warnings ⁀➷ semi-public sex, age gap (rafe is in his 40’s, reader is early twenties), cheating, unprotected piv, baby trapping, boob play, oral. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 𝟏𝟖+
author’s note ⁀➷ fuckkk i wanna lick his bald ass head.
older bf!rafe who would never even think about saying no to you. It doesn’t matter how many of his cards you’ve maxed out, he would never make you unhappy. You never notice it, but his dick twitches at the sight of your happiness. He knows for a fact that no man will ever take care of you like he does, and that’s what makes him sleep better at night.
older bf!rafe who spoils you more than his own wife. Who never fails to pay all of your bills on time and gives you even more money on the side. Who takes you shopping to buy all of the clothes and jewelry that you could ever want.
older bf!rafe who wants to taste you at every chance he gets. If y’all are stuck in traffic, he’ll quickly pull your panties aside to get a good taste of you. He always has a need to dive his head in between your legs and take his sweet time with your pussy.
older bf!rafe who brings you to his yacht to finally get some alone time with you. Whose wife and colleagues stress him out so much that he needs you in order to get some release. Who finally feels a sense of peace whenever you are around him.
older bf!rafe being on an important work call as you’re down on your knees. He puts his fist over his mouth trying not to moan as you shove his dick even deeper in your throat.
His legs shivering and twitching as he’s seconds away from cumming down your throat. Who jerks violently as he reaches his orgasm and tries to push you off of him. Who throws his head back in agony as you have no intention of stopping until you make him cum again.
older bf!rafe who brings you into his house whenever his wife is away at work. Who fucks you hard as he stares at their wedding photos with a wicked grin on his face. Who makes sure that he fucks you on her side of the bed, letting you know that you should be his wife and not her.
older bf!rafe who’s heart swells at the nudes you send him while he’s at work. Who excuses himself from the conference room to jerk off to your pretty pictures. His grip gets tighter around his dick at the reminiscence of your tits in his mouth. Imagining how your tits would squeeze around his length as he fucks them. He cums hard at the thought of your tits in his face.
older bf!rafe who makes sure to breed you each and every single time. Whose thick arms pin you down to stay absolutely still as he cums inside of you. Who makes sure that you will certainly get pregnant so that he will forever be in your life. You will finally be Mrs. Cameron after all.
。 🧷ׄ ⠀ ❛ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧. . . piv. cockwarming. might be a little rough, wrote this before a doctors appt.
rafe uses cockwarming to get you nice and needy for him.
the two of you sprawled out across the soft mattress, blankets wrapped around you in a sort of cocoon. his rough hand drags across the skin of your bare hip, keeping you close to him. it would be a picture of comfort if it wasn’t for his cock buried to the hilt in you. some stupid action movie playing in the background, the sounds of gunfire drowning out your occasional whine.
your cunt is leaking around him, walls a fluttering warmth heat he never wants to leave. for the most part, you’re good for him until the movie reaches that 20 minute mark.
your hips press back further, urging his cock deeper. he knows you’re trying to get him to move, but he’s unwilling just yet. he needs you just a little needier, whining and begging for him to fuck you.
you’re close, but not yet there.
he grips firmer, keeping you in place so you’re forced to lie still again. a whine bubbles up from your throat, head tilting back, trying to catch his eye. he’s not giving you an inch, though, letting you simmer in your frustration.
rafe’s cock is rock hard in you, every twitch and pulse of his length is a clear implication he’s just as affected as you are. the feeling of your pussy practically drooling is almost enough for him to say screw it, almost. “you wanna cum, baby?” he murmurs into your ear, his hands refusing to let you move still.
“yes, move rafe!” it’s a weak demand, but it’s been 20 minutes of nothing. that ache deep in your gut needing to be satisfied, but he keeps denying you. your head feels fuzzy from the teasing, stuffed full of his cock but not given the strokes you need. your soft whines reach his ears despite the obnoxiously loud action on screen being loud.
he hums in mock thought, eyes moving to take in your face finally. they’re slightly glassy, an obvious indicator that you’re about to be pushed to the edge. “feelin’ needy, huh?” he coos at you, which would be sweet if he wasn’t clearly mocking you. he delivers you an experimental thrust, your pussy trying to suck him back in. “i dont know if you’re ready for me yet.”
“no, i promise i am, please,” you nearly cry out in frustration, hips attempting to press back to show just how ready you are. you can hear him huff behind you, grip loosening to let you fuck yourself back against him. “see, ’m ready.”
“alright, alright, i get it,” he says, bracing his large hand between your shoulder blades as he pushes you onto your stomach. following you as he positions himself on his knees behind you, cock still settled snuggly in your fluttering walls. he gives a sharp thrust, pressing impossibly deeper, practically feeling him in your belly. “gonna give you my cock so you quit whinin’.”
rafe is the type of guy to spit on your pussy while fucking you in missionary.
your thighs pressed up to your chest, his rough fingers pressing under your knees to keep you spread for him. his cock practically splitting you in half—your moans and the wet squelching of your cunt make him press in deeper.
“squeezin’ me tight, baby,” he rasps out, hips slowing to a teasing grind to let you feel every drag of his cock against your soaking walls. his eyes greedily take in every inch of you, just like you’re greedily taking every inch of him. “hold yourself open for me.”
your hands replace his in seconds, nails digging into the skin, leaving little crescents. he lets one hand slide across your inner thigh, calloused thumb brushing against your neglected clit teasingly just to watch your hips jerk up. a smirk tugs at his lips as he watches as your puffy folds suck him, brushing over your clit again.
“prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen.” he’s teasing you now, enjoying the fact that you’re desperate for his cock. he stills completely, your hips bucking up, trying to urge him to move again, but he doesn’t. “eager girl,” he coos down at you, thumbs dancing around where your cunt is wrapped around him.
instead of moving again, he leans forward, gathering a nice big glob of spit on his tongue. rafe lets the warm spit drop onto your sensitive nub, your walls constricting tighter like a vise. “my little freak liked that, hm?” he snickers, thumb rubbing the saliva into your clit in tight circles. “aight, i guess i’ll be nice and fuck you properly.”
pairings — rafe cameron x fem!reader, topper thornton x fem!reader
summary — rafe cameron has never wanted something he couldn’t take. it’s not his fault topper’s girlfriend turns out to be one thing he can’t stop thinking about.
warnings — 18.8k words. MINORS DNI! multiple graphic scenes (fingering, f receiving oral, unprotected piv, semi-public intimacy with risk of getting caught, praise/reassurance, light choking, biting, leaving marks) overall super messy morals / morally questionable behavior, cheating/infidelity with best friend’s girlfriend, boyfriend’s best friend (emotional & physical), betrayal of a close friend, rafe’s obsessive, guilt around sex, fixation and possessive thoughts, recreational drug use (weed and coke), discussions of break up, rafe’s ooc and is sometimes a little sweeter than expected, toxic relationship dynamics (between reader & rafe as well as topper & reader)
author’s note — this one’s longgggg and also they’re not the best people in it. like at All. and also honestly excuse the horrible smut i’m really bad at it . as always hearing ur thoughts is the most rewarding part !!
Rafe wasn’t even sure how he and Topper had become friends. He was sure he would have been able to recount the memory had you not tainted all the memories he had of his supposed best friend.
Still, it was the kind of origination that didn’t survive examination, the way most things on Figure Eight didn’t. Their fathers golfed. Rose and his mother sat on the same two committees and disliked each other without friction, a thing they would never admit out loud. Rafe and Topper had been put in the same rooms before either of them could form opinions about it, the way you put two dogs in a yard and assume they’d work it out. And they had, mostly because Topper was incapable of holding a grudge and Rafe was incapable of holding much else. By the time it mattered—by the time friendship became a facet of your life you chose rather than a thing your zip code did for you—the choosing was already done, sunk so far back that pulling it up would’ve taken more honesty than Rafe had ever cared for.
He’d told the story before. There was a version he liked to wheel out when he was coked up, the sandbox-or-whatever version that made people laugh. It had Topper crying over a kite at six, or maybe it was Rafe crying over a kite. And that was the short joke of it, and neither of them could keep it straight and it didn’t matter, because the point was they were the kind of friends whose beginnings had dissolved into pure fact. ‘We’ve just always known each other.’ People liked hearing that. It sounded like belonging. It sounded like the thing Rafe had been failing to convince his own father he was capable of since approximately birth. It sounded like there was a reason for their friendship despite their family’s tax brackets.
The problem was that he couldn’t get to the kite anymore without going through you.
That simple fact made him want to put his fist through a wall. He’d try to land on a clean memory; Topper at twelve, sunburned and furious, reduced to tears, because Rafe had out-fished him at the dock. It was something Rafe thought he’d hold over Topper for the rest of his life and then, characteristically, never used. The memory of it would start fine and then it would bend, routing itself towards you. Topper at twelve became Topper at eighteen describing his future with you in it, because Topper’s hand on your knee in over-furnished basements, became the simple pride in Topper’s voice when he talked about you like you cured cancer. Every road into Topper now had you standing somewhere on it, and Rafe couldn’t reach past you to the kid he’d genuinely considered a friend back when he cared about something like having a best friend. You’d colonized the whole territory without trying.
He resented you for it the way he resented the good food at the Thorntons’ table, the unfairness of being made to want a thing and then made to feel like garbage for the wanting.
Topper was good. Yeah, he was good-family, good-school, good-on paper. But Rafe found that Topper was good in the way that should have made him insufferable. Topper had decided, somewhere back before either of them remembered, that Rafe was worth keeping, and then he had simply never revisited the decision. He didn't keep a tally. He'd watched Rafe show up fucked up to a hundred things, watched him pick fights with golf clubs and bigger men, watched him be cold and mean and impossible, and Topper had kept clapping him on the shoulder like his father did, kept being there that it had taken Rafe to realize this was rare.
And Rafe was going to take you from him anyway. Had already started. Was, in the part of his head he didn’t visit in daylight, fully planning to. That was the whole obscene buildup of it, that the one person who’d never once made Rafe earn his place was the person Rafe was robbing. He wasn’t even doing it out of hatred, which would have at least been clean. He was doing it because of a hundred small things he'd had no business collecting and had collected anyway. How you laughed half-a-second late at jokes, always, because you were checking the room first to see if it was safe to, and how that half-a-second was the only honest thing when the laugh actually came. The way you ate the crust off of people’s plates, Topper’s, Ruthie’s, like the food tasted better when it wasn't yours and nobody was watching you want it.
None of it was Topper’s fault. Topper’s only crime was being there for two years and never noticing the half second, never wondering what you were checking for, just hearing the laugh and taking it at face value the way he took everything, gratefully, completely, without the suspicion that there was a whole second self standing behind it.
There was a thought Rafe had, late, that if it had been the other way around, if Rafe had gotten to you first, Topper would not have done this. He wouldn’t have wanted to. It was far from the idea that Topper was weak or because Topper didn’t have it in him to want a thing; it was because Topper was built somewhat right. Topper had been loved correctly and consistently and on time, and so Topper had turned out to be someone who could be trusted around the things other people loved. Rafe had been loved the way Ward did everything, which was to say conditionally, expensively, and from a distance, and so Rafe had turned out to be the kind of person who, handed something good that belonged to a friend, could not keep his hands off it.
He’d been on the boat for nineteen minutes and he was being so good it was fucking annoying. This was day eleven. He had a streak going. Day eleven of not texting you, not driving past the library on Tuesdays, not allowing his brain to build a small detailed house for the two of you and then moving you both into it. Eleven days, for Rafe’s standards, was basically monastic. He’d told himself after he’d dropped you off at your house—after you made that sickly-sweet confession then passed the fuck out, sparing you the indignity of remebering you’d said it. That two weeks was the number. If he could do two weeks, the wanting would sand down to a manageable size, the same way a callus made a thing stop hurting by making the skin too thick to feel it.
He didn’t actually believe this. He had never once in his life successfully made himself want something less. But he wanted a number, and two weeks was a number, and he was eleven days into it and the boat smelled like sunscreen and diesel.
He took a hit off the bong because it was there, and clearly Topper’s parents hadn’t been on the boat because it wouldn’t have been there if they had. He found the stash of weed in the same place Topper always kept it, inside the couch. He’d been making good use out of Topper’s things given Topper was late.
Topper was always late. It was one of the few genuinely annoying things about him, and Rafe had a theory that Topper thought the thing wouldn’t start without him at some point in his life, and decided he never had to make himself hurry. Ward did it too. Rafe, who had spent his whole life arriving places early and then sitting in his truck so nobody would see him be early, found it unbearable in a way he never said out loud.
He was being good. He was being so good. And your foot landed on the gangway and the boat took your weight, and Rafe felt the small dip and correct of it through the hull. He knew it was you before he turned to see who it was. He’d gotten like that. It was nothing to have been proud of.
You came down the cockpit and didn’t see him at first, which meant he got a second of you before you did of him. Rafe took the second, because Rafe took every second of you he was handed and a number he wasn't.
You looked like hell. Not actual hell, you’d have to work much harder than you’d ever worked in your life to look actually bad, and Rafe resented this about you in a low background way, the unfairness of it. But you did look like you’d been crying somewhere with the door closed, and had then done the small expert repairs and come out, and Rafe knew that particular finish on a person because it was the finish he saw in his own mirror. The eyes slightly too clean. The mouth set in a straight line. Yo’'d put something pink on the mouth on the way over. He noticed that.
Then you saw him and your face moved slightly, like you were recalibrating and deciding which version of yourself this required.
“Someone looks happy,” Rafe said.
It came out lightly, a little meanly, and exactly how he’d intended for it to. He was good at this. It was, if he was honest, the only thing he was good at; saying a thing that closed a door so quietly the other person wasn’t sure a door had been there. He'd been doing it to you for two years. He'd done it to you because the alternative was doing the other thing, and the other thing could not be undone, and so he had picked, every single time, the small mean sentence over the catastrophe.
You didn’t rise to it. You didn’t do much of anything, in fact.
“He’s not here yet?” you asked, and your voice sounded so even Rafe wanted to tear the edges off of it.
“Nah. Late,” Rafe said, letting it sit. “Shocking. I know.”
“Right.” A small laugh, the half-second one, except there was no room to check and so it came out hollow, on cue. The type of shit you’d give another guy for describing an unfunny encounter.
And that should've been it. The two of you should’ve stayed exactly where you were, not looking at each other, until the rest of the people showed up to act as witnesses. He could do that.
But you stood at the bottom of the cockpit steps with your bag still on your shoulder and looked around the room.
“Did they ever fix the—” You tipped your chin at the cleat. “Topper said his dad was going to have someone look at it.”
Rafe raised a brow. You were talking to him like he’d heard you talked to everyone else, a good fucking voice that asked absolutely nothing and gave absolutely nothing. And you were using it on him, as if asking shit like this to him was normal. Something in his chest did a small ugly turn, and he heard himself before he’d decided to talk.
“You don't have to do that,” Rafe said.
You blinked. "Do what?"
“That.” He tipped the bong toward you, at the bag, the mouth, the cleat. “That voice. The—” He almost got to the end of it, but the end was a cliff, so he took a hit instead and let the smoke buy him the half second you were so good at stealing. “I don’t give a shit about the cleat. Neither do you.”
He sounded more annoyed than he’d meant, and it was real but not about you; mainly about the fact that you’d decided you were going to pretend nothing happened, even though that was exactly what he needed from you. Still, getting it felt like being handed a glass of water and told it was the fucking ocean.
You stayed silent. The water did its small work against the hull. Somewhere across the marina a halyard was tapping against a mast, that thin patient sound that Rafe normally didn't hear and now could hear individually, every strike of it, because the boat had gone that quiet. He looked at the bong. He looked at the cooler nobody had opened. He was aware of you not moving.
You moved then, setting your bag down onto the cushion of the bench seat and you crossed the cockpit. Three steps. Four. Past the table, past Rafe, close enough that he got a wash of you, the floral scent, clean and expensive and so aggressively innocent it had always made him want to break something just to have something to apologize for.
Behind the couch he was sitting on was a door. The head, the boat’s bathroom, a closet of a room, teak and a mirror and not quite the square footage to turn around in. You put your hand flat on it and opened it.
And Rafe didn't understand. He watched you open the door to the head and his brain, his stupid traitor brain that had a whole drawer with your name on it, did not produce the thought it should have produced. It produced something sadder. It thought that he’d made you isolate yourself from him until everyone arrived. And now you were going to go stand in front of Topper's mirror and come back out with the distance reinstalled, and it would be his fault, and he'd earned it.
He even opened his mouth to say something. Sorry, maybe. He wasn't sure. He hadn't gotten there.
You were standing in the doorway of the head with one hand still on the frame, and you weren't going in, and you weren't fixing anything, and you turned your head and you looked back at him across the small bright cabin.
“Rafe,” you said.
He was up off the couch before he'd finished understanding. The bong went onto the table too hard, making the water move in it. Two years of holding still, of the mean sentences, of the moat he'd dug with his own two hands, and it turned out the whole mechanism had been resting on you never once asking him not to hold still, and you hadn't asked him anything, you'd just said his name and left a door open, and the mechanism was already on the floor behind him.
He crossed the cabin in three steps and he did not let himself count them.
You stood in the doorway, the head behind you flooded with the harsh, blue-white of the marine bulb, and you looked at him like you’d always known he’d follow.
He stopped close, and the head was small enough that close was the only thing available, and Rafe found that he had no words ready. That was new. He always had words ready. He'd built a whole personality out of having the word ready. But the apparatus that supplied the words was on the cabin floor with everything else, and so he just stood there in the blue-white light, breathing, looking at you looking at him, and said nothing at all.
Your hands came up. Rafe’s eyes were fixed on them as they reached up, shy and sudden, to the sides of his face, just to hold. You were just holding, palms careful against his jaw like he was someone who deserved to be held carefully at all.
His whole body leaned down to it before his brain had been consulted. His head just went where your hands asked it to go, the way water went downhill, the way Topper was late; some law older than choosing.
“Can I—” you started, then the sentence went out of track.
You just stopped, and the third word wouldn’t come. Because the third one was a want, and you were someone who Rafe knew had spent years not saying those out loud, and Rafe watched the question strand there an inch from his mouth, watched you not be able to finish it, and understood that finishing it was a thing you could not do and were never going to be able to do.
So he did it for you. That was the deal, apparently, the complete contract of whatever this was. You couldn’t say the thing and he’d say it; you couldn’t finish and he’d finish. He'd be doing it for the rest of his life and he already knew that, standing there.
“Yeah,” Rafe said against the space where your sentence had been, throwing eleven days outside the window completely. “You can.”
You reached past him instead, one hand leaving his face, and you pushed the door shut behind him. It made a small sound of a click, and it landed in Rafe like a gunshot, because you'd done it. He hadn't reached back and done it for you. You'd closed the door yourself, with your own hand, taken the last out off the table and folded it up and put it away, and Rafe stood in the new confines of the room understanding that he had just watched you say yes in the only language you had.
And then you kissed him. It was careful at first—both of you were, for about a second and a half, careful—and then your fingers slid back into his hair and you breathed yourself through a small, relieved sound.
It was barely a sound at all, but it was a sound you had not chosen to make, Rafe could tell the difference, he’d spent two years watching you choose every sound and every breath and every tilt of your head, and this one had just slipped out of you. He’d spent the last few times he was in your proximity getting a closer read on you. And this was just involuntary proof, that this was happening to you as much as he was making it happen, that you were in here with him rather than being there for him.
He’d run the tape on this so many times it embarrassed him, and in every version you were careful. Soft, a thing he had to coax and gentle and be slow with.
So when your hand came up and fisted the front of his shirt and pulled—like you’d been the one standing on the wrong side of a door for two years—Rafe's entire model of you went out the porthole, and the loss of it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“Okay,” he said to nobody, to the new discovery of you. “Okay.”
Rafe's control didn't snap so much as it discovered it had never really been there. You kissed him, and he’d been expecting to be the one to do it to you, Rafe the corrupting agent, Rafe with the dirty hands. He didn’t know this one. It felt like being handed a part of you that he couldn’t have witnessed from across rooms, and it turned out to be this—appetite, slow, a little mean—and he wanted it so badly it scared him sober.
His fingers went to your hair, fingers closing at the root and pulling your head back just enough to change the angle, and his other arm came around your back to haul you in past there was room to be hauled. The size of the room was nothing and he wanted you closer than nothing.
Your chest pressed flat to his and he could feel you breathing through the cotton of your top, could feel the ridge of your bra and the heat of your skin underneath it. His arm tightened across your back.
Somewhere in it, he heard himself say “fuck—you—” against your mouth and didn't get the rest of it out. The rest of it was two years long anyway and wouldn't have fit in the room.
“Rafe,” you said, voice breath-shaped against his jaw, the vibration of it traveling down his neck and settling somewhere at the base of his spine.
“Mhm.”
“I—” You let his teeth catch onto your bottom lip and gently tug on it. You rose to your toes. “I haven’t been able to—stop—”
“Hm?” He was already gone. His hands found the hem of your denim skirt. His fingers traced the seam where the fabric ended, running along the edge of it, before his palms slid underneath and made contact with bare skin. His palms caught against skin still slick from the humidity, and the give of you under his hands briefly wiped every coherent thought from his head. “Stop what?”
