.
He howls laughing.
You glare. He just raises his brows, all faux innocence, then grabs your wrist and yanks your hand underwater before you can react. Your palm slaps against his thigh, then—oh fuck—higher, fingers brushing coarse hair, then hot skin, and—
"Tyler!"
"C’mon, doc," he purrs, guiding your grip around him, his own fingers tight on yours. "Gimme a professional opinion?"
He’s half-hard already, the bastard, thick and heavy in your hand, and when you try to pull away, he just groans, low and filthy, hips rolling up into your touch.
"Mmm, yeah, that’s it," he sighs, head tipping back, throat working. "Gotta be thorough. Can’t have my favorite medic half-assing the exam."
You squeeze—just to shut him up—and he chokes, laughing, bucking into your grip.
"Fuck! Yeah, that’s the spirit." His free hand grabs the edge of the tub, knuckles white. "Keep going. Y’know, for science."
You should pull away. You should. Like you've done twice already. But his skin is hot, the water making everything slippery, and he’s already hard just from the loose grip he's forced your hand into, the bastard.
"You’re impossible," you mutter, but your fingers curl around him anyway, giving an experimental stroke.
Tyler’s head thunks back against the tub, a loud, filthy groan ripping out of him. "Fuuuuck, yeah, that’s— mmm, right there—"
"Oh my god, you’re such a fucking drama queen," you huff, but you don’t stop, working him slow under the water, watching his hips twitch up into your grip.
"Gotta make sure the factory’s still operational, right? Gotta— fuck—gotta test the equipment—" You roll your eyes but pick up the pace, thumb swiping over the head just to hear him whine. "You’re ridiculous."
"Ridiculously hard for you, baby," he slurs, back arching, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. "C’mon, c’mon, just— right there, just like that—" You twist your wrist just so, thumb pressing into that sensitive vein underneath, and Tyler melts.
You squeeze, just to watch his abs clench, and he snarls, hips jerking. His cock is hot in your hand, flushed dark and leaking against your fingers, the water doing fuck-all to hide how messy he is, how desperate he’s getting.
"That all you got?" he taunts, but his voice is wrecked, breath coming in ragged bursts. You know it means he's about to tip over the edge.
So you speed up, twisting your wrist just the way he likes, and god, the noise he makes—a broken, punched-out moan, his thighs trembling, his free hand clawing at your shoulder like he’s trying to anchor himself.
"Fuck—fuck—" His hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your grip as he comes, thick stripes of cum spilling over your fingers, mixing with the water in hazy, swirling ribbons. His head tips back, throat working as he gasps, his entire body tense, shaking, before he finally collapses against the tub, boneless and grinning like the fucking devil.
"Diagnosis?" he pants, cracking one eye open to smirk at you. "Still fully operational."
You flick water at his face. "You’re insufferable."
Tyler just laughs, low and satisfied, dragging you closer by the hair to lick into your mouth like he’s claiming victory.
“Say it.” The deep voice vibrates in your eardrum. His lips are so close to your skin, you are sure they are ever so gently touching the hair that is standing up from your body.
“Tell me how much you need me.” The fingertips of his left hand trail down your body, leaving lines every which you try to etch into your memory.
His lips graze your neck, the tingling sensation of his scruffy three day old beard against your delicate skin sends your head falling back, eyes closed. Reveling in this moment.
“I need you.” Your hips buck backwards, meeting his. An instinct to grind your hips against him rises but you withhold the temptation. But you can feel his manhood underneath the thick fabric of his jeans.
"I need you.” Your hips buck backwards, meeting his. An instinct to grind your hips against him rises within you but you withhold the temptation. You can feel his manhood underneath the thick fabric of his jeans.
“Where?” By now not only his lips are caressing your neck, but also his teeth. They feel like a ceramic blade and if he were to bite you now, you wouldn't even question it.
“Show me.” So you do. You grasp his wrist and lead the strong hand down your body. To the place you are aching from. A pit of fire in your stomach.
I need you.” Your hips buck backwards, meeting his. An instinct to grind your hips against him rises but you withhold the temptation. But you can feel his manhood underneath the thick fabric of his jeans.
“Where?” By now not only his lips are caressing your neck, but also his teeth. They feel like a ceramic blade and if he were to bite you now, you wouldn't even question it.
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a/n: ahhh, so excited to share this next chapter with you guys. have been working on it for a long time so i hope it lives up to your expectations. full part will be out next week, so stay tuned, angels! ♡