“Being able to think—about you.” Your words came out in two short breaths as Rafe’s fingers palmed the curve of your ass with more greed than finesse, pulling your hips forward into his.
“Shit—yeah?” His voice had gone somewhere low and ruined. A stupid part of him wanted to ask why, hear you say it again, spell it out, tell him exactly what you thought about. “Me too.”
The same broken noise slipped out of you again, urgently, like the next one and all of the ones after that were owed to him.
He walked you backward until the bulkhead caught you. You hit the teak with a dull sound and your spine arched off it, pressing your hips into his. Rafe’s vision briefly went white because the pressure of you against him—specifically where he was already hard and had been since you closed the door—was a feeling his body processed before his brain got anywhere near it.
He kept one hand flat behind your shoulder blade so the boat's roll wouldn't knock your skull into the wood. Some backroom part of him was still telling him to make sure you didn’t get hurt.
His hand found the hem of your skirt again and pushed it up slowly, gathering the denim in his fist, and the scrape of the fabric against your skin was loud in the small room.
You shifted your hips off the teak to help him—lifted without being asked—and Rafe had to stop.
He put his forehead against your shoulder and breathed, because your unconscious cooperation did more to him than everything before it combined. He'd imagined it, and in every version you were hesitant, uncertain, something he had to ease into, and the reality was that you'd just lifted your hips for him like you wanted this as much as he did.
“D’you—” His voice was gone. He couldn’t recognize it. “Tell me to.”
“Rafe.”
“Say it.” He turned his mouth against your neck, found your pulse point, and it felt it hammering against his lips. He tasted the salt on your skin. His hand was on your thigh, fingers spread wide, thumb pressing to the soft inside of it where the skin was the thinnest, and he could feel the muscle twitching under his touch. “Say it?”
You let out a breath into his ear, body loosening up under his hold. “Please.”
“Jesus fuck,” Rafe muttered, and it came out wrecked, halfway to a laugh, because you kept finding things he had no defense for without even trying.
He pushed the lace aside with two fingers, careful at first because the carefulness was a reflex even now, and then he felt you—your warmth and the give and the fact of it—and the careful went the way of everything else. Warmer than he’d imagined, softer, wetter. His fingers slid against you experimentally, testing his touch out, afraid you’d vanish if he made the wrong move.
Your eyes squeezed shut and your thigh clenched against his hip.
Everything was replaced by the single present-tense reality of his hand between your legs, and the reality was so much more than the fantasy that he understood, suddenly and completely, that he wasn’t going to recover from knowing this.
He pressed his forehead to the side of your head and shut his eyes. Looking at you was too much information all at once; he needed to subtract a sense or he was going to embarrass himself.
He bit down the inside of his cheek, hard, on principle, because the sound that wanted to come out at just this—just his fingers against you, nothing more, the most preliminary fact of you—was a sound that would have told you everything.
It would have laid the whole two years out on the floor, and Rafe was ready to give you a great deal tonight but he was not, yet, ready to give you that.
You made a short, desperate sound. Your hand came off his shirt and gripped his wrist to keep him, to make sure his hands stayed, the fingers wrapping around the bones of his wrist and holding on.
“Not going anywhere,” he said against your temple, which was true in the small immediate sense and a lie in every other, and he chose, this once, to mean only the small one.
Your free hand moved between you, down, and found the waist of his jeans. You fumbled at the button. It was clumsy—your fingers weren’t sure, and Rafe wondered if you’d ever done the reaching before, or if you’d only ever done the reaching before—and that clumsiness nearly took his legs out; the fact that you were trying, that you’d decided his wanting was a thing worth tending to. You, who tended to everything, were turning all the careful attention now onto him.
He caught your wrist with his free hand before you got to the button.
“Hey. No.” It came out rougher than expected. He pressed his mouth to your jaw so he wouldn't have to look at you while he said it. He could feel your pulse in your wrist, fast under his thumb, and he held it there. “Not—Just you right now. Okay?”
You went still, uncertain, and he felt the small recalibration in you. He couldn’t have that either.
“S’not—” Rafe huffed, frustrated at his own mouth, at the fact that the truth was right there and he had no clean way to hand it over. The truth being that if you touched him, he was done, and he needed it to last longer than that, he needed more of you before he let it be over. He had no way to say any of it that wouldn't crack him open.
So, he said, against your skin, “Let me have this one. You can deal with me later.”
He felt the curve of your smile against his cheek. “Promise?” you asked, like it genuinely could have been that simple.
He chose to believe it could be.
“Yeah, okay.” His fingers moved inside you again and your breath broke and the smile went with it. “Yeah. Promise.”
You made a noise, broken, your hips chasing his hand like the wanting had gone out ahead of you. He almost said it then. The thing. It got all the way up his throat and he swallowed it down because saying it here, like this, with his fingers inside you on Topper's boat, would've made it the cheapest it could ever be, and the one thing Rafe was sure of was that it wasn't cheap. He curled his fingers instead to find the place that made your whole body forget its manners.
His hips pressed forward against your thigh just once off their own accord, moving in a slow grind.
His body was finding pressure where it could, chasing the friction he’d denied simply because of the fact that he was so hard it had passed uncomfortable a while ago and entered something closer to pain.
The pressure sent a wave of relief through him so acute his breath came out shaky against your temple, and his hand stuttered inside you for half a second before he caught the rhythm again.
He locked his hips and stayed still and put everything he had back into you instead, into the curl of his fingers and the pace you needed, and the dull throb of himself went unanswered and that was fine.
That was fine. He could sit with it. He'd been sitting with wanting you for two years; what was another few minutes?
“Look at me.” It came out slow, almost a plea, far from having an order in it. He’d had his eyes shut a second ago and now he couldn’t survive not being able to see. “C’mon. Lemme see.”
Your eyes dragged open, gone glassy, unfocused, and he held them. He’d wanted to see this for so long and he wasn’t going to spend it blind.
Your hand twisted in his shirt. You were shaking. He could feel it building in you, your peak, close, and he kept his rhythm exactly where you needed it because for once in his life he wanted to give perfectly, get one act completely right.
“Rafe.” Your voice cracked on it, warning, almost.
“I know,” he said. “I got you.”
You broke. He felt it happen—felt you go tight, squeezing his fingers, and then gone, your forehead dropping hard to his shoulder, a sound against his neck that you didn't choose and couldn't have stopped—and he held still inside it and let you have all of it, every second, until you went heavy and loose against him and the only thing holding you up was him.
Rafe kept his hand where it was one second longer than he should have, just to feel the last of it, then drew it back slow and fixed the lace with more care than he’d taken with anything in his life. He settled it back like he was hiding the evidence, which he was. He pressed his forehead to yours. Your hands had found his shirt again. Your eyes were shut.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, shaken, as you tried to recover yourself. He saw your jaw tighten like you wanted to say more and were physically biting the words down.
He already knew what was coming. He'd watched it happen enough with you now, the way the wanting closed over and the apology surfaced. He just didn't know it would land the way it did.
The words landed wrong in him, because ‘sorry’ was a thing people were for Rafe, a thing that arrived in his direction with his name attached.
If you were going to keep reaching for him and you were going to be sorry every time, and he was going to let you, and the wanting was always going to come to him pre-wrapped in your regret.
He couldn't have that. Of all of it—the wrongness, the boat, Topper—that was the one thing Rafe found he could not stand in the room.
He brought his hand up and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, slow, and shook his head, just slightly, just enough.
“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out rough. “You see me complaining?”
You looked at him, and Rafe got the full, sober weight of your eyes for the first time since the door had clicked. In them was something he had no idea what he could with, the furrow of your brows and the frown on your lips, like you didn’t want to go.
That made something between his ribs sore, because he could deal with you regretting it; he’d dealt with people regretting him. What he had no capability for was you standing so, so fucking close to him looking like leaving him was the hardest part.
“Hey.” He had reached the edge of what his mouth could do. So he kept the knuckles against your cheek, because moving them was beyond him, and the two of you stood there in the bright nothing for a second that Rafe would later try and fail to make last longer in his memory than it had any right to last.
Then your eyes moved past him—to the door, to the world on the other side of it—and he watched the second you started leaving.
He watched your face close over. Then your hands left his shirt—he felt the complete loss of them, a cold where they’d been tugging—and went to work; you smoothed the denim of your skirt where he’d greedily bunched it, the shirt next that had, at some point, lifted up, then your hair, fingers finding the loose pieces and threading them back into the shape they were supposed to hold.
Forty seconds, maybe less, and there was almost nothing left of you that Rafe had put there. That meant you’d walk out into the sun and stand next to Topper, and Topper would look at you and see his girl, intact, unmarked, and returned to him in good condition.
But you’d been sad to go. Rafe held onto that with both hands. He’d take it up the stairs with him; he’d take it home; he’d take it out later and look at it. He knew, even now, that keeping that would be the worst thing to keep, because the fact that you hadn’t wanted to leave didn’t mean you were going to stay. You were still going. Sad to leave and leaving weren’t opposites; you could do both. In fact, you were about to.
“You should head up,” he said. “Before anyone else comes.”
You nodded.
Rafe reached out one more time, the last time he could, and ran his thumb along the corner of your mouth where the pink had smudged, where he’d smudged it. He wiped it clean, almost carefully, and he tucked the one piece of hair you’d missed.
“I don’t know what—I’m sorr—”
Rafe cut your words off by placing a finger under your chin.
He knew while doing it that he was putting Topper’s girlfriend back together. He was reassembling you with his own hands so the seams wouldn't show, gentle as anything, and he hated himself the exact right amount and did it anyway, because the alternative was you walking up there with the truth still on you and Rafe was not—whatever else he was—going to be the reason it showed.
“Go,” he said, stepping back to give you the door. He found something like a smile somewhere and got it up onto his face and held it there with what he had left. “You look perfect.”
It was at the lawn party that happened every year because the Murrays had a lawn and a reason was not, on Figure Eight, something that was required to have a party. Rafe had come anyway, because not coming was its own kind of information, and another week into a thing like this he started doing calculation on what your absence said as carefully as what your presence did.
He’d been there an hour and he watched you the whole hour. He was good at it by now; he’d had years of practice so it didn’t look like anything, the trick of keeping his face pointed at the person talking to him while the rest of you stayed aimed at the far side of the lawn. Nobody saw him do it, and he watched you move around the grass in a green dress with a drink you hadn’t taken a single sip of.
You were bright and frictionless and doing that stupid fucking laugh exactly on time. Your hand found people’s forearms when you said a kind thing, and the whole set-up of it was so smooth and so total that he had a hard time believing you were the same person who’d asked him to come into a tiny bathroom on your boyfriend’s boat.
By seven, the parents had thinned out and left Brad and Charlie Murray in charge of the lawn. It was by eight when Rafe noticed Topper leave. It was with some guy Rafe half-knew, a friend of a friend, who looked like he was going to be a problem, and Topper had peeled him off from the keg to deal with him. Topper was doing the small, good thing and taking a guy home before he woke up the next morning with an earful of everything he’d done.
He got his phone out before his mind even processed it.
where are u, he texted you, making use of that almost-empty chat thread with you that was mainly filled with small logistic details he never cared about that you did. It was deniable, a sentence that would make him look like he was only keeping an eye out for his best friend’s girlfriend.
He told himself that, too. He just wanted to know where you were; he’d also spent his time unable to decide if the boat had been a real thing or a girl having the worst night of her summer in a small room he just happened to be in. He didn't know which, and not knowing was its own kind of hell.
about to catch a ride w ruthie
Rafe immediately read it and his mind snagged on the fact that you’d answered him at all. You could've gotten in Ruthie's car and let the question rot. Rafe felt something ugly and electric go up his spine that he had the decency, at least, to be disgusted by.
come by the pool in the back
The typing bubble didn’t come back up. He picked the label off the beer in wet strips and watched the path up to the pool. And you did come up the path, and Rafe got his answer, that the boat may not have been a fluke.
He should've felt like he'd won something. He'd been telling himself for three weeks that knowing would feel like winning.
You came around the hedge and saw him sitting on the pool ledge with his feet in the water and his beer on the stone beside him.
“Hey,” you said. You looked at the pool, the empty chairs, the dark windows of the Murray house where the party noise was muffled into bass and the occasional shriek. You looked everywhere that wasn't him.
“You been avoiding me?” Rafe asked, trying to make it sound as even as possible.
“No,” you said quickly. Your hand went to the chain around your neck and turned the pendant once.
He huffed out a breath. “Yeah?”
“I’m here, am I not?”
Rafe had no fucking clue how he’d managed to get you in this position, head between your thighs as you laid on the top of his white duvet.
The room was dark except for the dock lights off the marsh throwing slow, liquid patterns across the ceiling. Tannyhill was empty, and Rafe usually hated that, but right now, the silence was his and it had you in it, and that made it the best fucking room he’d ever been in.
Your thighs were shaking with a small tremor, barely there, and his hands were holding them apart. His thumbs pressed into the soft inside of your skin as your whole body tried to close around him. He could feel the tension in the muscle under his palms, the restless shifting of your hips, and the way your hand had gone to his hair and stayed there.
He’d barely started. His mouth was working up from the inside of your thigh, tasting the salt on your skin, and you were already breathing like you’d been running. He could hear the short, caught inhales that you kept trying to smooth out.
He said your name against your skin, and you jolted. “Stop thinking,” he murmured.
“I’m not—”
“I can feel it.” He looked up at you from between your legs. Your face in the dim was already flushed with eyes too wide and your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Relax.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try less,” he drawled, thumb doing a gentle stroke against your skin. “That’s the whole point.”
His mouth moved higher, and your thighs clenched against the sides of his face before you caught yourself and relaxed it. He let his tongue drag down the slit, savoring the taste as your hips came off the bed. The sound you made was small and shocked; you immediately bit it back, swallowed it behind your teeth.
He wanted to stay like this. He wanted to take his time, learn you like this, take in every sound and shift of your body. But your body was rigid underneath him in a way that wasn't anticipation. You were lying on his bed with your legs apart and his face between them and some part of you couldn't stop being aware of it. He could feel your self-consciousness like a physical thing, the way you kept adjusting, kept shifting your hips.
“Rafe,” you said quietly.
He lifted his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s—wrong.” You pressed your lips together. Your hand in his hair loosened, then tightened, then loosened again. “Can you come up here?”
“But I’m good here.”
“I know. I just—I wanna—” You stopped, letting out an almost-frustrated breath he found deeply amusing. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and furrow between your brows had deepened in a way that wasn't just arousal. You were embarrassed. You were lying in his bed asking for something and you were embarrassed about the asking. “I want you like—closer.”
Rafe tugged his lip between his teeth, and he was sure his own pupils were blown as wide as they could be. “Closer how?”
Your eyes found his in the dark, and the shy wanting in your face hit Rafe in a really, really, difficult fucking way because he had no idea how to deal with it. You held his gaze and your hand gently tugged at his hair, pulling him upward and toward you.
“We don’t have to—” He went, because there was no version of this where he could deny you. He was already crawling up your body because his own was making the decision, his brain, his mouth dragging up your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. “I don’t mind.”
Your hands went down from his hair and cupped the sides of his face with your palms, practically forcing him to look at you. “Do you—you don’t want to?”
The question was so far from reality that his brain physically stalled. He was hovering over you, hands on your shoulders, and you were looking up at him with genuine uncertainty.
“Are you—” He almost laughed. “You’re really asking me that?”
You grumbled something under your breath, causing him to chuckle then.
He moved his thumb to your lip, pulling it down, as he said, “I wanna. Just wanna make sure you’ll be fine.”
Your lips closed around his thumb, as if relieved at his answer, and Rafe’s brain went to place it wasn’t coming back from.
Your eyes stayed on his, still carrying the shy uncertainty from a second ago, and Rafe was supposed to reconcile that with the warm press of your tongue against his thumb.
“Okay,” he said flatly. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”
The corner of your eyes creased. You would’ve laughed if you weren’t currently occupied.
He pressed his thumb down against your bottom lip, dragged it slow across the fullness of it, and watched your eyes go heavy. His cock was pressed against your thigh and he was fairly sure you could feel exactly what this was doing to him, which was fine, whatever, he'd abandoned dignity somewhere around the second week of wanting you.
“So fucking annoying,” he said, almost conversational.
He pulled his thumb free, letting it drag. The wet shine it left on your lip caught the silver light. You looked up at him with your mouth still parted and an expression that was dangerously close to being pleased with yourself.
He leaned down to press his forehead against yours, bracing his arms against your sides as his hips came flush against yours, cock grinding over the wetness of you. He let out a broken gasp at the feeling, eyes closing for a moment.
Your breath hitched underneath him and your hips tilted up—chasing—and the friction made both of you go still for a second. Your hands were on his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle, and your eyes were shut and your mouth was open and you looked like someone at the edge of a cliff deciding whether to jump.
He rocked against you again, watching intently the way your brow creased and your lips pressed together. He could feel you—the heat, the slick of it, how easy it would be to just push forward—and the restraint of not doing it yet, of keeping this unbearable almost-contact, was winding something tight behind his ribs.
“Why’re you letting me do this to you?” he asked, unable to stop the words from stumbling out. He rolled his hips again.
“Huh—”
He shifted his hips, unfair. He knew it was far from fair, but whatever deflection you’d been making lost its integrity. “Why?” he asked, voice quieter.
Your hands slid from his shoulders to the sides of his neck. You held him there, thumbs against his jaw, and he watched you try to find the answer while his body was making it very difficult to think. Your hips moved against his again; small, restless, like your body was having its own conversation separate from the one your mouth was attempting.
“Why are you doing this?” you said, turning it back around on him.
“I’ve got my reasons,” he said without missing a beat.
Something flickered across your eyes, curiosity, maybe, then washed out. “And I’ve got mine.”
That was enough for Rafe. That was more than enough, that there was something in you that wanted to do this.
His hands went down to find his cock and align himself against you. He pushed forward in one, slow continuous motion, and any words you had for him dissolved into a sound that started as a gasp and ended nowhere. Your lips parted and your eyes widened just slightly at the newfound intrusion in your body as your nails sunk into the sides of his neck hard enough to leave crescents.
His own breath left him somewhere guttural and graceless, his face dropping to the crook of your neck. He held still, breathing through his nose against your skin, jaw clenched as every muscle tightened.
Your body was adjusting around him in increments he could feel; the tension in your thighs loosening, your hips shifting beneath his to find the angle, your breathing going from held to shaky. Your fingers moved from his neck to his hair, threading through it, holding on.
“Okay?” he managed to say through his teeth.
“Yeah,” you said, voice coming out through a breath. “Just—stay there a second.”
He stayed, and he would’ve done so for the rest of the night if you’d asked him to. Your legs were wrapped around his hips and your fingers were in his hair and he was inside you in his bed and the whole situation was so far from anything he deserved that he was fairly sure the universe was going to correct the error any second now.
Your hips moved first with a small roll, testing, and whatever you found made your head tilt back and eyes close. You let out a small, surprised sound like you’d answered a question.
“Good?” he said against your neck.
“Move,” you said instead of answering.
He pulled back and pushed in again, and your body rose to meet him on the first stroke like it had been waiting. The angle you found together made you gasp and him swear and it something in motion neither of you could stop.
He pulled back to look at you because he needed to see your face. You looked wrecked already—mouth open, eyes half-shut, heat spreading down your neck—and something about the expression was more than just pleasure. It was surprise, like you hadn't known it could feel like this.
Rafe thought about Topper—a brief flash, Topper in this position, Topper on top of you—and felt something ugly and possessive claw up his throat. He wondered if Topper had ever seen this face.
He pushed himself up to the hilt to shove the thought aside. Your body kept meeting his with a push that matched his own, your hips rolling up into every thrust, and the careful dissolved in the face of it.
At some point, through the haze of too-much-pleasure, more than Rafe deserved, your mouth found his shoulder, breathing hard against his skin. On a thrust that went deeper, your teeth came down reflexively, the bite sharp and sudden, sending a jolt down through him. A bright sting that braided into the pleasure and amplified it, and his hips snapped forward hard in response, punching a sound out of you that vibrated against his shoulder.
You pulled back. “Sorry. I’m sorry—”
He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t really care. You do what you want.”
His hand found your thigh, hiked your leg higher around his waist. The angle shifted and your head tipped back and the sound you made was loud enough to fill the room. Your throat was exposed, the pendant resting in the hollow of your collarbone—the initial that belonged to every version of you that existed outside this bed—and it caught the light as your chest heaved.
Rafe's hand moved before his brain had signed off on it. It shifted from your thigh up your body, over your ribs, your collarbone, and settled against the side of your throat, resting. His palm was against your neck, fingers curving around the column of it, his thumb was against your pulse where it was hammering fast enough to count.
You let out a shuddered breath as your back arched off the mattress, and your hips ground up into him. “Rafe,” you said, sounding almost needier.
Rafe sucked in an inhale. “Yeah?”
Your mouth opened and nothing came out for a second—your body processing—and then a sound that was so unguarded your hand flew up to cover your mouth.
He caught it and pinned it to the mattress beside your head, fingers lacing with yours. His other hand stayed on your throat, elbows resting against the mattress, as his fingers rubbed the skin under your jaw. “Don’t do that.”
Your fingers squeezed his where they were pinned. Your eyes were bright and locked on his. He could feel you everywhere.
Your legs tight around his waist, your hand gripping his, your pulse racing against his palm, the way you clenched around him every time his thumb shifted against your throat. He was keeping all of it. He was putting it in the drawer that had started as a nook and had overtaken every other room in his head. The specific rhythm that made your eyes roll back. The way your body curved into him when he hit the right angle. The small, bitten-off sounds you made.
His lips found yours, tugging them with his teeth rather than kissing at all. Your shaky breaths ghosted over his face.
He could feel you getting close, your breath fragmenting into short gasps and you clenching around his own pulsing. Your hands squeezed his against the mattress hard enough that the bones ached.
“I think I’m—” you started saying against his lips.
“I know,” he said, letting himself find a rhythm—the perfect one, if there even was one, to make you fall apart under him—as his finger reached up to trace your jaw. “I know.”
Within three minutes of Rafe’s body rolling off of yours, he noticed your body stiffen like a fucking stone. He stayed where he was, on his back, and he let the quiet sit because it was, for now, holding.
Your shoulder was against his arm and your knee was somewhere near his. The length of you was just there, warm and breathing, close in a way that the boat or the truck or your bathroom hadn’t allowed. Rafe had never had that with you. He found he didn't entirely know what to do with his arm.
He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and reaching for the jeans on the floor. He got his cigarettes out of the pocket and put his jeans back on. He crossed to the window and pushed it up with the heel of his hand and Rafe sat himself on the sill, half in the room and half out of it. He took the first drag and felt his hands finally have a job. He needed something to do with his hands; lying in bed next to you without reaching out for you again wasn’t, it turned out, a thing his body had been built to do.
He let himself look back at you. You’d propped yourself up on one elbow, the duvet pulled across you, and you were watching him, the way he did you, except he’d had the cowardice to do it across rooms and you were doing it from eight feet away with no apparent shame about it at all.
When you realized he noticed you, your eyes went down.
Rafe huffed, smoke going with it. “Now you’re shy?”
“Shut up.”
“You can stare. I’m right here.”
You shifted under the duvet at his gaze, and your eyes came off him and went to the middle distance. Something in your shoulders drew in, like you were folding half-inch under a thing you had no cover for.
He shifted on the sill, opening the space between his knees so the foot still inside came down flat on the floorboards. He made the room and let it sit there, took another drag, and looked at the dark outside.
You pushed the duvet off and got up to cross the room in his t-shirt, the grey one, the hem of it at the top of your thighs. You sat down between his legs with your back to his chest, and Rafe forgot, for a second, what he’d been doing with his cigarette.
“You cold?” he said, because you’d drawn in against him.
“A little.”
He brought his arm around you and flattened it over your stomach to pull you back the last inch into him, and it sat there like a bar across your front. Your spine fell against his sternum and his chin landed somewhere at the top of your head without fully thinking about it. He smoked over your shoulder, angling it away so it wouldn’t go in your face.
“Can I say something?” you asked after a moment.
“That’s never good.”
“It’s not bad.” you said.
“That’s worse.” He felt you huff, the small laugh going through your back into his chest. He tapped the ash out the window. “Go.”
“I didn’t know I’d—” You stopped, looking out the window. “I don’t usually—” The sentence continued to fall halfway, each version dying before it cleared your teeth. You sighed, longly, then gave up on saying it cleanly at all. “It’s usually never like that for me. That’s all.”
It took Rafe a moment to register you weren’t talking about the sex as much as you were talking about yourself. You’d been in one bed your whole life, and so the basic structure of the thing was a blank you were handing him, with no management on it, trusting him—him, of all people—to draw it in honestly.
“Yeah,” he said carefully.
You nodded against his collarbone, and he felt the small loosening in your body, as though you’d been quietly worried about admitting it and just found out that it was fine.
“Makes sense, though.” He took a drag, the cigarette going into its last embers. “One person your whole life. You don’t even know what you—” The words came out magnanimous, older, knows-better, and he tried to reel it back because he most definitely didn’t know better. “You gotta get out more. Figure out what you like. Who does it for you.” He shrugged, almost stiffly. “You’ve got catching up to do.”
It sat there for half a second, and then the picture loaded behind it—you, like this, and someone else being the one to go looking and find the same pieces he just found—and Rafe discovered the offer he’d made out of generosity was the single most intolerable sentence he’d said all summer.
You tipped your head back against his shoulder to look up at him. There was something small and amused in your face, because you'd caught the seam in his voice a beat before he'd even finished hating himself for it.
“How many more?”
He huffed, low and hot against the side of your head, and shook it once. “Yeah, alright.” His arm drew tighter across your stomach. “Pretty sure I should be enough.”
The cigarette was dead. He’d smoked it past the point of it being anything, down to the place where it was just paper and heat between his fingers, and he reached out and crushed it on the brick of the sill outside. His hand came back in with nothing to do, and he solved it the way he’d started solving most of it recently, which was to find some part of you and settle on it; the flat of his palm went to your hip and stayed, his thumb moving once over the bone of it and then going still.
“I should probably drive you home soon, yeah?” he said into the side of your head. “It’s late.”
He felt your spine taking itself back, the slack going out of you, and the cold rushed back into the warm place at his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” you said quickly. “I’ll get dressed really quick.”
Before he could even process it all, you were already up, crossing for your clothes. He watched you put them on.
Stay was right there, but it wouldn’t come up.
“Hey.” You stopped at his voice, one sandal on, the other one in your hand. “The catching up—” His thumb found the brick where the cigarette had been rubbed. “I’m right here. If you—want to—up to you.”
It was the most he could get out.
“You’re bad at this,” you said, almost matter-of-factly.
He huffed, eyes leaving the window to go back to you for a second. “Yeah, I know.” He laughed then, slightly. “Never really been in this situation before.”
“Yeah,” You bent and set the sandal down on the boards. “Me neither.”
Thick syrupy light that came down at six and made people you couldn’t even stand look like they were worth everyone’s time covered your entire vision. You were on a long teak bench against the pergola with Topper’s arm across the back of it, and you had a sweating glass of something pink you’d been holding for thirty minutes. The Devreux twins were in the pool; someone had fallen asleep upright on the Adirondack chair, a tray of those little crab things was going around, and the citronella candles were already lit.
Topper’s hand was on your knee, it had been there a while. It landed the same way as it always had, without his eyes following it. Two years ago, one year ago, a month ago, it had been nothing, only a thing that came with being his.
The problem was that it wasn’t anything anymore. You could feel exactly where his palm was, and your whole body had started to keep a completely different count this summer that had nothing to do with anniversaries. The count was three, and it was something your skin knew all too well, even when your face didn’t. So his hand sat on your knee in the gold light and you had to make yourself not move it, the way you made yourself not do a lot of things now, and you understood with a small flat horror that you'd become a person who had to be aware of your boyfriend’s touch.
“—no, that’s the thing about her,” Topper said, free hand sloshing as he gestured, and you pulled yourself back in as you realized it was you he was speaking about. “Last year for her birthday, I planned the whole thing, booked the place on the water and got everyone out—like forty people—and she just—” he tipped his head toward you, fond, the spotlight swinging, and you felt it land before you'd arranged your face for it. “She had the best time. Didn’t ask for anything. My mom says it all the time, she’s gonna be so nice to be married to.”
The bench made a unanimous warm and approving sound. Somebody said ‘we love her.’ You smiled, head tilting on autopilot, and you let yourself remember—for exactly one second—that you had wanted, very badly, to spend that birthday at home. That you’d told him so, gently, twice, and he’d heard you didn’t want a fuss because that was an easier version of you to plan around.
Forty people on the water; you’d had the best time because you were good at your job. Topper was saying the truth, that was the unbearable part. Topper stood it was a true story about a girl who didn't want anything, and the girl who hadn’t wanted it had simply never made it across to him, had filed the wanting down small and smooth so he'd never have to notice her carrying it.
He loved to talk about that birthday. He’d talk about it for years. He’d talk about it at the wedding.
Across the lawn, Rafe was leaning against the pergola post with a beer, angled half away from it all. You couldn’t see his face, and you didn’t need to. He was the only person who somehow knew you’d wanted to stay home—a fact that slipped out when your lips had been loose while you were in a haze, simply trying to fill silences—and you had to put your glass to your mouth and not drink just to have something to do that wasn't turning your head.
“You’re quiet,” Topper said, leaning in, the scent of sun and beer filling your nose. “Should I get the car? We can dip early.”
“No need,” you said, smiling. “I’m good.”
You got up after a few minutes and said something about grabbing finger sandwiches and Topper asked you to grab a beer, already halfway into a discussion about a jetski. You said you would, which meant now you would be grabbing a beer.
You went the long way, around the deep end, past the abandoned crab tray and the sleeper with his drink balanced on the side of his chair. You walked through all of it with your empty pink drink and the specific loneliness of being the only sober-feeling person at a party that was working perfectly for everyone else.
You stood in the far end of the pergola where the lattice cut the gold light into pieces, and you set the glass down on the ledge. You put both your hands on the wood and looked at the marsh going gold past the property line and let yourself, for one supervised minute, feel it.
It came up fast once you let yourself feel it; it was the low, slick, swelling kind, the kind that had your name on it. Because Topper was good. Topper was sitting forty feet away being genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy, telling a roomful of people he loved how easy you were to love, how little you needed, how lucky he was. Every word coming out of his mouth was true to him, and he had driven you across the island when you were bored, had asked if you’d eaten, had loved the wrong version of you so correctly that you couldn’t even hate him for not finding the real one.
He would continue being good, and you had spent the summer doing the single worst thing a person could do to another, to him, to the boy who’d done nothing but be exactly what everyone said he was.
Your eyes went hot and you blinked hard as you felt the first one go before you could stop it. You wiped the tear fast with the heel of your hand because crying here would be a catastrophe, and you hated yourself with a completeness that almost steadied you, because at least the hating was honest, at least it was the one true feeling you'd had all day that you weren’t forcing for anybody.
You felt the change in the air, the quiet of someone arriving who knew not to announce it, and you didn't turn around because you couldn't, not with your face like this. Rafe had already seen you like this more times than you would have liked.
“Hey,” he said, voice low behind you, to the set of your shoulders. “You—”
“Not now, Rafe,” you said, voice coming out cracked. You kept your back to him and pressed the heel of your hand under your eye, fast, like you could get there before he saw, and you couldn't, and you knew you couldn't. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I can’t give you—” Your words were interrupted by a hiccup. “Not right now. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not trying to…” You heard Rafe suck in a sharp breath and let the words trail off. “That’s not why I—” He tried again, and he couldn’t get there again, sounding genuinely unsure about how to finish the sentence. “Jesus. No.”
You turned then, because he sounded too caught off-guard, and you got your first look at his face which was filled with genuine confusion, brows furrowed.
“Why would you think—I saw you walking off looking like—” He looked almost offended as he stared at you. Then, he gestured vaguely at your face, his motions moving awkwardly. “Like that. So I came over. That’s it.” He shook his head, frustrated at himself now. “I don’t—I’m not trying to fuck you or whatever. I just came over, alright?”
You let yourself sit with his words for a moment, feeling something like warmth cover your chest and then immediately feeling like a monster for feeling it.
“Okay,” you said finally, voice small.
He nodded once, sharply. “He’s being an idiot.”
You let out a sound that was meant to be a laugh but just came out as a hiccup again. “No, he’s not.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, and you could feel how difficult it was for him to talk right now.
“No, he’s not,” you said again, shaking your head. “He’s good, Rafe. He didn’t do anything and I’m—” You took in a deep breath, forcing yourself to look away from him. “I’m just being a horrible person to him.”
“So fucking what,” Rafe said, the words coming out as the complete opposite of a question. “You’ve probably done a hundred good things for strangers in the last six months.” He scratched at his chin for a moment. “It’s annoying to even watch. Maybe you get one bad thing to do.”
You looked up at him with what should’ve been gratitude, but what came was the reflex. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you wanna keep sleeping with me.”
Your words came out smaller than an accusation, like you were just handing him the easy version on purpose. The one where this could stay a thing you understood, because a guy who said nice things to get something was a guy you knew how to be around, and a guy who said them for no reason was not.
Rafe’s face shifted—you’d stung him, you realized, a beat too late—and he chose to not take the out you’d given him.
“Yeah,” he said flatly, voice dry. “That’s it. That’s exactly why. Came all the way here just to lock that one down.” He looked at you with a look you couldn’t recognize. “Don’t be dumb.”
You wanted to let it end there, because it was all going out of left-field, into an area you couldn’t manage. But Rafe continued, like he was the one who hated silences, “I stole a turtle.”
“Today?” you asked, the word coming out of your mouth before you could process his words.
He shifted his neck back as he looked at you. “No, not today. Obviously.” He looked over you for a moment, reassessing. “Eighth grade. It was a class turtle.”
You let out a laugh that was mainly the aftershocks of your wet eyes and stuffy nose. “What’s wrong with you?” you said, and it came out clogged and unsteady and not unkind at all, almost grateful, the question you’d meant as an accusation arriving as something closer to relief.
“Lotta things,” Rafe said, then took a sip of his beer. “Connor’s mom was gonna keep it for the summer. I didn’t like him. Kept the turtle three months in my closet.”
“What’d he do to you?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Something.”
You laughed then, and your hand went up your mouth. The corner of Rafe’s mouth went up.
“Took care of it, though,” he said after. “Probably better than they would’ve.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm. They were going on vacation that summer, anyway.” He picked at the label on his bottle. “Let it go after. It’s fine out there somewhere.”
You wiped under your eye, the crying mostly gone now, just the wreckage of it left. “I’d look for it.”
He looked at you for a long second, like he was deciding whether you were serious and landing on, in this second, maybe. Then he shook his head, slow, the brows still up.
Rafe’s brows went up a little. “Yeah, that’s all you.”
The overhead lights of Kelce’s basement were off and somebody had plugged in the lamp with the scarf over it that Kelce’s mother did not know her son owned, and the room had gone a low amber colour that made everything look a little more like something was wrong. Upstairs, the party was loud. Down here, it was a circle—the deep couch and the floor and the coffee table that had cigarette burns Kelce blamed, every single time, on a cousin—of eight or nine of you, the number loose for people kept arriving then going.
You were between Topper and Rafe, and you hadn’t chosen this. You’d come down the stairs and there’d been one gap on the couch, and it had Topper on one side of it and Rafe on the other. There was no version of the next two seconds where you would stand in the middle of the basement doing visible math to get out of the situation, so you sat on it.
Topper’s arm went along the back of the couch behind you, which meant he’d stopped tracking where you were, which was its own kind of love and also the reason any of this had been possible all summer. He was already pitched forward into a conversation about a boat motor; Topper could run a conversation with no fuel at all, indefinitely, like a hybrid. So you sat in the loose bracket of his arm and did all the things you were good at, the nod and the small affirming sound and the face set to show you were listening, and you did not look to your other side.
Your other side was Rafe leaning over the glass with a card and a folded bill, and you were spending real effort trying to watch him not do it. The effort was the tell.
You’d gotten frighteningly good at it over the summer; the alibis with no holes, the texts timed so the read receipts said the right story, the whole situation of getting away with it. The easy thing, the keeping your eyes where you put them, turned out to be the one you couldn’t do.
It was difficult, and what came with it every time was the low unstable interest in watching him. There was this wanting to look directly at the thing you’d spent your whole life being walked quickly past. Rafe didn’t manage himself. Rafe had a whole room in him with the lid off, and your whole life had been lids—on drinks you didn’t finish, on sentences you didn’t end, on the want you folded up small and put away before anyone could see the shape of it—and watching him just not do that, just reach for the thing and take it in a basement full of people, did something to you that you couldn’t find a clean name for.
The bill went around. Madi did hers with a wince. It traveled—a guy you half-knew, back across the table—and came near you, and you said, “I’m good.”
“Course you are,” Rafe said, a half-laugh in it. “You ever loosen up?”
“I loosen up,” you said, the words coming out before you could get a hand on them.
His head came around a few degrees. “Yeah?” He sat back off the table and looked at you. “Okay, then,” he said, soft, just for you. There was a dare folded in it only you could hear, because the only honest answer was sitting six inches to your left and getting off on this. “Name one thing you do.”
You felt the heat go up your neck and sealed your mouth. You watched a grin build itself across his face slow and unhurried, enormously enjoying the trap he’d set in plain sight.
“Hey.” Topper’s hand came to your knees, squeezing. “She’s gonna stop humoring you if you keep doing that,” he said, laughing with no heat in it.
He wasn’t even facing Rafe—or you—half his attention already drifted back into the room, because to Topper this was nothing, just two people he liked talking beside him.
For a second, something flickered down behind Rafe’s face, ugly and fast, gone before it finished calcifying. You knew the look he’d swallowed a hundred times this summer watching Topper kiss your temple in front of people.
Rafe leaned back against the couch, head against the cushion. He lifted his hand and dragged two fingers slow across his lip and held them there, and you understood now what the gesture was, forcing it down with two fingers because there was nowhere on God's earth he was allowed to let it out, least of all here, least of all at the person whose lap you were sitting across.
You sat with Topper's thumb moving idle on your knee and watched Rafe swallow a thing he had no business owning, and the awful part—the part you'd think about later—was how it answered something. How Rafe somehow made it feel better than being had.
Then Topper’s phone lit on his leg. He looked at it, said “My dad,” with the apology already on his face, and squeezed your shoulder and stood up, going to the stairs with his phone against his ear.
You saw Rafe’s head turn at the edge of your vision, his body staying exactly where it was, so that when he spoke it came angled at the side of your face. “You see Kelce with that girl earlier?”
You turned to meet him there. “Yes,” you said, too fast. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“Visiting for the summer.” He shrugged, short. “Think he’s pretty into her.”
You weren't a gossip. You didn't do this—it was meant to be beneath the girl everyone had agreed you were—but it came up in you anyway, quick and a little mean and good. “Into her or the summer thing?”
Rafe huffed—almost a laugh, low—and you realized both your heads were turned all the way, that you were angled to him now, and that the two of you had built a tiny private room inside a basement full of people and not one person could have pointed at the thing you'd done to build it.
“What’s gonna happen?”
“Dunno.” A corner of his mouth went up. “I’ll tell you later.”
You opened your mouth a little, then closed it again. You looked at the coffee table, at the cigarette burns, at anything that was not Rafe, and you found that your hand had gone up to the side of your neck on its own and you made it come back down.
Rafe watched you do all of it as a smile settled into the side of his mouth.
“Don’t make that face,” you said.
“But it’s the only one I’ve got,” he drawled. The smile got worse, almost bigger and lazier, and he held your eyes for a second longer. Mercifully, he let you go and leaned forward off the couch and back to the glass of the table.
You watched him line it up, the quick work of his hands with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and the party was a wall of sound somewhere above you. Down here the tally you ran on every room you'd ever been in—who was where, who could see—had quietly stopped running, and you were watching Rafe with your whole stupid face.
He sat back up a few seconds after doing the line and his eyes met yours once again.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“You’re in my eyeline,” you said.
“Move your eyeline,” he said without missing a beat.
“It’s my eyeline. You move.”
“Guess you’re stuck then.” He didn't look away. Neither did you.
He tilted his head a degree, slow, openly, the way a person looks at a thing when they've stopped pretending they're not looking. There were eight people in the room and one of them was upstairs on the phone with his father, and you let Rafe look, and you looked back, and for a second the not-hiding was so much more dangerous than anything you'd actually done.
“Since when,” Kelce started, apparently not by the stairs anymore, “are you two friends?”
Both of you turned to the sound. Kelce was just standing there, between the two of you, his face mostly amused.
“She’s Top’s girl, she has to—”
“He’s Topper’s friend—” you said at the same time as Rafe, the two of you landing the same beat and the same word and the same lie from two different directions, and you heard it happen, heard your voice and his voice arrive together like that, and so did he, because he stopped, and so did you.
Kelce laughed. “Jesus, I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”
You should’ve gotten up then, but you remained seated exactly where you were when Topper came back down the stairs.
Topper looked at the couch, at the space between the two of you on the cushion—not a wide space, a space that had been closing all night by degrees each too small to be charged with anything on its own—and he stood on the last stair and looked at it, and something moved across his face that you had no name for, that you had never needed a name for, because in all these years you had never once seen Topper look at you like he was wondering something.
It felt like a snag—probably half-a-second where his face caught on the two of you with something close to confusion—and then it was gone, smoothed over, and he was Topper again, coming down off the stairs, sliding the phone into his pocket, saying something to someone about something.
It was the first time you’d fallen asleep. You would drift off sometimes after, heavy-lidded but you’d still surface if he moved wrong. This time you were actually asleep, all the way under, your breathing dropped into a slow even rhythm. It had happened maybe twenty minutes ago and Rafe had been lying very still since, on his back, one arm dead under you, not moving it. If he moved, he’d risk the chance of waking you, and if you did, it’d mean the end of this. He’d decided, at some point, he wanted to know long you’d stay if he just didn’t fuck with it.
He’d never quite had this part. He’d had the rest of it plenty; the wanting it, the having it, the after where they gathered their clothes because they had somewhere better to be. Nobody slept. Girls didn’t sleep at Rafe’s, that was a thing you did somewhere comfortable, and Rafe had never been once mistaken for comfortable. He had, in fact, spent a great deal of effort making sure he wasn’t, and so the sleeping went to other people’s beds. And now you were here, the one girl on the island who had the most reasons to keep one eye open around him, out cold on his chest.
He had no idea what he’d done to earn it. He suspected he hadn’t earned it at all, that you’d simply gotten tired and this was an accident of exhaustion rather than a verdict of him. But he was choosing, for the length of your nap, to take it as a verdict.
Your hand was open on his sternum, fingers half-curled. You’d kicked the duvet down to your knees at one point. You ran hot, he learned. You started every night wrapped up and ended it shoving the covers off—that you slept like being contained was a thing you couldn’t stand—which struck him as the single funniest fact.
He should’ve woken you. It was getting late, you had a home to return to with people in it. You had a phone lying on his nightstand that would start lighting up with the name he’d forced out of his mind while you were lying on him.
Still, he laid there and let the minutes run on, and somewhere in the running, the minutes stopped feeling like luck and more like debt. A good thing arrived and sat with him long enough to stop being a surprise, and the second it stopped being that, it became something he owed, a thing with a price-tag faced down that he doesn’t get to keep this.
So when you woke—your hands twitching against his chest—he was almost relieved. Awake, you were a problem he knew how to have. You made a small displeased sound and pressed your face harder into him, like you could climb back under.
“You’re out,” he said, voice coming out rough. He hadn’t used it in an hour.
“‘M not,” you said, voice muffled into his sternum.
You pulled the duvet back up over the both of you instead, and hooked your leg over his, and settled your cheek back down with a weight that had staying in it, and Rafe lay very still under the fact of you deciding that, and felt the want come up hard enough to scare him.
“Can I say something?” you said into his chest.
He huffed slightly. “You don’t gotta ask.”
You breathed through your mouth into his chest. “Think I should end things with Topper.”
The first thing in Rafe was wrong. Fast, animal, up before he could get a hand on it—a kick of pure want, yes, do it, be free—and it was gone almost as fast as it arrived. The second thing came down on top of it like a ceiling; ending things with Topper meant this thing stopped being deniable. The cover would be gone, the frame would be gone, the whole careful system that let any of this exist would come apart in your hands.
So he went still. He felt the stillness travel down into you and turn into fear, felt you reach the conclusion you'd clearly already half-built and come braced for, and your hand went flat on his chest and you started speaking fast, into him, before he'd surfaced enough to get a single word out.
“Not for—” You stopped yourself, taking in a sharp inhale. “It’s not about you. I’m not—I wouldn’t be doing it because of that. It’s just me. For me.”
You’d handed him the out and all he had to do was take it.
“Then don’t,” he said.
He felt you shake your head against him. “Don’t what?” you asked, almost tired, like you knew where he was going.
“End it.” He heard how it sounded yet he couldn’t stop the rest of the words from coming. “You’ve been with him two years. You’re not gonna—what? Throw that out over—” He stopped. Started again, flatter, building the case he needed to be true. “It’s not even—don’t let this be a thing, okay? It’s not me. You feel like this ‘cause you’re not supposed to be doing it. It’d feel like this with anyone who made the move. Just happened to be me.”
You went quiet on him for a second. Then you lifted your head off his chest—something you almost never did, for you said the hard things angled away from him—and you brought your face up so he had to look at it.
“Don’t say things like that about me.” Your words came out even. He’d braced for mad, that would’ve let him be an asshole and you the wronged party; everyone would’ve been in the right place. “I mean it. Don’t.”
And he, who had a hundred things he could’ve said, who’d built a personality out of always having something to say back, found that the only thing in him was the need to take it all back immediately.
“Alright,” he said.
“I’m serious.”
“Alright,” he said, lower this time, as if that would let you see he was listening. For some reason, he wanted you to know he listened. “I won’t. I won’t say it.”
You eyed him for a moment, then said, quietly, “Don’t act like you’re better than me.” He was practically forced into staring at you. “Don’t sit here telling me to stay with Topper like you’re doing some favor, when the only reason any of this happened is ‘cause I’m dating him.” You took a breath, then. “You’d never have looked at me twice if I wasn’t with him.”
He let the words move through his body for a moment before he moved, turning to you, getting an arm braced over you as his weight came up onto his side, over you, close.
“That’s what you think?” he said, and it was the furthest thing from a question.
“Rafe—”
“No, s’fine,” he said quickly. His hand found your jaw and tilted it. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
He brought his mouth to the corner of your lips and stopped there, close enough to feel you breathing wrong, and let you sit in it, because he had nothing to say and a great deal to prove and he wanted you to feel the difference before he made it.
His palm flattened over your stomach and drifted lower, and yours followed behind, a little more hesitant but still determined. His body jerked slightly as your fingers curved around his cock, and he pushed himself unbelievably closer to you. His fingers found the waistband of your underwear, tugging them off your hips just the slightest, enough for him to press down against your heat.
He bit back a groan at the remnants of your everything you’d done before your nap sliding against him.
He got your underwear off the rest of the way without ceremony with one hand, you lifting your hips and bending your knees to help, eyes never leaving your face.
His fingers came back to your jaw and it went slack, head tipping back, and he followed it with his mouth to your throat because he couldn’t not.
“Don’t,” you murmured.
He stilled for a moment.
“Mark.”
Something in him went dark about it, fast and ugly, because it meant you had to go back up that bluff road in a few hours looking like nobody had touched you. He wanted to mark you so badly his teeth ached with it. He wanted to put something on your throat you’d have to explain, wanted Topper to see it and wonder.
Rafe wanted to leave a single piece of proof somewhere on you that this happened, that he had happened. He wanted to ruin the clean line of you on purpose. It was the most honest want he had and it was the one you'd just forbidden.
He lifted his mouth off the soft place and dragged it to the hinge of your jaw instead, somewhere safe and he hated it—and he hated it, hated the leash of it, hated that being good to you and being denied you were the exact same motion—and he let the fury of it pour into everything his hands were doing instead, because that, at least, left no marks if he was being careful.
He got his hand under your thigh and pulled it around his hip and felt you—the heat of you right there, nothing between it now—and had to press his forehead to the side of your face and breathe for a second. You turned your face slightly into his and your mouth found his cheek, the corner of his jaw, a want of a kiss rather than a kiss at all.
“Rafe, do it—”
He pushed in slow, slower than he wanted to. It was slower than his whole body screaming at him to. You made a sound against his temple, a small broken thing, and your fingers dug into his back hard enough to leave something.
He kept going until his hips pressed against yours, flush. He pulled back and drove forward and felt you take it, your whole body shifting up the mattress with the force of it, and he got an arm under your lower back, lifting you slightly, and held you where he wanted you and did it again. Your head fell back and his eyes focused on your throat move.
“Look at me,” he said fast, rough.
You did. You always did, when he asked, and every time it nearly took him apart.
He set a pace that was far from gentle and you rose to meet it, hips tilting, finding the angle, adjusting without asking him to, and he felt the precise moment you found what you needed because your whole body changed and you made a sound low in your throat that he felt in his sternum.
He pushed your leg higher and went deeper, pulling you up so you were almost off the bed, and your hand flew up to the headboard, bracing.
“Yeah,” he said, and didn't mean to say anything at all.
Your eyes were half-closed, your mouth open, and you looked like something he had absolutely no right to and was going to have anyway, had already decided, had already been unable to stop from the moment you'd said his name and left a door open.
His mouth found yours, messy, barely a kiss, more breath than anything. Your hips moved against his and he groaned into your mouth and felt you shiver at the sound of it, your whole body registering it, which meant he did it again deliberately and watched what it did to your face.
He moved his hand between you, finger finding the bundle of nerves, pressing down slightly before he found a smooth motion. He extended his other arm around your back, holding you up.
Your reaction was immediate and unguarded and your head went back against the air with a force that was almost funny, almost—he wanted to say something, he felt it come up—but he swallowed it and pressed his mouth to your jaw instead and kept his hand moving because he wanted you there, wanted to feel it, had earned it by two years of not having it.
“Please—” The word came out of you fractured halfway.
“I know. C’mon.”
You went tight around him and he felt it building, felt the shape of it in the way you gripped him and the hitch in your breathing and the small desperate sound you were trying and failing to keep from happening, and he put his mouth to your ear and said nothing, just let you hear what you were doing to his breathing, let that be the thing to let you know you weren't alone in it.
You broke apart quietly. A deep shudder moved through your whole body, your face open and unguarded, your fingers gripping his back hard enough that he'd find it tomorrow and not mind.
You could mark him.
He followed you over the edge with his face pressed into your hair, your name in his mouth, a low rough sound into your hair and his whole body giving up the careful hold it had kept on itself.
He stayed where he was for a moment, both of you breathing. Your hand was flat on his back, not gripping anymore, just resting. He held you for a moment longer before setting you down on the mattress.
At the dock in the last week of July, during the hour everyone else had gone up to the house before the mosquitoes forced them in, Rafe had stayed back because Topper had, and Rafe understood about ninety seconds later it was to get him alone.
Rafe had spent his childhood being gotten alone by Ward, summoned to the study (to this day, Rafe still had no idea what he used it for)—or the boat or the living room, for conversations that always meant his father had decided something for him.
So when Topper stayed behind while the others left, Rafe felt the old thing tick over his chest, the same bracing. So, he stood at the end of the Thorntons’ dock with a warm beer he’d stopped drinking a while ago, waiting to decide what Topper had decided for him.
He was surprised when he realized Topper was nervous, the same guy who had never had to go looking for a sentence. He was doing something useless with the dock line—wrapping it then unwrapping it—and Rafe watched his hands and, for a moment, thought that Topper fucking knows.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” Rafe said, the word trailing off awkwardly.
“You think she’s happy?”
Rafe felt his mouth go dry. He kept his face pointed at the water. He had four or maybe fifteen answers and ran through all of them—he didn’t even know his brain could think that fast—and under all of them, traitor-fast, arriving before he could shut the drawer on it, Rafe heard your voice against his truck window, ‘I don’t know if that’s normal or if something’s wrong with me.’
Rafe had the answer to Topper's question. He'd had it cold for almost three months, carrying it around like a stolen thing he kept meaning to give back and didn't.
He shrugged, and he hoped it didn’t look as stiff as it felt. “She’s fine. I don’t really know her.”
“That’s not—” Topper stopped, then looped the line again. “I didn’t ask if she’s fine.”
Rafe felt himself turn to look at Topper, because the correction was so unlike him, the small insistence on the gap between ‘fine’ and ‘happy,’ a gap Rafe had never known Topper could see. For the first time, Rafe felt that Topper was acting differently.
Topper looked wretched. “I think she’s somewhere else. Lately.” He gestured with the line, at the dark water, at nothing. “I don’t know how to say it.”
“I don’t know, man.” The words came out of Rafe slow, as though he was reaching for it. “Girls get like that when you’re—” He made a vague motion with a bottle. “On ‘em too much.”
“I’m not on her.”
“I’m not saying you are.” He shrugged. “I’m saying you’re doing the whole—” He made another lazy motion. “Apartment. Rings. The you’re gonna do this with her, you’re gonna do that. Every time you talk about her.” He kept his eyes on the water. He kept his voice in the register that couldn't be weighed. “If some girl was telling me what to do with my life, I’d get weird about it, too. That’s my hunch.”
It wasn’t a hunch so much as it was him molding the exact words you’d said to him about Topper only a few nights ago. Rafe had taken it and scrubbed every fingerprint off of it, scrubbed you off of it, until it was dull and safe enough to hand to your boyfriend.
He watched Topper receive it exactly as that, as a hunch.
“You think I should back off?”
“I think—” Yes. Back off. Loosen the hold you’ve got so the other guy can—“I have no clue. Girls come back around.”
And Rafe’s words may have meant even a little bit of something if, within two hours of the conversation, he didn’t have you on top of him, the tailgate down and the night doing its loud thing past the trees, and Rafe had his hand flat on your back between your shoulder blades.
Your cheek was on his chest and you weren't talking, and Rafe was finding out for the hundredth time that he didn't know what to do with this part.
The sex he understood. This—the after, your weight settled all the way down onto him like you'd stopped holding any of it up, your breathing gone slow—this he still had no instructions for. So he stayed still and let you be heavy on him and looked at the dark shape of the trees.
“Can I say something bad?” you said against his chest.
“Obviously.”
“Dean, that guy at the party tonight.” You picked at a thread on the moving blanket where it had pilled. “I think he’s annoying. He was hitting on Madi and she wasn’t into it.”
Rafe huffed, the laugh moving up through his chest under your cheek. “What’s annoying about him?”
“He said my name like nine times in two minutes. He did the same thing to her. It makes me trust him less.”
“That’s so mean.” Rafe felt himself blow out an amused breath. “You’re so mean. Nobody knows.”
“Don’t tell.”
That was even more amusing. “Who am I gonna tell? Barry?” His hand moved on your back, down, stayed. “He’d probably forget in two seconds.”
“I can’t believe he’s the person that makes you go to The Cut.”
“And he beats me up sometimes.” He felt his palm slightly push your body down against him, as if you could get any closer. “Barry would love you.”
“Your dealer,” you said flatly. “Thanks.”
"Don’t ever meet him, though.”
His hand flattened against your back, drawing you up the half-inch it took to put your face level with his.
His lips found yours slow, a kiss with no chase behind it. His hand cradled the back of your skull off the cold metal, like there was all the time in the world. He felt you sink into it; that was getting easier, as though you’d stopped being scared of how easy.
When he pulled back, his mouth stayed close. “You going to that dinner with Top’s lacrosse buddies on Friday?”
“I’m supposed to.”
His thumb moved at your jaw. “You’ll want to die.”
“I told him I’d go.”
Rafe shrugged. “Tell him you’re tired. Pretty sure my house is gonna be empty Friday, too.”
You took a shaky breath and dropped your head into the crook of his neck. “That’s such a shitty thing to do.”
“Yeah.” His hand went still at your jaw, and he felt his chin involuntarily dip to rest against the top of your head. “You gonna do it?”
“Maybe,” you said, voice muffled against his body.
He moved his hand up to the back of your head again. “Good.”
That should have been all the night asked from him, the two of you going quiet, him heavy and stupid and content underneath you in a way he’d never tell a living soul he was capable of being. He’d half-decided not to move for an hour; he had the whole thing planned, to stay right there.
The phone went off on the floor of the backseat.
He groaned, low, the whole of it vibrating up his chest and into your cheek. “No.”
“Rafe—”
“No.” He pulled you in tighter, an arm banded across your back, like he could keep both of you out of range by its sheer hold. The phone continued buzzing against the floormat, ugly and insistent. “Not right now.”
You were laughing slightly, you'd tipped your face up off his chest, and he felt the warmth of it more than heard it. “Could be important.”
“Yeah? Could be your boyfriend,” he said, teasing.
You exhaled. “I hate you.”
He laughed then, feeling it move up him easily. “Yeah. Okay.”
“You’re the worst person I know,” you said it into his neck, where you'd tucked your face again, and your breath was warm there and your hand had gone back to the hem of his shirt, the idle pulling thing, no point to it.
He tilted his chin slightly downwards to press his lips against the top of your head. “That’s okay.”
You were smiling, he could feel the shape of it against his throat. The phone was still going on the floormat and neither of you were looking at it, and Rafe thought, for a moment, that he would have signed anything to keep the night exactly here. Not further, not better, only here.
The phone stopped, and he let out a breath slowly. Then, it immediately started again. This time, he felt the change go through his body—the warmth pulled out of him in one motion, the loose gone, everything in him drawing up into the old brace—because nobody rang twice back to back at this hour. Except for the one person who had never, in twenty years, accepted a thing Rafe didn't pick up as anything other than a thing Rafe was going to pay for.
The smile went out of you against his neck, and you got very still, and your hand stopped its idle work and just rested flat over his chest, over the place his heart had started doing the wrong rhythm.
“You should get it,” you said.
“Yeah.” He kept you there through one more buzz, and one more, taking the last of it while it was still his to take. “Yeah. Okay.”
He got the phone off the floor without letting go of you. That took some doing; a long reach down the side of the seat with one arm while the other stayed banded across your back. He came back up with it and you stayed exactly where you were, your cheek over his heart, and he answered with his thumb and put it to his ear and did not move you one inch.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone. He put his free hand into your hair, slowly dragging his fingers against your scalp, the small idle motion his body reached for the way it reached for the truck door, automatic, before the part of him that named things had any say. “...No, I lost track of time.”
Ward’s voice then came clipped down the line, and Rafe shut his eyes against the dome light and let it fill his ears, hardly processing it. His thumb found the shell of your ear and was tracing it, completely out of sync with the thing going up his spine.
“Yeah. The Fischers. I know. I know.” He didn’t know. It was a blank where a plan should have been, one more thing he’d been told and lost. He listened through Ward’s of course you forgot speech, let it go on without interruption. “I’ll be there. Twenty minutes.”
He kept his hand moving on you the whole time, going down your spine now in one long stroke then back up. He half-forgot you could feel it, that you weren’t simply just a warmth but a person who could feel every inch of this. He pressed you down against his chest, firmer, on the hard part of it, and felt his own heart going at the wrong speed under where your cheek was and couldn't make it stop.
“I said I’ll be there.” The edge came up despite him trying to train himself to keep it out when talking to his father. He hated it the second it was out, because the edge was a tell, the edge told Ward he'd gotten in, and he should never let Ward know he'd gotten in. He flattened it back down. “Twenty minutes—yeah. Okay. Okay.”
He hung up.
His hand was still buried in your hair, his heart still wrong under your cheek, and he kept his eyes on the roof of the cab and waited for himself to come back from wherever the phone had sent him.
That was a thing that took a beat, the return, and you knew it took a beat, and he could tell you knew because you didn't move and didn't ask, you just stayed heavy on him and let him do it.
Rafe thought, not for the first time, that you'd somehow learned the one thing about him almost nobody had ever bothered to; that the worst moment to reach for him was the moment right after, and the kindest thing was to just be there and weigh something and wait.
“Sorry,” he said to the roof, voice coming out rough. He tipped his face down then, into your hair, breathing you in. “M’Sorry. I gotta go. I’ll drop you home.”
“Right now?” you asked, voice muffled against him.
“Mm.” His arm tightened around you, body lying to his mouth again. “Not yet.”
He stayed under you for a second he didn’t have. He'd be late. He was always going to be a little late to Ward; might as well earn it.
But he did push himself to sit up, and he got his arm that was around you to bring you up as he came off the seat-back, the blanket sliding. Your legs ended up across his lap and his hand stayed flat against your spine. He held you there a beat, upright now, your face level with his in the dome light, and he could see the leftover softness in you not entirely cleared yet, the you that came out here and nowhere else.
Rafe had no idea when he’d agreed to let you look through his closet, but he had. It was almost four in the morning, and you were standing in the open mouth of his closet in one of his t-shirts and nothing he was going to be able to think about clearly, going through his clothes like this was something you just really wanted to do.
He’d put himself on the bed on purpose; it was a safe distance from whatever that was happening, which was you, sliding hangers down the rail one at a time, considering. Rafe was lying back on his elbows pretending the sight of you in his bedroom like this wasn’t doing anything to him.
He’d let it slip on accident, post-haze, that he had to meet Ward’s friends for dinner tomorrow. He’d wanted it to come off as light, carry no weight, because he, three months in, still didn’t want you to see him as a person who was afraid of a simple, stupid dinner with his dad and his asshole friends flying in from fuck-knows-where.
“What’s the dinner for?” you’d asked him.
“Don’t know. Ward wants me there to—” Rafe rolled a shoulder, his lips involuntarily curving into a grimace. “Impress them or something. No idea. Don’t even know what I’m gonna wear.”
Rafe was mildly surprised when you asked him, voice so stupidly lighthearted, if you could help him. And now you were humming, low, as you pulled a jacket halfway out, looked at it, and put it back.
Somewhere along the way, he’d understood that you’d started being able to read him, too. Maybe not in the way he had been reading you for years, but you’d started to understand his tells. He had a lot of those.
You were standing in his closet frowning at his clothes because you’d worked out, from a sentence he'd stripped all the weight off of, that he was scared, and you were trying to help. The way a person helps another person they don't want to watch walk into something alone.
And Rafe felt his whole body go wrong about it.
He was finding out the hard way that being looked after did the opposite of soothe him; he watched you take him seriously, and every reasonable part of him understood this was a good thing happening to him.
And the rest of him, the older and more reliable part, the part that had been doing Rafe's load-bearing since he was a kid, stood up and started checking the exits.
He couldn’t lose a thing he never had. And you, trying to help him be a son his father could stand to look at, you were a thing he was, very obviously, in the disastrous process of having. Maybe not completely, but it was the most he had ever had.
And the better it felt—and it felt like a hand on the back of his neck and being the right size—the more it was going to cost him later. And Rafe’s nervous system ignored the later was later, for it had started accounting now.
So he reached for the other thing. “C’mere,” he said.
You glanced over at him—a short look, unbothered, God, when had you started being able to be so fucking mean?—and then went back to the rail. “In a second,” you said.
“Now’s good,” he said flatly.
You pulled another shirt out and held it up against the dark of the closet. “I’m finding a shirt.”
“Yeah.” He pushed himself up off his elbows and sat up, feet against the floor. He heard his own voice drop a register. “Come find it here.”
“Doesn’t even make sense,” you murmured.
You slid another hanger down, completely unbothered by him, and that was the part of it all that had been killing him lately, you’d stopped being nervous around him. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, and he knew he’d never be able to undo it.
“Are you cold?” he tried again.
“Not really.” You pulled out a navy button-down, considered it, turned. “Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’re being so weird.” You looked at him, and Rafe had a feeling you were realizing that he was reaching for you because you were being so kind to him and it had gotten too big for Rafe to be in a room with, and sex was the only thing Rafe knew how to do with his hands that wasn't standing still inside something good. “You’re gonna distract me,” you said instead.
“Not trying to.”
“You’re completely trying to,” you said lightly, and then you went back to his clothes.
“This one,” you said after a moment. You'd pulled a shirt. You turned around with it, held it up against him from a few feet off, your head tipped, your eyes doing the careful work. “Navy. You look good in navy.”
“You think?” He wanted to hit himself for how fast he asked. “That the one?”
“Mhm,” you hummed breezily. “And it’ll make your dad shut up.”
Rafe sat there and let you look at him, and felt the fight go out of him the way air goes out of a thing, slow, and without much ceremony. He’d spent twenty years not being allowed things, mostly by himself, mostly on purpose, and he was sitting on his own bed with a girl holding a shirt up against his chest and trying to help him not get hurt tomorrow, and he found he did not, tonight, have it in him to keep the door shut. So he didn’t hold it.
He swallowed, then forced out a laugh. “Probably not, but that’s a good one.”
You crossed the room when you were done with the shirt—laid it over the back of his desk and everything—and came to stand between his knees. Rafe got his hands to your waist because they’d been idling the whole time just waiting for you.
You were warm through his shirt. You smelled like his room now.
“You’re gonna be fine tomorrow,” you said, voice completely sure.
“Mhm.” His palms tightened around your waist then, slightly tugging you forward. “You gonna come back to bed now?”
“You’re so impatient,” you said, but you let him pull you, your knees bracketing his as you settled into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times, which—Rafe did the calculation—you basically had.
His hands found the small of your back and stayed there. “Because you didn’t come to bed.”
“I was busy.” You looped your arms loose around his neck, looking down at him. “Someone’s gotta dress you.”
“I can dress myself.”
“Clearly.” You glanced at the floor, at the four shirts he'd left in a heap before you got here, and back at him, brow up.
He snorted, and you went quiet, your fingers playing idle with the hair at the back of his neck.
“Oh. Saturday,” you said after a minute, “Ruthie finally got Topper to do that lunch at the yacht club.” You shrugged. “Till like five.”
It took him a second to process the words. “The whole day?”
“Yeah, I think so. Whole day.” you said quietly. There was something almost shy folded into it, like you'd handed him something and weren't sure he'd want it.
pov. it’s been a while since you’d last seen rafe, you changed. you’re not nerdy anymore, you have a boyfriend that- wait. what?
notes. this is the heavily requested part two of my fanfic of nerd x frat boy rafe!
content warnings. ⸝⸝ fem reader, cheating, flirting, teasing, sex, degrading, no proof read, action/mention of alcohol, sex,
a whole summer had past since you lost your virginity and seen rafe last. the frat parties came easier, men came to you more and alcohol didn’t burn your throat as much. you gained friends, still deep in study but not as much.
“shots, shots, shots!” your friends chant as you tossed the alcohol that was in the shot glass to the back of your throat, heating gaining in his throat as the bitter alcohol burned your throat.
“woo!” your friend squealed out, laughing softly. you exhale out, blowing out as if your mouth was on fire. “oh my god that is the worst.” you complained before laughing once again.
your friends go quiet before one whistled under her breath. “don’t look but there’s this hot guy staring at you.” your friend said, pretending as if she wasn’t talking about the guy but instead making more for the group to drink.
even though they told you not to look, you obviously turned to look over your shoulder and there was rafe.
“i told you not to look!” your friend snickered before you laugh softly, looking back at your group. “i’ll be back, okay?” you ask, they nod and smile at each other, assuming you were gonna go get the guy’s number.
you walk up to rafe. the bass from the speakers vibrates through the sticky floor under your heels as you weave through the crowded room, your once oversized sweaters and glasses long replaced by a tight little dress that hugs every curve you had finally started embracing.
rafe stands there against the wall like he owns the place, that same cocky smirk playing on his lips as his eyes drag up and down your body, taking in the transformation that a single summer had carved into you.
his eyebrows lift slightly in genuine surprise, the last memory he had of you being the shy, book obsessed girl who blushed at every touch and fumbled through her first time with him in a haze of nervous whispers and tangled sheets.
he pushes off the wall as you get closer, his tall frame cutting through the dim lights and swirling bodies like nothing else in the room matters. “well fuck me,” he drawls, voice low and rough over the music, “look at you. didn’t think you’d be the type to show up at these things.” you stop just a step away from him, close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with whatever expensive drink he’s been nursing, and you tilt your head with a small, confident smile that feels new on your lips.
the old version of you would have stammered or hidden behind her hair, but tonight you hold his gaze, letting the heat of the party and the lingering buzz from that shot loosen your tongue.
“yeah, things changed over the summer,” you say, your voice carrying just enough edge to match the thump of the bass. “i’m letting go a little, you know? less buried in textbooks every night, more of this… living.” you gesture vaguely around the chaotic frat house, the laughter, the spilled drinks, the way people move without caring about tomorrow’s exams.
rafe’s eyes narrow a bit, that smirk deepening as he steps even closer, his hand brushing lightly against your waist like he’s testing if this new you is real or just some illusion from the lights.
the touch sends a familiar spark through you, reminding you of that night months ago when he had been the one to unravel all your careful control.
he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating between you as he leans in, lips close to your ear so you can hear him clearly over the noise. “yeah? you’re a bad girl now?” the words roll off his tongue with that mix of teasing and something darker, hungrier, his fingers pressing a little firmer into your side as if he’s already imagining peeling this dress off you later.
you feel the flush creep up your neck but you don’t pull away, instead letting your own hand rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the thin fabric of his shirt.
the party swirls on around you both, but in this little bubble it feels like the summer apart had built up to exactly this moment, the nerdy girl he once knew now standing here transformed and ready to match whatever energy he throws your way.
rafe’s fingers stay firm on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer so the heat of his body cuts through the hazy party air, his breath warm against your ear as that low chuckle fades. “yeah? you’re a bad girl now?” he repeats, the words laced with amusement and something sharper, like he’s already peeling back the layers of this new version of you.
you bite your lip, feeling the rush of the alcohol and the thrill of his attention mixing together, and you nod slowly, your hand still pressed to his chest where his heart thuds steady and strong.
the music pulses around you, bodies grinding on the dance floor just a few feet away, but all you can focus on is the way his eyes lock onto yours, low and assessing, like he’s deciding exactly how far this changed girl is willing to go.
“so what’s the deal,” he murmurs after a beat, his thumb tracing a slow circle against the fabric of your tight dress, right over your hip. “you got a boyfriend now? girl like you, looking like this at a party… probably got some guy thinking he’s locking it down.” his tone is casual but there’s an edge to it, testing the waters as he watches your face closely, that signature rafe smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
you hesitate for just a second, the old nerdy instincts flickering somewhere deep down, but the summer of parties and freedom wins out. you let out a soft laugh and nod, meeting his gaze without flinching. “yeah, i do,” you admit, voice steady even as your pulse quickens under his touch. “he’s nice. treats me good. we’ve been together a couple months now.” you say, smiling.
rafe doesn’t pull back. instead he leans in even more, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as the crowd seems to fade into background noise. “nice, huh?” he echoes, the word dripping with disbelief and a hint of mockery.
his hand slides lower, possessive, fingers splaying across the small of your back as he keeps you close.
“bet he’s real sweet. probably fucks you soft and slow, tells you how pretty you are after. but tell me this… you really happy with that? or you standing here letting me touch you like this because deep down you remember how it felt when i had you that night?” his voice drops lower, rough and intimate, sending heat straight through your core as he tests you, pushing to see if this party girl facade hides the same girl who secretly craves more than nice.
you feel your breath catch, the memory of that summer night flashing hot behind your eyes. his hands, his mouth, the way he’d taken control so completely.
rafe notices the way your body reacts, the subtle shift in your stance, and he presses on with that dangerous smirk, eyes flicking down to your lips before meeting your gaze again.
rafe didn’t waste much time after that charged conversation on the edge of the party.
one thing led to another, his hand sliding down to grip your ass right there in the crowd, your lips crashing into his in a messy kiss that tasted like cheap shots and bad decisions, and before you knew it the two of you were slipping out the back door and into his truck.
the drive to his place was a blur of heated touches and half formed excuses you told yourself about how this was just one night, just catching up, but the second his door clicked shut behind you both the restraint snapped.
clothes came off in a frantic trail from the living room to his bedroom, your tight little dress hitting the floor last as he shoved you back onto his bed with that same cocky hunger in his eyes.
now he’s got you pinned beneath him, your legs wrapped tight around his waist as he thrusts deep into you, slow and deliberate at first, stretching you open just like he did that first night but with none of the gentle care this time.
the room is dark except for the city lights bleeding through the blinds, and the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the wet slap of skin on skin.
rafe’s hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto his cock with every roll of his hips, burying himself to the hilt while he leans down close, lips brushing your ear.
“fuck, still so tight for me,” he groans, voice low and rough, “bet your nice little boyfriend doesn’t fuck you like this, does he? probably too scared to ruin his good girl.” he mocked.
you moan beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, slamming into you harder, the headboard starting to knock against the wall in rhythm. rafe chuckles darkly against your neck, biting down just enough to make you gasp before he pulls back to look at your face, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction.
“yeah? you’re a bad girl now, huh? letting me raw you while he’s probably texting you goodnight right now, thinking you’re out with your friends being all innocent.” he grinds deep on the next thrust, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there, possessively. as if he was jealous your little boyfriend had you and he didn’t.
“tell me, does he make you come like this? or do you have to fake it while you think about how i ruined this pussy first?” he asked. you couldn’t answer him.
his hips snap forward again and again, relentless, the slick sound of him fucking into you filling the room as sweat starts to slick your bodies.
you can barely form words, just broken whimpers and gasps, but rafe doesn’t let up, leaning in to suck a mark onto your collarbone where your boyfriend might see it later if you’re not careful.
“that’s it, take it,” he taunts between thrusts, voice dripping with smug amusement, “squeezing my cock so fucking good while you cheat on him. bet he has no idea his sweet little study girl is getting dicked down by the guy who popped her cherry. you gonna go home tomorrow and kiss him with the same mouth that was choking on me earlier?” he teased relentlessly.
rafe shifts, hooking one of your legs higher over his shoulder so he can drive even deeper, pounding into you with that brutal rhythm that has you trembling and clenching around him.
his free hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, mean strokes, pushing you closer to the edge while he keeps whispering those filthy taunts right against your lips.
“c’mon, tell me how much better this feels than his boring shit. you’re not walking away from this easy, baby. not when you’re creaming all over my dick like the secret slut you really are.” the pleasure builds sharp and overwhelming, his words cutting through the haze, reminding you with every thrust exactly who you’re betraying and how much you’re enjoying it.
rafe’s hips snap forward with another deep, punishing thrust, burying his thick cock all the way inside you until his hips are flush against your ass, stretching your pussy so wide it burns in the best way.
you feel every inch of him, heavy and rock hard, pulsing against your walls as he fills you completely, the fat head of his dick pressing right up against that spot deep inside that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch.
“fuck, rafe,” you gasp out, voice breaking into a needy moan as your nails rake down his back, legs trembling around him. the sensation is overwhelming, his dick so much bigger than your boyfriend’s, thicker, longer, curving just right to drag against every sensitive ridge inside you with every single movement, making your cunt flutter and squeeze around him like it never wants to let go.
“you’re so much better than my boyfriend,” you whimper, the confession spilling out between broken moans as he grinds into you slow and filthy, letting you feel just how full you are.
“he’s not… he’s not like this. you’re so big, rafe—god, i can feel you everywhere, stretching me so fucking deep.” your words only make him groan, a dark, satisfied sound that vibrates against your skin as he pulls back almost all the way, the thick vein along his shaft dragging deliciously against your slick walls, before slamming back in hard enough to make your tits bounce and the bed creaks louder.
“yeah? that’s what i thought,” rafe taunts, voice low and rough right against your ear, his breath hot as he keeps that brutal rhythm, pounding into your dripping pussy like he owns it.
“your nice little boyfriend probably has a tiny dick, doesn’t he? can’t even fill you up properly, and here you are creaming all over mine like a desperate little slut.” he hooks your leg higher, spreading you wider so he can watch his cock disappear inside you, shiny with your juices, stretching your tight hole obscenely around his girth.
every thrust makes you feel so impossibly full, the pressure building in your belly as his heavy balls slap against your ass, the wet squelching sounds echoing filthy in the room.
“bet he fucks you for two minutes and calls it a night while you lay there disappointed. but me? i’m ruining this pussy again, baby. you feel that? how deep i am? how your cunt’s gripping me like it missed this fat cock all summer.” he taunted.
he leans down, sucking a fresh mark onto your neck as he rails you harder, thumb still working tight circles over your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
your walls clamp down around him with every thrust, the fullness so intense it borders on too much, his dick hitting spots your boyfriend could never reach, making your eyes roll back and your moans turn into shameless cries.
“tell him i said thanks for keeping my pussy warm,” rafe growls, smirking against your skin while he fucks you senseless, hips snapping relentlessly. “you’re gonna go home sore tomorrow, walking funny because i stretched you out so good. does he even know his girlfriend’s a cheating whore now? taking dick better than he ever could while moaning my name?”
rafe’s pace turns punishing, driving into you faster, deeper, the head of his cock bullying that sweet spot over and over until your whole body shakes, the overwhelming stretch and drag of his thick length pushing you right to the edge.
“that’s it, say it again,” he demands, hand tightening on your throat just enough to make everything feel sharper, hotter. “tell me how much bigger i am, how much better i fuck you. your boyfriend could never make you feel like this—full, ruined, and dripping like the bad girl you really are.” he taunted once more.
rafe keeps pounding into you with that relentless rhythm, his thick cock stretching your soaked pussy wide open with every brutal thrust, the heavy drag of his veiny shaft rubbing perfectly against your fluttering walls and making your eyes water from the overwhelming fullness.
he’s so deep it feels like he’s rearranging your insides, the fat head of his dick kissing your cervix on every stroke while your cunt clenches greedily around his girth, milking him for everything he’s worth.
sweat slicks your bodies, your tits bouncing with the force of his hips slamming into yours, and the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking your dripping hole fill the room like the filthiest soundtrack.
“fuck, listen to you,” he growls, that smug smirk never leaving his face as he hooks both your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half so he can drive even deeper.
“you really want my baby instead of your boyfriend’s, don’t you? imagine that. your nice guy waiting at home while i knock you up with my kid. you’d walk around with my cum leaking out of you for days, belly swelling up, tits getting all full… bet he’d never suspect his sweet little girlfriend got bred by the guy who ruined her first.” his words are pure taunt, dripping with cruel amusement as he grinds his cock against that spot inside you that makes your vision spark white, thumb still torturing your swollen clit in tight, mean circles.
you’re a mess beneath him, moaning and shaking, the pressure building so intensely you can barely think.
“please, rafe,” you beg, voice cracking into a desperate whine as your nails dig into his biceps, legs trembling from the stretch.
“cum inside me—please, i need it. fill me up, i want your cum so bad.” the words tumble out shamelessly, your pussy spasming hard around his thick length at the confession, sucking him even deeper as if your body is already begging for it.
rafe laughs low and dark, hips snapping forward harder as he chases his release. “yeah? you want me to pump you full while your boyfriend sits clueless? pathetic little slut.” he buries himself to the hilt one last time and groans, thick ropes of hot cum flooding your pussy in heavy spurts, painting your walls and filling you so full you can feel your belly swell slightly from the sheer amount.
even as he’s cumming, he doesn’t stop taunting, voice rough and breathless against your ear. “that’s it, take every drop. your boyfriend could never give you a load like this—bet his weak ass pulls out or some shit. now you’re gonna go home with my cum dripping down your thighs, wondering if i just got you pregnant while he kisses you goodnight.”
he keeps fucking into you even after he finishes, slow and filthy thrusts pushing his load deeper, the wet squelch of his cum mixing with your juices making it even messier as he rides out the sensitivity.
his cock stays hard inside your overstuffed cunt, still stretching you obscenely, dragging through the creamy mess he just made. the overstimulation has you whimpering, clenching around him as another wave builds fast, and rafe just smirks, grinding deep and relentless.
“feel that? my cum sloshing around in there while i keep using this cheating pussy.” he picks up speed again, slamming into you with fresh hunger until his second orgasm hits, groaning as he pumps even more cum into you, flooding your already full hole until it starts leaking out around his thick shaft with every thrust.
can you write military rafe coming home from deployment and being REALLY REALLY REALLY ROUGH
⎯⎯⎯⎯ 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 ✦
pov. drill instructor rafe loves giving you orders since he’s gotten home for the holidays
content warnings. ⸝⸝ fem reader, brat taming, bdsm, restraints, mean degrading, hair pulling, no proof read, biting, rough manhandling, mouth fucking/throat fucking, oral sex, gagging
“go on.” he tells you, gesturing toward the bed. you roll your eyes, walking slowly to the bed. his hands grab your arms, snatching you toward him to get the handcuffs on. he adjusts them tight, letting the metal bite into your wrists. “ouch, that hurts rafe.” you whine. he lifts a brow, eyes locking on yours. his hand grips your jaw firmly. “did i ask you if it hurts, whore?”
your brows furrow as you shake your head side to side. he smirks, leaning down so his lips brush your ear. “good girl. listen like a little bitch and you’ll get rewarded.” he whispers, then shoves you onto the bed.
“you want your reward, baby?” he asks. you shift to sit on the edge of the bed, facing him. his hands slide down to his belt, undoing it slowly while your eyes stay glued to every movement. you swallow hard, nerves and heat building in your stomach. rafe suddenly slaps your cheek, just enough to snap your focus back to him. “little whore,” he comments, smiling down at you as he pulls the belt completely free.
the thick leather snaps through the loops with a sharp sound. he doubles it over in his fist for a second, testing it, then steps closer. he loops the belt around the back of your neck, feeding the end through the buckle before wrapping the loose tail around his own waist. he yanks it tight, cinching you to him so your face is locked against his crotch with almost no give. the leather presses into your skin and his hips, creating a solid harness that keeps you exactly where he wants you.
“been gone too fucking long,” he mutters, voice rough from months of barking orders. he fists your hair with one hand, tilting your head just right, while his other hand frees his cock. it’s already hard and heavy, flushed dark at the tip.
he taps it against your lips once, twice, then pushes forward on the third stroke, sliding deep into your throat. the belt holds you perfectly in place, no pulling back, no escape. your cuffed hands twitch uselessly behind you as he bottoms out, your nose pressed flush against him.
you choke instantly, eyes watering as the thick length stretches your throat. a desperate whine vibrates around him when he pulls back just enough for you to gasp, “rafe—it’s too big.” you say.
rafe’s hand cracks across your cheek in a sharp slap, the sting blooming hot on your skin. “shut the fuck up and take it, baby. or i’ll make it worse for you.” his hips roll forward again, pushing back into your mouth with purpose.
you shut up fast, tears slipping down your cheeks as you focus on breathing through your nose and relaxing your throat. he groans in approval, using the belt like a stabilizer to keep you pinned while he fucks your face with deep, controlled strokes. the wet sounds of your throat fill the room as you take every inch like the good girlfriend he needs after being away.
after a few more punishing thrusts his rhythm falters, abs tightening against the leather strap. “fuck—that’s it,” he hisses. thick, hot spurts of cum flood your mouth, coating your tongue and sliding down your throat. he holds you there, belt tight, making sure you feel every pulse. “swallow it all, baby. every drop for me.” he said.
you do, swallowing around his cock with a soft whimper, the salty taste filling your senses until he finally pulls back. he undoes the belt with a quick tug, letting it drop to the floor. his hands grip your arms and pull you up to stand on shaky legs, then he spins you around and bends you over the edge of the bed, your cuffed hands pressing into the mattress.
“beg for it,” he orders, voice still rough with command as he presses his hips against your ass. “tell me how bad you want me to fuck you after all these months.” he ordered. you stay quiet for a second, still catching your breath, that little defiant spark flickering even now. rafe doesn’t wait. his large palm comes down hard on your ass in a loud smack, the sting blooming bright across your skin.
“i said beg,” he repeats, spanking you again on the other cheek, harder this time. “don’t make me repeat myself, baby.” he stated.
you moan loudly from the sting, hips pushing back toward him instinctively. “please rafe,” you whine, voice hoarse from your throat. “i need you so bad… been waiting months for you. please fuck me.”
his fingers slide between your legs, two thick digits pushing into your soaked pussy without warning. he curls them perfectly, pumping in and out while his thumb circles your clit. you moan even louder, legs trembling as he works you open. “that’s it, baby. louder,” he demands, adding a third finger and stretching you. “let me hear how much my girlfriend missed this cock.”
“rafe—fuck—please,” you cry out, moaning shamelessly as his fingers thrust deeper. “i need you inside me. please fuck me, i can’t take it anymore. i’ve been so empty without you.” you plead more.
he keeps fingering you roughly until you’re dripping down his hand, your loud moans filling the room. then he pulls his fingers out, grabs your hips, and lifts you effortlessly onto the bed, positioning you face down, ass up exactly how he wants.
he undos the handcuffs, pulling your arms up and locking the free cuffs to the bed frame so you’re stuck in place, secured to the headboard. you tug on them instinctively, the metal rattling.
rafe kneels behind you, gripping your hips hard. he teases your dripping entrance with the thick head of his cock, rubbing it up and down your slit, pressing just the tip in before pulling back out. “rafe,” you whimper desperately, pushing back against him. “stop teasing me!” you said.
he doesn’t. instead he slams into you in one brutal thrust, burying his entire cock deep inside your tight pussy. you cry out at the sudden stretch, he doesn’t give you time to adjust. he pulls back and fucks you hard, hips snapping against your ass with punishing force.
“fuckin’ greedy little whore,” he growls, one hand fisting your hair and yanking your head back sharply. “been gone for months and this sloppy cunt is still sucking me in like it missed its owner.” he mocks.
his pace is relentless, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room as he rails you. he leans down, teeth sinking into your shoulder hard enough to leave marks, biting down while he keeps pounding into you. you moan loudly, the mix of pain and pleasure making your eyes roll back.
rafe slips two fingers into your mouth from behind, hooking them against your tongue and gagging you. “shut up and take this dick, baby. choke on my fingers like you choked on my cock earlier.” he taunted.
you gag around his thick fingers, drool slipping down your chin as he fucks you even harder, the handcuffs rattling against the bed frame with every thrust. he pulls your hair tighter, arching your back more as he bites down on your neck this time, sucking a dark mark into your skin.
“that’s my dirty little bitch,” he pants against your ear, voice mean and degrading. “crying and moaning like a pathetic slut while i wreck this pussy. you gonna cum all over the cock you’ve been begging for?” he keeps railing you deep and fast, fingers still stuffed in your mouth, hair wrapped around his fist, teeth grazing your shoulder as he uses you exactly how he wants after all those months away.
his thrusts grow even more harder, slamming into you so hard the bed creaks and your knees slide on the sheets. every brutal snap of his hips knocks the breath out of you. “look at you,” he snarls, yanking your hair harder so your back arches painfully. “my pretty little girlfriend turned into a drooling fucktoy the second i get home. this cunt belongs to me, you hear that? it’s mine to ruin.”
he bites down on your other shoulder, teeth digging in deep while he grinds his cock into you, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. his fingers press deeper into your mouth, making you gag and choke loudly around them as spit runs down your chin and onto the sheets.
“that’s right, choke on it, baby. pathetic,” he laughs darkly, never slowing his pace. “crying already? we’re just getting started. i’m gonna fuck you stupid until you can’t even remember your own name, then do it again tomorrow. holidays mean i own this pussy all the time now.” he teases.
he spanks your ass hard between thrusts, the sharp smacks mixing with the wet sounds of him destroying your soaked cunt. your whole body jolts forward with every savage stroke, the handcuff chain biting into your wrist as you pull against it helplessly.
“cum for me, you worthless little slut,” he demands, voice rough and commanding right in your ear. “cum on my cock like the desperate whore you are for me.” he stated. his free hand reaches around to slap your clit roughly, sending you over the edge as he keeps fucking you through it without mercy.
your body locks up tight, a broken scream tearing from your throat around his fingers as your orgasm crashes through you. your pussy clenches violently around his thick cock, pulsing and fluttering as waves of pleasure rip through every nerve.
hot, clear liquid squirts out around his pounding shaft, soaking his thighs, your ass, and the sheets beneath you in messy spurts with every brutal thrust he forces through your orgasm. you gush hard, the wet sounds obscene as your release drips and sprays with how roughly he’s fucking you.
“fuck— that’s it, squirt all over my cock you pathetic slut,” rafe snarls, laughing meanly as he keeps railing you straight through it, hips never stopping. “look at the mess my girlfriend’s making. such a dirty fucking whore for me.” he comments. he doesn’t slow down even as your body shakes and twitches, milking his cock while your juices keep spilling out with every mean thrust.
his hips continue slamming into you with bruising force as he chases his own release. “gonna fill this greedy cunt up,” he growls against your ear, biting down hard on your neck again. “take every fucking drop like the cumdump you are.”
his thrusts stutter, becoming shorter and deeper. with a low, guttural groan he buries himself to the hilt and cums hard. thick, hot ropes of cum flood your pussy, pulsing deep inside you as he empties himself completely. the warm, sticky liquid fills you up, spilling out around his cock with every twitch and spurt because there’s so much after months away. it drips down your thighs in creamy white streaks, mixing with your own squirt on the ruined sheets.
rafe keeps his cock buried inside you, grinding slowly as he rides out the last waves, making sure you feel every pulse. “good girl…taking my load like you were made for it,” he mutters, voice still rough. “that’s my bitch, yeah?”
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: soldier boy never liked soft things, until he met you. suddenly, there's nothing more important in the world✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), angst, switching pov between ben and reader, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (dirty talk, posessiveness, teasing, praise and degredation kink, size kink, dry humping, body worship, dom!Ben, nipple play, finger sucking, begging, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god fr fr, edging, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: request! i love that old man✦
Butcher said he knew a librarian, and Soldier Boy snorted.
“You think some moldy, four-eyed broad is going to help us fix this? Some gal who’s never gotten her hands dirty in her life?”
“I think we’re runnin’ outta options,” Butcher said, shooting Soldier Boy a look of challenge. “You got better ideas, I’m all ears. ‘Till then, we’re goin’ to see my girl.”
Soldier Boy had opened his mouth, ready to suggest many better ideas—he was full of them, a real strategic genius—when Hughie cleared his throat from his side. He had a hand up, like he was going to touch Soldier Boy’s shoulder, but thought better at the last second.
“She’s- You’ll like her, I think,” Hughie twitched, struggling to hold Soldier Boy’s gaze, but still trying. He’d never say it, but Soldier Boy admired the weed, twitchy kid’s tiny balls, for not giving up and running to the hills. Bravery wasn’t exactly in the cocksucker’s favor. “You’ll like her a lot more than us.”
That almost made Soldier Boy laugh. “That ain’t gonna be hard, kid.”
But screw him north, south, and to Tinseltown, the cocksucker was right.
They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.
“Be right there!”
Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.
Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off.
Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.
They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.
You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.
But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.
“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.
“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“
“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”
Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“
“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”
“But- I got work I needed ya for-“
“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.
Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.
“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.
Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.
“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“
“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”
Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”
Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”
Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.
He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.
“You’re good at punching?”
“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”
“Hm.”
You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.
“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.
“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.
You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.
“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”
Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were skimming through them. Through him.
“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”
Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.
You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.
Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.
Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.
“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.
Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.
“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.
“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“
“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”
Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.
“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.
Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”
That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”
“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”
You shrugged. “Hero worship.”
Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”
That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.
“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”
You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.
“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”
He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.
But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”
Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.
“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”
“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.
If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.
“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.
“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.
“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”
Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.
You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.
This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.
It wouldn’t fuck off.
Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.
You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.
But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.
“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”
He grunted. “Obviously.”
“Do you need help with another-“
“No.”
You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in.
“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.
But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.
And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.
“What book?”
“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”
He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”
Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”
“Fiction or Nonfiction?”
Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”
That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.
“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.
You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.
“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”
Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.
“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.
“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”
“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”
You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”
Soldier Boy nodded, glancing down to the book, then back to you. He didn’t want to read this shit. Book reports had, as far as he remembered, always been short. And he wanted to see what kind of shit you liked to read. What you considered good. “I want one of those. Instead of this.”
He’d meant it to be an order, but it came out without the usual edge he put in his tone. That edge was his best weapon. It had won him countless battles before they even fucking started.
But you just gave him that fucking look. The one where he felt flimsy and stupid and weak, his body all excited from your attention and his fingers itching to dig into your soft looking skin. You smiled, and he swallowed, drawing himself a little taller. He wouldn’t just fall into you. He refused to be that fucking weak.
“Read that first,” you told him. “Then we’ll talk about the essays.”
You turned and walked away. Soldier Boy let you go, because if he touched you, he was worried he was going to turn into more of a weak fucking lapdog than he already was. He wished he could read you—read that smile, those looks, the lacey tone you took with him and seemingly no one else—as well as you seemed to be able to peel him right apart. He looked back at the book, roughly flipping it to the first page. He tried to read the first sentence, but the words floated off the fucking page and didn’t even brush through his brain. He couldn’t read this shit.
Then we’ll talk, you’d said.
You’d talk to him, if he read this.
Christ on a Cross. He was going to try and read a book.
It took him a month. A month of staring at words in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep and no one was around to see. If Butcher caught him trying this shit, he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, he wasn’t hearing the end of it now, and no one even knew he was reading.
“Where you goin’, Gov?” Butcher barked as Soldier Boy moved to the door, and he scowled at the air.
“None of your fucking business.”
Then Butcher said your name, smiling knowingly, and Soldier Boy wanted to punch his teeth in. “You’re goin’ to see her again, ain’t you-“
“Said it was none of your fucking business,” Soldier Boy spat, raising a firm finger. “Not another word, or I punch your teeth into your asshole, you got that?”
Butcher just laughed to himself, and Soldier Boy ground his teeth. It wasn’t anything like your laugh, but then again, nothing was.
“Hi, Soldier Boy,” you greeted him without looking now. He wanted to think that meant something. That you were getting as obsessed with his presence as he was with yours. “Did the dictionary help?”
“Mhm,” he glanced at the sitting area, where a few old folks—younger than him, but wrinkled in a way he’d never be—were poking through the newspapers and chatting. There were some kids in the book section. Few teens giggling, somewhere deeper between the shelves.
No one paying him any mind. No one to look at him and wonder what the fuck Soldier Boy was doing in a library, why he’d needed a dictionary, like he was some dumbass who couldn’t speak or read or-
“I needed a dictionary,” you said, and Soldier Boy blinked. You were looking at him. Right at him. He felt it, in his heartbeat, and he never wanted it to fucking stop.
“What,” he said, stupid and drunk, and you smiled.
“I needed a dictionary. To get through Infinite Jest. The first time,” you amended, your eyes getting strangely softer the longer you watched him. “But- I still needed it.”
Soldier Boy’s hands curled into fists. “You read it multiple times?” This one time was feeling like it was going to fucking kill him.
“I read most things multiple times.”
He snorted. “Jesus.”
That made you blink. A faint flush creeped onto your face, and you looked back to your computer. Soldier Boy froze. Your heart was doing a little fucking stumble.
Interesting.
“You’re real fuckin’ smart, huh?” He tried, just to see what would happen.
Your heart did the little stumble again.
Jackpot.
“Maybe,” you mumbled, glaring at your screen. “I just- Like books.”
Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah. Think I figured that one out myself.”
You hummed, not meeting his gaze anymore. You were getting quiet. He didn’t like it. Not like this. You’d be allowed to get quiet and shy when he was balls deep inside of you. Right now, he wanted to hear that pretty fucking voice, teasing and sassing and helping him, all at once.
“What kind of books do you like,” he asked, and it sounded lame to his own ears.
But you looked at him. And screw him up the ass and sideways, it was fucking worth it.
“What kind of books do I like?”
“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?”
You stared at him. He stared back, because there was one thing he wasn’t going to let himself do, and it was back off of this.
“Why?”
And Soldier Boy leaned back. Because you said it like that was a real question. Like he wouldn’t, obviously, naturally, want to know every fucking thing about you. Women liked it when someone listened, he’d learned over the years. He’d listen to whatever the fuck you wanted to say, if it got you closer to being in his arms.
“Because,” he said, and your lips tugged down into that pretty pout.
“Because why?”
“Can’t I just fuckin’ want know?” He snapped, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms.
“No one ever just wants to know.”
Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re looking at someone, doll. So get that through your pretty head.”
You blinked. Flushed. Wrapped your arms around yourself, like you were trying to stop that loud heartbeat from jumping right out of your chest.
“I like everything,” you said stiffly, and Soldier Boy smirked.
“Everything, huh.”
You shrugged, and he leaned over the desk. Your breath hitched, and he knew his features were turning wolfish, but he didn’t fucking care. You seemed into it anyways.
“Everything,” he breathed, and your lips pressed in a nervous little line. “Show me what everything is, then.”
And I’ll show you everything, gorgeous. He thought about saying it. Thought about how you’d melt and get nervous and he’d have his in.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out why—what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck you were doing—but the words got caught, and he didn’t say them. He had you where he wanted you anyway, he rationalized. Talking to him. Smiling at him. Breaking you right now would be too fucking easy.
Since when had he not wanted easy.
Maybe since you pulled him through the bookshelves with light, delicate fingers on his wrist. Like you were afraid of breaking him. Since you talked and talked and talked, and he realized how fucked he was.
He wasn’t listening to you talk to fuck you. He just wanted to hear you talk, about books and ships and history and romance and any other fucking thing you wanted. He went home with a book he hadn’t gone there for, because you said it would help him keep trudging through Infinite Jest, and it did. He finished it that week, and marched back into your library with a prideful grin, slamming the monster of a book down on your desk.
“Done,” he declared, and you smiled at him like you were fucking happy, and it did something to his chest he didn’t want to name. Something fucking gooey and light. Something dangerous and strange.
“Did you like it?” You asked him, like it fucking mattered.
Soldier Boy nodded, and you beamed.
“I have something for you, next.”
Of course you fucking did. You were just perfect like that. And the next thing was a damn picture book, but when he glared at you, you just giggled and pushed it further into his hands.
“Trust me,” you said, and fuck him, he did.
He took the damn book, because you were the one handing it to him, and he’d read it, because that smile was the best thing he’d ever damn seen.
“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you said when he walked away, and he paused.
Soldier Boy. The character, in the movie you hadn’t liked as much as the book. “Ben.”
You blinked, and he sighed.
“My name is Ben.”
“Oh- Okay,” you flushed, and there it was again. That little skip in your heart. “My name is-“
“I know your name, doll,” he drawled, and you bowed your head. Shy and adorable and he was so fucked.
“Right. I- I knew that.”
He chuckled, grinning down at you, and that hawk sharpness in your eyes was gone. You looked like a fucking bunny, and screw him, he wanted to bend you over right there. He brushed his fingers with yours, and you made the tiniest fucking sound.
“Bye, pretty girl,” he said, and you mumbled another bye of your own.
Soldier Boy took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled it. Heady and thick and purely fucking you.
You were turned on. It made his own cock twitch in response, throbbing and begging him to coat itself in that sweet slick between your legs. To feel the way it would stick and slide against him, to cover himself in you and make you his and-
He took a deep breath. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d keep testing it, until you snapped. You made him chase, he’d keep fucking chasing. He didn’t want to just take you anymore. He wanted to make you admit it. That you wanted him as much as he wanted you.
He was worried that wasn’t fucking possible. That no one had ever wanted anyone, as much as he wanted you.
Feelings were so fucking annoying. He still refused to name them. You’d do that for him, with all your smart words and pretty eyes.
Soldier Boy looked over his shoulder before he walked out the door. You were watching him. He smirked, waving a hand in goodbye. You flushed and looked frantically back to your computer.
He’d get you where he wanted you. Didn’t matter what he’d need to do. He looked at the book in his hands. Comic, you’d called it. He’d give it a shot. For you.
He was starting to worry, about the type of shit he’d do for you.
“What’s your thing,” Ben grunted at you one day, and you frowned.
“My thing?”
“Everyone’s got something that gets them in this shitty game,” he said. “They kill someone you love? Help someone you hated. One of those soft little fuckin’ pussies try and do something to you?”
A small, angry part of him flared at that. Anything that had touched you would burn.
“I mean- It’s just the right thing to do,” you mumbled, looking back to your book, and Ben snorted.
Of course you’d do the right fucking thing. He knew you better now. He shouldn’t have bothered to be surprised.
You liked things too much. You were too soft and too hard in all the strangest places. You never looked at him like you were afraid, and you praised him for finishing comic book after comic book—you’d been right, he liked those things, more than he’d say aloud, but you knew—and then you’d flush when he gave you a little too much attention and get sassy when he tested you.
He knew about your past now. There were darker parts that made him angry. Happier shit that made you smile, and made him want you to smile about him one day.
You knew about his past. More than he’d ever told the tabloids. He’d found it slipping out of him, the longer he was around you. But you had that effect on him. Flowing over his like the fucking ocean and catching him in your tide. He didn’t fight it. Anything that made you look at him, that let him tease you, and made you all fucking soft and sugary.
Ben brought you dinner now, like some kind of delivery boy. But you always smiled at him, and asked him how his day had been, and damn him that kept making it worth it. You kept making it worth it. He was allowed in your place now, and he didn’t question why. He’d just been there, and you’d been going home, and he’d been allowed to walk you there. It wasn’t too far from the library, and pretty fucking small, but it smelled like you. Felt like you. So he liked it, and he found a reason to be there almost every fucking day, and that reason was food or your safety or another comic book. You’d talk and he’d listen, then he’d talk and you’d listen, and fuck him, he felt better than he had in longer than he wanted to admit. In maybe forever. And it was all fucking you.
“Wow.” Hughie had said to him, about a week ago. “You really don’t just want to like- You know. Bang her.”
Ben had grunted, not bothering to respond. All the shit he said just made them bigger asses. Butcher had taken to asking him to read every single piece of paper they came across. Frenchie had been making kissy faces behind his back, and asked him to make out with a book. The only reason Ben hadn’t crushed his skull with a single hand was that he’d be kicked out, and you’d probably frown upon that upon that.
“Heard you been reading,” MM had grunted to him. “Didn’t know you knew how.”
Ben had ignored that too, mostly because he hadn’t know he could read either. But he was getting better at it. Helpful to have a good motivator.
You.
He didn’t want to just fuck you anymore. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. You smiled and the world felt in order. You said his name and it sounded like being called home. Fucking you would be a benefit—you’d only gotten hotter, the longer he’d looked, and his shower and pillowcases knew your name as well as his dreams did by now—but he also liked just… sitting here. Talking. Like some cucked, pathetic little housewife-
“Why do you do it?” You asked, and Ben paused.
“Do what? Fight?”
You nodded, watching him with that judgement free curiosity. He frowned at his burrito, hoping it would give him the answer. He didn’t fucking know. He never thought about that kind of shit, unless you asked him to.
“Couldn’t you just… leave?” You asked softly, and he glanced up at you under heavier eyes.
“You want me to leave, doll?”
“No.”
You’d answered so quickly. It made him feel a million feet tall, and decide that maybe flying wasn’t that fucking bad, if this was what it felt like.
“But- Do you really want to do this forever?” Your voice was so quiet, Ben was worried you were trying to tread lightly around him. He never wanted you to do that. Not with him. If he was getting raw and weak, you had to fucking come down with him.
“Nah,” he took a large bite of his burrito, speaking through the mouthful. “Sick of it. All of it. Been lookin’ for something better-“
“Ben,” you chastise, holding out a napkin. “Chew.”
He rolled his eyes, but chewed. You smiled, waiting patiently for him to finish. He never fucking knew how you did that. Put up with him, when all the members of Butcher’s team looked like they wanted to throttle him every damn second. He used to like it like that. To be satisfied, with the way people would glare at him and not be able to do a fucking thing about it.
But you just… liked him. And that felt better than anything else.
“Looking for something better,” he said after he swallowed. “Y’know. Not this shit.”
“What does better look like?”
You asked it gently, and he doesn’t need to think about it.
Better looked like you.
“Still figuring that out, doll,” he muttered, and something taut flashed over your features. Ben frowned. Times like this, he really fucking wished he could read you.
“I hope you figure it out soon,” you mumbled, and Ben swallowed.
He did too.
You’re getting confused, but Ben is a confusing man.
Everything you’d heard about him—from Butcher, Annie, and the TV—said that he’d be a monster. An impossible, murderous asshole who’d snap you in half to get what he wanted. Over sexual and disrespectful. Arrogant and cold.
And he was arrogant. He was impossible, and a bit of an asshole. He’d flirted with you like he couldn’t help himself, and looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.
But then he actually read the book. He smiled at you, and got soft around edges you hadn’t even noticed were so sharp. It had been like watching barbed wire unravel. Concerning and strange and… endearing.
Ben was surprisingly endearing.
It was like he’d never just had a friend before. He wandered after you in the library like a puppy, and leaned over your desk with squared shoulders like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing himself.
“What’s that,” he’d ask you every day, about almost every thing, and you’d shove down a laugh. Under all the gruffness and anger, he mostly just seemed confused. About the world. About you.
So at least it was mutual. The uncertainty.
Because for everything you understood about Ben—his loneliness, his age, his strange puppy like demeanor—you didn’t get this. What he meant to you. What you meant to him.
You’re afraid you’re in love with him. That somewhere between take-out dinners and telling him you read romance books, he stopped being just Ben and became yours.
Not yours.
No one else’s. He says he hasn’t gotten laid in forever. Between visiting you and working, you’re sure he hasn’t had time to mess around in a bar or alleyway. That makes you smug, in a way that sits too brightly in your chest. You don’t want him to find that kind of feeling anywhere. You wish he’d ask for it from you.
He makes moves. He flirts and teases and smirks when it pools between your legs, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Like he fucking knows. But he never does anything about it, and you’re going insane.
You mean something to him. You had to. He’s not the kind of man who would’ve stuck around this long, if he didn’t. But he’s also not the kind of man to deprive himself of things. If he wanted you, he should’ve fucking taken you by now.
Hughie turned red, and mumbled something about this not being his business, when you brought it up.
“Just- Talk to him,” he’d pleaded. “Not me. Never me- I- I like life.”
You’d frowned, but Hughie had frantically changed the subject. He seemed to know something you didn’t. They all did.
“He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you,” Butcher had drawled, when you’d asked him. “That’s what we know.”
Your face had burned. “It’s- No he’s- I mean- I know he- He likes women, and- I’m one- But- Just sex-“
“Love, he could find sex on the street or gutter if his dick needed a tug,” Butcher had rolled his eyes like you—pacing and wringing your hands—were the insane one. “He read for you. I’m real bloody sure he didn’t even know what the fuck a book was, ‘fore he laid eyes on your pretty fuckin’ face.”
You’d smacked Butcher. He’d laughed, and started asking more mission-related questions.
You’d obsessed over it all day. Obsessed with you. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. You were you and Ben was Ben. He was Soldier Boy. The handsome face you’d grown up fawning over, the big man on the TV screen that seemed untouchable. You’d almost fainted when you saw him, something like a survival instinct locking over you and stopping you from becoming a downright pathetic schoolgirl. You tried to divorce him in your head, from the idealization of a childhood crush.
But you couldn’t. He was meaner and kinder and smarter and cruder than anything you’d managed to dream of. His praise made you dizzy and his mocking tone sent a pool of desire between your thighs, and then he did the dishes when he thought you weren’t looking—you think he might be under the impression you’ll believe they’re just doing themselves—and asked about your interests and didn’t fuck around.
He was supposed to fuck around. To make it easy on you, to get over the infatuation.
He hadn’t. And now you’re so far gone you spend every day gorging yourself on his attention.
Obsessed.
Pretty girl, he calls you. You’d like to be his pretty girl, if he’d just put a claim on you. You wish you could drink enough to be brave. You wish he’d be selfish again, and just fucking take you.
But you’re going to have to do this the hard way. The way that cleaves you in half, if there’s a single wrong serration. If he just carves your chest open, takes your heart, and doesn’t offer his in return.
You have to try. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be here forever.
He brings you your favorite food, tonight. He sits with his knee bumping yours, and it makes your head so clouded you almost forget your plan.
“Do you have… anything?” You ask, your voice barely more than a nervous breath. “That you want to do?”
Ben gives you a sideways, almost confused look. “The fuck does that mean?”
“I mean, just- What are you planning to do?”
“When.”
“In the future.”
“Ah,” he shrugs, raising his burger back to his mouth. “This.”
You swallow. That’s not helpful. “This?” You prompt weakly, and he nods. “You mean- This?” You wave a hand around the room, and Ben’s lips twitch. “Me?”
“You?”
He says it like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and your heart shrinks.
That’s what you thought. You never should’ve listened to Butcher and Hughie, you knew that wasn’t what he meant, you fucking knew it and- God, you were so fucking stupid, to think he’d want you back.
“Nevermind,” you mumble, and Ben stiffens.
“Doll-“
“I’m getting a new shipment of books tomorrow.” You don’t want to talk about this anymore. “So- I might be too busy to eat lunch-“
Ben snaps your name, and you stare at your hands.
“I- Um- I don’t know how long it will take, so you don’t have to come over-“
Ben grabs your wrist, his touch almost searing into your skin, and when you look up, he’s staring at you. He’d moved to kneel over you. Your noses would brush if you twitched. His breath fans over your face, and you’re embarrassingly slack under his hand.
“Ben…” You whisper, because you don’t want to do this. You don’t want whatever fragile thing you had—even if it was just friendship—to break.
But he doesn’t move back. He never really has.
“You’re sulking,” he mutters, and you try to bow your head, but he catches your chin with two fingers. Tilts it slowly back up, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Why.”
Your voice is tiny. “Doesn’t matter-“
“The fuck it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing,” you try to avert your gaze. It’s impossible. “I just- You’re- I’m-“
You cut yourself off lamely. Ben leans in closer, jaw ticking as he scans over your features.
“You want it to be you?”
Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”
“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”
“Do you?”
Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”
“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”
“Do you?”
You expect him to laugh, but the lines on his face just deepen. He lets out a sharp breath through his lips, then smirks.
“Maybe I do,” he almost purrs, tipping your chin a little futher back. “What then, doll?”
You gape at him. So close. Saying words he won’t be able to take back, but not enough to make you melt. You’re still guarded. Still careful.
“Say it,” you whisper, because you have to be sure. “The- The whole thing.”
Ben frowns. “Doll-“
“Say it,” you almost plead. “If you mean it-“ Please fucking mean it. “If this isn’t just- If I’m not just some fixation, Ben, please say it-“
He crashes his mouth over yours, and your words turn into a long, hungry whimper. His lips are chapped and warm. Soft but firm, the kiss demanding but controlled. His hand slides into your hair, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, and you melt into his strong body. His tongue traces over your lower lip, and you whine softly.
You get breathless embaressingly fast. Your thighs press together, but he’s not making it easy on you. His hand on your neck drags down your spine and splays possessively on your back. He pulls you closer, humming in satisfaction when you brace your fingers on his thighs. His knee pushes between your legs, and you grind down against it without a thought.
“Christ,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking as you pant and cling to his jeans. “Needy little thing, ain’t you?”
“Ben,” you whimper, and he hums.
“’S alright. I’m gonna take care of you.” He hooks his arm under your knees, the other sliding under your arms. “C’mon.”
You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into the air, pressing your face into his neck. He carries you steadily to the bedroom, setting you down with suprising gentleness on the bed. You blink hopelessly at him, as he draws back up. He still hasn’t said it.
And like he can read your mind, Ben smirks and flicks your nose with his thumb.
“Not a fixation,” he says. “Just my pretty fuckin’ girl.”
You flush, but refuse to cave that fast. “That’s not saying it.”
Ben snorts. “Jesus, woman-“
“Say it.” You snap, before—under the burn of his gaze—adding a mumbled, “Please.”
Ben chuckles. He peels off his shirt, and you almost forget to be stubborn. His big. Even bigged than he looks with his shirt on. His skin is tanned and soft, his boobs might be bigger than yours, and you can see the flex of thick, well built muscle with every breath. Your tongue flicks over your lips, and he smirks.
“You’re real fuckin’ demanding, you know that?”
“You- You’re supposed to- Ben-“ Your protests fall flat, as he trails a light touch up the underside of your leg. “Ben- That’s- You’re- Not playing fair-“
“I’m not tryin’ to play fair, doll,” he teases. “I’m tryin’ to get you ready.”
“Ready?” you squeak, and he hums, squeezing under your knee.
“Want you to be nice and relaxed for me,” he murmurs. “Gonna use this pretty fuckin’ body right. Make you wet, make you fuckin’ stupid.”
He pushes his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and your breathing is staggered and shallow. You lean back and push into his touch all at once, and Ben’s grin widens.
“Look at that. Already playin’ nice.”
You try to glare at him, but he lean back down, pressing you back into the mattress with a deep kiss. Your fingers shoot into his hair, as his weight settles between your legs. It forces them open, his budge pressing right against you clothed, aching pussy. You hadn’t even let yourself fully feel it—the vastness of your desire—because you’d been worried it would’ve just consumed you entirely. That you’d turn into some sex-crazed lunatic, imagining Ben above you and touching you and kissing you. You would’ve turned into a puddle that spent her days in bed with a vibrator, dreaming of what she couldn’t have.
But now you have it. You have him. Kissing you like he’s trying to let you consume him. He groans, with every whimper he draws from your lips. His hips roll against your core, and your breath catches. Your cunt feels like it’s almost in pain, from the neglect of intention. You scratch at Ben’s shoulders and belt, trying to drag him closer and tear every barrier between you apart with only your nails.
Ben catches your wrist, and pins it over your head. You thrash and strain, and he just chuckles, dragging his thumb over soft skin.
“Look at you,” he rolls his hips down again, and your back arches off the bed. “How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t want this?”
You blink at him, breathing through your mouth, and Ben leans down. His kiss brushes the very tip of your nose. You mewl, wired and desperate, and Ben laughs. The mockery of it only makes the heat between your legs stronger.
“You make me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “Make me… Feel things.”
“You make me feel things too,” you breathe out, and Ben stills.
“Yeah?”
You almost giggle at the slack, worshipful look on his face. Guarded but leaking with a hope you’re sure his old, old heart doesn’t know how to recognize. You don’t strain against his pull on you. You just lean up and brush a kiss over his jawline.
His whole body shudders. You sink back into the cushions, beaming as his wrecked expression. A low growl rolls through his chest, and his eyes go so dark it’s almost predatory.
“You,” his voice has dropped, so impossibly deep. “You…”
Words seem to fail him. You don’t mind. You don’t love Ben because he’s a man of words. You have enough of them as it is. You surround yourself with them, and there are only so many in the world that can express this. The electric, new and fragile and hungry thing between you.
You love Ben because he’s a man of action. And you know he’s not going to be able to say he loves you.
So he crashes back down, and shows you instead.
It starts with open mouth kisses, over your collarbone and throat. You head tips back, your mouth going slack, and Ben moans against your skin.
“So fuckin’ responsive.” He snakes a hand under your body, giving you ass a firm squeeze. “Knew you would be. Sensitive fuckin’ doll, probably getting fuckin’ soaked from just a little touching.”
Humiliations burn with arousal in your gut, deep and hot and intoxicating. You are soaked. You can feel it every time you shift against him.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben coos, kissing a particularly soft part of your neck. “I know how bad you want this. I can fuckin’ smell it.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “You- You what?”
“You heard me,” he pushes your shirt slowly up, thick fingers brushing over the soft skin of your stomach. “Every time you got needy, doll. I could almost taste it.”
“And you- You never-“
“You’re the one who said to be sure.”
His tone is mocking, but his touch is hot and his expression is shockingly soft. You flush under the attention, unsure what to do yourself. Just splayed on the bed for him to play with, dazed and confused. Ben grins like a wolf, and tears off your shirt without a warning. You almost protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
“No bra,” he takes on perked nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a dangerous smile. “Fuckin’ slut.”
You swallow, watching with wide eyes as he lean over your chest. Electricy shoots through your body, as he wraps his mouth around your neglected nipple, sucking lightly as he plays with the other one between those infernal fingers. You stare at the ceiling with fluttering lashes, lost in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue flicks, and you whimper. Ben’s teeth graze against you, and a weak noise of his name falls from your lips.
He smirks, dragging more kisses over the curve of your breast. He gives your nipple one last flick, then kisses over the hurt.
“Already bein’ so quiet,” he teases, toying with the band of your shorts. “Think I might need to make you scream, doll. Make you prove how bad you want this cock.”
“I- I want it-“ You stammer, pushing up on your elbows. “Don’t- I want it-“
“Shh.” Ben presses his finger against your mouth, and your jaw snaps shut.
He blinks. You swallow, trying to drag up the strength to resist him again, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. How fucking desperate you are to please him.
“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You’re- Chirst.”
Your cheeks burn. You try to roll onto your stomach, but Ben catches you and rolls you back. You pout at him, silently pleading with him not to make this a fucking thing, but he just keeps examining you. His gaze burns over your skin. You think you’re going to fucking explode.
Slowly—almost carefully—Ben pushes his thumb into your mouth. You take it, batting your lashes and loosening your jaw. The pad of his fingers tickles the back of your throat, and you suck lightly, eyes fluttering shut. Ben massages your thigh, and your legs fall further open.
“This what you really fuckin’ wanted, huh,” Ben mutters, and you hum, swirling your tongue around him. “You’ll do anything I fuckin’ tell you.”
You hum, sucking harder. You eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut.
Ben taps your cheek with his free forefinger. “Open.”
You obey, blinking through the shame, not letting yourself slack on his thumb. You flick against it, the same way he’d played with your nipple, and his throat bobs.
“Fuckin’ dangerous,” he says, and you don’t understand why he thinks that. You’re the pathetic one here.
But Ben pulls his thumb back, and with a softness you didn’t know he had, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a restrained, teasing kiss. You think you’re going to cry, but then he pushes his knee back against your core, and you can only gasp against his mouth.
“That’s it, doll,” he mutters. “Relax for me.”
“Be- Ben-“ You blubber, already fucking ruined. “Touch me, please-“
He deepens the kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth with such demand you almost sob. He knee grinds itself against you, moving back only so he can rip your shorts and panties away. Your breath hitches, as two massive fingers drag their way through your cunt.
“What a fuckin’ mess,” Ben growls. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I. Not fuckin’ my pretty girl like she needs.”
You whine, nodding like a bobblehead. Ben pulls slightly back, kissing a stray tear on your cheek.
“Fucking crybaby,” he hisses. “Barely even done anything yet, you’re going to be a fucking wreck when I’m done.”
God, you are. There’s no way around it. Those two fingers are curling right against your weeping pussy, and if he doesn’t do something soon, you’re going to fucking scream.
“I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Ben slams a quick, harsh kiss back on your lips before pulling away. “No cumming, ‘till I say. You got that?”
You stare at him, and the softness is gone. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp, and his voice a rough command. Usually, you’d laugh at his attempts to boss you around, but right now you’re barely more than putty in his arms. You nod, and Ben huffs in satisfaction.
“Good girl.”
Your cunt squeezes around nothing. Ben must smell the gush, because his nostrils flare and his fingers dig into your hips.
“Been waitin’ too fucking long for this,” he says, kissing his way down your body. “Going to take my fuckin’ time, doll. Think I’ve earned that much, keeping my cock in my pants long as I did.”
You mewl an agreement, and Ben laughs.
“Anything I say,” he mutters to himself, pulling your legs over his shoulders. “Too fuckin’ good to be true.”
You’d argue this wasn’t good, if it wasn’t the best feeling you’ve ever experienced. You’re completely at Ben’s mercy, one massive hand massaging your ass as the opposite parts your pussy folds, giving him a good look at the evidence of your desperation.
Ben hums in approval, and your pussy clenches again. He laughs, kissing the inside of your thigh, and blows a puff of cool air against your clit. Your hips fly off the bed as you cry out, and Ben slams them down with a single hand.
“Stay still.” He orders, and you whimper in acknowledgement.
You’re going to try. You’re really going to fucking try, to listen. To be good for him.
But he does’t make it fucking easy.
Ben dives headfirst into your pussy, and you almost fucking scream. You knew he was experienced, but this feels like someone’s mouth fucking you with a sex machine. A hot, messy sex machine that has rough lips and a thick tongue, plunging in and out of your gaping cunt. His nose drags against your clit, rubbing into it over and over like he’s trying to set you off, and you grab at the sheets to try and achnor yourself.
“Be- Ben- Fuck-“ He makes out with your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Oh- Oh my god-“
He pulls back, smacks your pussy, and pushes his face back into your core. Your body doesn’t even seem to know how to process it, every nerve so lit up that it’s scrambled and dazed. You’re almost, literally, overloaded with pleasure.
Ben keeps eating you out with the fervor of a starved man. He uses his whole face, tonguing you like he’s trying to memorize the way you squeeze around him. Whenever you cry out for him, he spanks your pussy, and you can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward. Maybe both, if the way your cunt pulses with every hit is an indication.
He hits your pussy again, right when you’re so close to the edge you can taste it, and you almost cum. The only thing that stops you it is physically yanking yourself back, trying to escape the intensity of his touch.
Ben grabs you and drags you back. You whine, looking up at him with glossy, tear stained eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, glaring down at your open, wrecked expression.
“The fuck did I say about moving?”
“I- I didn’t-“
“You did.”
He plants one hand on your lower abdomen, spanking your pussy with the other. Once. Twice. Your eyes roll back and the tears roll down your cheeks, but Ben just sneers.
“You wanna cum, doll?”
“Yes- Yes, please-“
“Then be fuckin’ good.”
He spanks your pussy again, and pushes his face back in. Your cunt is so abused and raw it only takes a few seconds to work you back up to where you were before. You try not to move, but then Ben—like he wants you not to listen—flicks his clit back and forth over your clit, so fast it feels like a vibrator. Your thighs lock around his head, and your back arches off the mattress.
This time, Ben doesn’t pull back and spank you. This time is worse. He just… Keeps going. He’s strong enough to keep your hips steady against his face. He grabs your ankles, and forces them to stay around his head. You can’t get away from him, as he works your pussy. You thrash in the sheets, crying out and shoving his head as it becomes borderline impossible to hold your orgasm in, but he doesn’t fucking stop.
You’re crying, loud and pathetic, and Ben just moans against your cunt. You roll onto your stomach, trying to crawl away as your traitorous pussy grinds against his face, and Ben slaps your ass. One arm leaves your body—though it doesn’t help you at all—and you hear skin slapping behind you. You manage to twist over your shoulder, and almost cum just from the sight.
Ben, jerking himself off as he keeps you pinned to his face. His cock is thick and big, bigger than anything you’ve ever see. It’s almost pretty, and that’s not something a cock should be. He’s leaking with pre-cum. You want to lap it off of him.
He slams you further onto his face, and you mewl, collapsing back into the matteress. You might pass out, with the effort to keep your orgasm in. You can barely think, barely speak. You’re just sobbing into the sheets and lost in the pleasure.
Then it stops.
Ben pulls away, and the loss is worse than the torture. You cry out, babbling something like his name, and Ben’s lips slot gently over yours.
“Doin’ so fucking well, babydoll,” he mutters. “Just a little longer. It’ll feel good.”
You nod, trying to chase his lips when he pulls away. He hums in amusement, pressing a kiss to your neck, and drags your ass up into the air. Your knees are already wobbly. You wouldn’t be able to stay up, if Ben didn’t wrap an arm around your stomach and force you up.
“Never seen someone so fuckin’ gorgous when they cry,” he mutters, rubbing that thick cock between the lips of your pussy. “Think I just like you wet, honey. Wet and fuckin’ sweet.”
He gathers some arousal with his fingers, then reaches over to press them against your lips.
“Taste,” he orders, and you obey thoughtlessly.
You don’t taste bad. Just… Strange. You moan, but mostly because you like Ben’s fingers being back in your mouth.
“That’s it,” Ben coos, lining himself up against your entrance. “Keep suckin’, pretty girl. Know it helps.”
You hum, and you’re too gone to actually think about what he said. It helps.
Then Ben starts to push inside you, and it becomes obvious what he meant. You squeak around his fingers, and Ben shushes you, slowly. Pushing every inch in so slowly, letting you adjust before giving a little more. You’ve never been strenched this wide, had such deep an angle. You keep sucking on his thumb, trying to find something to do with your body but seize up and wiggle. Ben thumbs slowly at your clit, helping it get further and further in.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the curve of your ass. “Fit me like a fuckin’ glove, doll- Christ-“
Ben leans fully over you, his body blanketing yours and his hand splaying back over your stomach. His face presses into the crook of your neck, his thumb pulling out of your mouth so his hand can wrap around your throat. He grinds his hips down, and you mewl, fresh tears falling from your eyes.
Ben kisses them away, rolling his hips again. His cock hits so deep inside you, you think you see stars. Just having him in you is cruel. You’re so full, with so little friction, it’s a wonder you’re not sobbing.
But Ben takes mercy, squeezing your neck gently before whispering, “Sing for me, babydoll.”
He pulls almost fully out, slams back in, and you scream. It’s a broken, delighted sound of pleasure, and Ben groans against your skin. He lets go of your throat, letting your cheek press into the mattress, and grabs your hand. Your fingers tangle together, as you pant. There’s nothing you can really do but take it. The size of him along, it knocks the air clean from your lungs. Ben presses demanding kisses, over your face and neck. You try to kiss him back, but you mostly just writhe and cry out his name.
He’s like an animal, with all his grunts and growls of your name. Every thrust drags his cock over your g-spot, splitting you open over and over until you’re just a ball of tears and nerves in Ben’s arms. His thumb wanders back down to your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles, and you scream. The Zpressure in your body feels seconds from exploding, and you really don’t think you can take much more.
“Be- Ben-“ Your eyes cross, as he keeps pounding into your gushing cunt. “Ooooh- Bennn-“
“I know,” he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hips snapping down like a drill. “Soak my cock, pretty girl. You can do it, come on-“
The permission is all you needed. Ben’s hips snap forward, the head of his cock angled to drive into that gooey spot, and you come undone. Your orgasm is blinding and powerful, sweeping through every inch of your body. It lasts, as Ben fucks and fingers you through it, unraveling you so completely you think you black out for a moment. All you remember is a heavenly, strangely pure kind of floating feeling, and Ben’s growled praise in your ear.
“Good girl,” he hisses, and you coo, pussy fluttering and weeping. “Fuckin’- Gonna fill you up, doll, fill you up real fuckin’ good- I’ll be leakin’ out of this pussy when I’m done, let everyone know who the fuck you belong to- My girl, my fuckin’ girl-“
Ben’s thrusts grow jagged, his hand moving back to your throat, and you make a blubbering sound of agreement. He chuckles, choked and rough.
“You’d fuckin’ love that. Bein’ full of me, bein’ mine, bein’- Fuck-“
Ben cums, thick ropes of cum spurting into your cunt. There’s so much of it, so much of him, you can almost feel it in your throat. Almost fucking taste it. He tries to fuck you through it, but soon his release is dripping down your thighs and spraying back to your calves, and he pulls out. A stream of it hits your back as he moans, and you only squeak when Ben rolls you over and paints your stomach and tits white as well.
It’s a glorious fucking sight. Ben in all his glory, his cock wrapped in his fist and coated in your juices, his chest heaving as he moans your name and cums all over your body. When he’s done he doubles over, crashing his lips against yours and kissing you with so much fervor, you could almost think no sex had happened at all.
He pulls back, and you giggle. You don’t know why. It just feels like the right fucking thing to do, with how softly he’s looking at you. How unbelievably fucking lucky you are. Ben raises his brows, rolls his eyes, and presses a softer kiss to your lips.
“You think this is funny?” He mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice.
You nod, smiling up at him, and he sighs.
“You’re lucky,” he mutters, and he has no idea.
You press a kiss to his lips, and they twitch up. His eyes soften again, as he takes you in. So fucked out you can’t even speak.
“Good?” He mutters, and you nod like a bobblehead.
So good. So fucking worth it, for the months of mind games of questions, with how fucking good it was.
Ben smiles. And you can read it all over his face.
How he really does feel the exact same way.
“Told you I’d take care of you,” he grunts. “My fuckin’ girl.”
And you are. And he really, really fucking does. He cleans you up and feeds you. Gets you water and crawls into bed, lighting up a joint but keeping you tucked tight into his chest. You look up at him with a dazed smile, and he looks down at like some adoring, devout follower of a secret religion.
“We should get married,” he says suddenly, and you laugh, finding enough of a voice to respond.
“Date me first, smart guy.”
He grunts, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head. You both know there isn’t much dating that will need to be done, to get you on board. But Ben’s going to try anyway. And you love him for it. How willing he is, just for you, to really, always fucking try.
✦End note: eric kripke WISHES he had my vision of soldier boy ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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.
SUMMARY : your boyfriend calls and soldier boy makes you answer.
WARNINGS : lust. smut. unprotected p in v. cream pie. cheating. homemade porn. strong language. sob!reader. praise kink. size kink. soldier boy’s cockiness. soldier boy being ruthless. mentions of soldier boy being technically challenged.
A/N : soldier boy can fuck the morals out of me 🤷🏽♀️ yeah, i said it.
I shouldn’t be here, you thought to yourself. How did I get here? The last thing you remember is being at the party, and now you’re in the middle of Soldier Boy’s bed. Your face rubs against his mattress as his pillow cushions your belly. His fingers squeeze your hips while yours grip the satin sheets, hanging on for dear life as he rams into your cunt at an unearthly pace.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as his bellend strokes your G-spot. His grunts encourage your walls to embrace him tighter, causing his cock twitch inside you. It had been a while since he fucked a woman with a pussy as tight as yours. Tonight was the first time you met the charmingly handsome supe, and as a result, your dress now lies on the floor of his room, your ass on full display, as he stretches you out. His dick is so deep in your guts, you forget your name.
The giant room feels smaller as the outside world fades away, the air thickening with the smell of sweet sex as your bodies move as one. Moans fall from your lips like they never have before. Not only did he have the looks and the superpowers, but he knew his way around the bedroom. Your toes curl as the pleasure becomes overwhelming. Tears cloud your vision as you feel your high approaching quickly.
Just as you were about to finish, your phone interrupts. Startled, you jump and search for your ringing device. The light from it shines from the nightstand, illuminating the dimly lit bedroom. You want to grab it, to turn it off, but you don’t want to disrespect the anti-hero by doing something other than focusing on his best work. So, he does instead.
“Who’s Jack?”
Oh fuck!
“U-uh...” You forgot all about him. How did you forget?! You were the worst! “M-my b-b-boyf-friend.”
He tosses it on the bed beside your face. “Answer it.”
Your eyes widen, horrified. “Wh-at?”
He responds with three deep thrusts, emphasizing each word. “Answer. It. Now.”
“Ok-kay.”
With a shaky hand, your finger slides across the screen, and the call begins. “Hello?”
You try your hardest not to make a sound, and Soldier Boy knows it.
“Put it on speaker.”
So you do.
“Where’d you go?”
“I was—pulled into a-a meeting.”
“A meeting? I thought you said no business tonight.”
“I—” The man behind you rams you so hard that a gasp stops you from talking.
“Y/N, you okay?”
“Y-yeah.” Your voice cracks. “I’m fine.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.” He says, unsure. “And what’s that noise?” He refers to the skin-to-skin contact.
“Nothing.” You quickly mute the call, and you let out a cry as he brushes your cervix.
“Nuh uh. Turn that off.”
“But—!”
“Do it.”
And like an obedient little girl, you do.
“How much longer are you going to be?”
“N-not sure. Oh fuck!” You accidentally breathe.
A sinister smile curls at the supe’s lips as he witnesses your slip.
“What the fuck is going on? What kind of meeting are you at?”
“I-I—” You let out a loud whimper as the tears finally shed when Soldier Boy lifts your hips and drives into your pussy at a rate that leaves you speechless. His balls slap against your clit, and you can’t hide it anymore.
“Y/N!” A string of moans erupts from your parted lips. “Y/N, you better fucking answer me right now! It sounds like you’re—!”
“Getting railed?” The supe asks as he picks up the phone. “Oh, buddy, you have no idea.”
“Who is this?! When I find you, I’m gonna—!”
“Do what?” He laughs as he continues his penetration.
“I’m gonna make you wish you never looked at my girlfriend.”
“Maybe if you fucked her right, she wouldn’t be in my bed now, would she?”
“You son of a bitch—My girlfriend loves me! You’re—you’ve got to be mind controlling her.”
“Sure, pal. My good looks and charming smile got her upstairs, and now that she’s here, with my dick rearranging her guts, she’s a drooling mess with no thoughts besides ‘more.’”
“That’s it! I’m gonna fucking kill you!!”
He chuckles so hard you can feel it, “That’s a good one. ‘Never had someone make me laugh as I fucked their girlfriend before.”
“Once I find you, you’re dead.”
“We’re in my penthouse. Find the elevators and tell the guards that Soldier Boy gave you permission to come up and watch your girl get fucked into oblivion.”
The call goes silent, but you sure don’t. Hearing how he spoke to your boyfriend made your body go hot. You wanted the supe more than you knew possible. If he were anyone else—even though you wouldn’t have succumbed to another—you would’ve been absolutely mortified. Hell, you still might’ve been if you weren’t so fucked out right now. If anything, it brought you to your orgasm faster.
“That’s it, doll.” He stares at your propped-up ass as it bounces with each thrust. “Cum on my dick while your boyfriend listens.”
He brings the device to your face, and you let out a whine, unable to say a word. What you should’ve said was ‘sorry,’ but how could you? Not like this. The man on the other line hears everything, especially the obscene squelching with every violent thrust. Refusing to listen to any more, Jack yanks his phone away from his ear and ends the call. The line drops, and you inform Soldier Boy. He frowns with disappointment, but finds your boyfriend’s silence amusing after realizing who he was dealing with.
“Guess I gotta send him a video.” He shakes the phone and demands, “Get me the camera.”
You don’t want to, but how can you tell him no? You fight off your climax and go to Jack’s messages. After clicking the ‘plus’ button beside the iMessage text box, you select the Camera option, then switch it to video. You explain that all he has to do is point and shoot, before handing your device over, knowing you’ll (most likely) regret it later. With a wicked grin, he starts the video.
“Look at her, Jack.” He points the phone at your sweaty and contorted face before angling it so he captures your body from above. “Doesn’t she look prettiest from behind?”
You move with his speedy rhythm as he holds your suspended hips with one hand. Through the camera, he watches your ass jiggle each time his dick slams in. He bites his lip, enjoying the view. Maybe I should learn how to use this thing, he thought to himself. It would be great to rewatch homemade porn.
“Go on, sweetheart. Show your boyfriend how hot you look cumming on Soldier Boy’s cock.”
You nod, and without wasting another second, you shudder on the supe’s well-endowed phallus. With screams of ecstasy, you cum harder than you’ve ever cummed before, and the camera caught it all. You should’ve been ashamed that it would be forwarded to Jack, your boyfriend of three years, who’s never fucked you quite like Soldier Boy has, but you weren’t; At least not now. That’s something you’d worry about later.
With a heavy grunt and a twitch of his member, he spews ropes of semen into your tight cunt. Your fingertips grip the sheets as you feel every pulse of his dick, spraying its hot contents onto your gummy walls. After you come down, he leaves you whimpering from sensitivity and the loss of his gigantic cock. He moves the camera lower as he keeps you in position, shedding light on your abused pussy. Your lips are red and swollen, but the attention lies on his milky white cum dripping from your overworked hole. What a fuckin’ sight!
“So pretty…” His thumb gathers your mixed juices, and you whine, wanting more. He brings it to your luscious lips, and without hesitation, your mouth opens wide, accepting his digit. You keep eye contact as you wrap your mouth and tongue around his thumb, licking and sucking it clean. He smiles with delight as he makes the speedy decision. “‘Think I might keep her around for a while. Thanks, Jack.”
SOLDIER BOY MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | JOIN THE TAG LIST
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred, it's to be expected), angst, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, some plot to get to the smut (posessiveness, some spanking, dirty talk, teasing, praise and degredation kink, dom!Ben, fingering, begging, manhandling, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, oral f!reciving, edging, creampie, big dick ben, overstimulation, body worship, rough sex, just complete debauchery, dumbification, dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦author's note: made myself start drooling with this one. enjoy!✦
You had a secret. And you kept it buried in the deepest, most sacred corner of your heart. Not out of shame.
Out of survival.
It’s best to keep your head down, in a world like this one. Supes patrol the streets, and people who are a little too loud and unhappy get sent to their death. Vought says it’s just to be corrected, but you know. Everyone knows.
They’ve just all learned how to whisper about it.
And you’re braver than you wanted to be. You do more than you should be doing, when the most anyone should be worrying about is waking up in their bed the next morning. But there’s the teenage girl who lives down the hall from you, who got loud about hating Homelander in school, and almost got taken because of it. You helped her get out, and lied to the face of the people who showed up to find her.
You lied with a smile, too.
He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.
And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.
You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.
“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”
You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”
“No, because I’m not a-“
“Fucking pussy.”
You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.
“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.
“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.
“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”
“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.
Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”
“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“
Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.
He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.
But he’s not.
“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”
You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.
He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.
“You have.” You’d breathed.
And you’d really believed it.
But then he’d just… Left.
You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.
There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.
But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.
You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.
“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.
He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.
“You talking to me?”
“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”
The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.
“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”
“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“
“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“
“You said that already.”
You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”
His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.
Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.
In the store, you’d hadn’t been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.
He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.
And he’d laughed.
That night, he’d just laughed.
“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”
“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”
The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.
He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.
“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.
He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.
“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.
He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“
“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”
“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”
You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.
“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.
“Why shouldn’t I.”
“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“
“And why should I trust that?”
He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.
“I swear I won’t.”
“Promises mean nothing.”
“My promises mean something-“
“Not to me, they don’t.”
He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.
The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.
He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.
“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”
And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.
“What the fuck-“
“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”
“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“
“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“
“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“
“I am not going to shoot you-“
“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“
“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.
And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.
But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.
Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.
“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.
Ben had followed.
And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.
Then it had been gone.
Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.
So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.
It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.
And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.
Now, you’re careful.
After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.
Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.
No one could know who you are. What you were to him.
Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.
Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.
Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.
But still.
You’d hoped he would.
“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.
And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.
“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.
“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.
“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“
“You liked Paddington 2-“
“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”
You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.
“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”
And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.
“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.
Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.
“You got no idea.”
And you wish you had.
You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.
If you had, he might still be next to you today.
You broke a cup.
The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.
Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.
I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.
That he had been everything.
You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.
And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.
Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.
It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.
There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.
This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.
No.
This is new.
Which means Ben- He’s alive.
He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.
He left you.
It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.
He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.
You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.
He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.
Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.
And then he left.
Just left.
Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.
But not back with you.
Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.
He didn’t come back.
Ben couldn’t fucking find you.
He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.
Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here.
But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.
He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.
Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.
It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.
Although he had always listened.
But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.
His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.
Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.
He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.
And then you’d smiled at him.
He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.
There were things to be angry about now, though.
You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.
Hollow.
Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.
Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.
If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.
And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.
He just had to find you first.
Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.
All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.
The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.
“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“
“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.
“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“
He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“
“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes. Yes- Sir-“
“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.
He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.
“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”
Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.
“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”
Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”
“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.
Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.
You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.
And Ben had known.
“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.
That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.
Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.
You still worked there. You weren’t gone.
Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.
“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”
Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”
Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.
He had to go find you.
You get home, and you feel like nothing.
It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.
You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.
Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.
You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.
You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.
You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.
This is just always going to hurt.
“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”
You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.
Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.
“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”
You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.
Or you’d just pass right through thin air.
And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.
You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.
Then he left.
And you’re not anyone’s anymore.
Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.
“Ben?” You whisper.
A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.
“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”
He takes a step forward.
You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.
Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.
You shrink away.
“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.
“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“
He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.
You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.
“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.
He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.
Ben sees you. You can see him.
And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…
“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”
Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.
“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”
“You left.”
And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.
“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”
Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.
“I saw you on TV.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“
“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”
The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.
“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“
“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“
“You left.”
“No, I didn’t-“
“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.
It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.
“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“
Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.
Weak.
“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”
Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.
But Ben doesn’t leave.
He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.
His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.
Still calls it yours.
“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”
You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.
“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”
Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.
Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.
“Why should I believe you?”
Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.
Just focused.
“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“
“Swear it?”
Ben nods, and you tilt your head.
“You swore you’d come back.”
“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”
You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.
“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”
Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.
“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.
You don’t flinch. You never have.
“Prove that you are.”
A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.
You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.
“Be- Ben-“
He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.
“Ben-“
“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”
God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.
Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.
He doesn’t even come up for air.
“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“
He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest.
“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”
“I- Ooooh-“
You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.
“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”
“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“
“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”
You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“
“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”
Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.
“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“
“You- Benjamin-“
“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”
The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.
“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”
“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.
Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.
“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”
“Ben-“
“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”
Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.
“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”
“Mmmh.”
“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.
“Ben-“
“Say it.”
“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“
Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.
It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.
“How- How big is your dick?”
He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.
“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”
You pout slightly. “I am being good.”
Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.
“Ben-“
“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“
“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“
You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.
Then you realize.
Shit.
“Ben, I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.
“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“
Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.
“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“
He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.
Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.
“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”
His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.
“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”
You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.
“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“
“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”
“Oh- Okay.”
You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.
“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.
You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“
You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.
“Good girl.”
The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.
He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.
Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.
“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”
Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”
And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.
You still might cry.
Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway.
“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“
“I love you.”
You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.
Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.
You both will.
“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“
You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.
Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.
Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.
“Say it again.” He mutters.
“I love you.”
You offer it easily. It’s his to have.
And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.
It means he’s on a fucking mission.
“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”
You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.
“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”
“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.
It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.
“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”
You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.
“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.
Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.
“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”
You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”
“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.
His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.
“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“
He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.
“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.
He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.
Another warning.
“That’s- Fuck-“
He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.
“More, Ben, more-“
A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.
He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.
Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.
You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.
And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.
Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.
Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.
Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.
Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.
“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.
“Be- Ben-“
“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”
Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.
Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.
And again, Ben stops.
You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.
“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“
He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.
“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“
Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.
But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.
Take it. He’d said.
You don’t think you have a choice.
“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.
The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.
“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”
You glare at him, and he just grins.
“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”
He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.
“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”
Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.
And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.
“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”
You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”
He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.
“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”
You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.
Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.
But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.
“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”
He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.
Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.
“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”
You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”
“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.
“Ben- Oooooh-“
He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.
“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“
You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”
You had a smart, sharp retort.
It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.
Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.
“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.
“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”
You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.
Ben laughs, prowling up over you.
“You’re fucking drooling.”
“You’re pretty.”
“I am not fucking pretty.”
“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”
He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”
“You are a show pony.”
That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.
“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“
You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.
That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.
You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.
Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”
You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.
“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”
A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.
“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”
His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.
“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”
Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.
“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”
You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.
“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”
He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.
“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“
He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.
“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“
Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.
It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.
“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“
You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.
Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.
“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”
You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.
After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.
Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.
You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.
You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.
He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.
“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.
No pants. Unhelpful.
“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”
“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”
“I am not slobbering-“
“Yeah, you fucking are.”
You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.
“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re not my boss-“
“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”
You blink at him.
And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.
“You love me?” You whisper.
He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.
“Of course I do-“
“Say it.”
He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“
“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.
This time, it’s going to work.
“Please?” You add.
Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.
You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.
“I love you.” He grunts.
You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.
Meant to remind you that you have time.
“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.
“You’re real lucky-“
“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.
He always lets you. Because he loves you.
“I am.”
✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
summary: in your younger years, you were soldier boy's biggest fan. now, your life is dedicated to stopping supes. somehow that's brought your paths to cross. people always say don't meet your heroes, but in your case, maybe that's not so bad...
cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, dry humping, a single use of daddy, age gap (reader in early to mid 20s), power imbalance (reader was a fan of soldier boy and had a hugeeee crush on him in the past)
wc: 6.9k
a/n: based on a request i will post in a second. i hope you guys like this one, i've been working on it for an embarrassing amount of time lol. so sorry to the original anon if you see this bb. but yeah, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <33
'Two minutes away. Butcher says have the door unlocked.'
Your phone buzzes with that message from Hughie. Without second guessing the order, you walk across the motel room and unlock the door. You'd been charged with getting this rendezvous prepared for their arrival.
Despite your assigned task centering around getting this place, you don't really know what it's for. Neither Butcher nor Hughie felt it important enough to clue you in as to why you were meeting in a secluded motel rather than one of the usual spots. You assumed it had something to do with their trip to Russia. Maybe they'd found the super weapon they'd been searching for.
You head back to what you were doing before Hughie’s interruption, unloading the takeout you'd brought onto the table. In the midst of placing the burgers and fries and various condiments in the center, you hear the muffled sound of an engine pull up outside and then fizzle off. Car doors slamming follow accompanied by some voices. If you'd been paying attention, you might have realized an additional person chatted along with your expected two.
But you don't catch that until the door swings open. Before you can look, the deep baritone slices across the space right into your ears.
"So, is she part of your team too?" the man asks.
You freeze. Your heart drops into your stomach. It's almost as if your body has a biological reaction to that low, rumbly way of speaking. You recognize it anywhere. It played over speakers and filled your bedroom most nights of the week when you were younger. The face it belonged to had been plastered across every surface that could hold a poster.
But it can't be his. He's been dead since before you were born. For some odd reason, your mind must have decided today would be a fun day to play tricks on you. To make you think the man of your teenage dreams had been resurrected and brought to you through some sort of star-crossed luck.
You shake your head and swallow down the ridiculous idea before turning to face them. But when you do, he is right there.
Soldier Boy stands between your teammates in all his glory, his brows raised as he assesses you. He sports modern civilian clothes rather than his uniform. It's kind of off-putting to see him in something so current, but the discrepancy doesn't keep your heart from racing. Every other part of him looks just like he used to on your tv screen. His features are still perfectly sculpted. His hair sits on his head soft as ever.
You honestly think you might faint. Your knuckles grip the back of a chair to the point of cramping as you stare at him like he'd risen from the grave right before your very eyes.
"Is she mute or something?" he asks next, still looking unimpressed with you.
Hughie glances between you and him in confusion, not understanding what's stolen your words away. But on the opposite side of Soldier Boy, Butcher eyes you with a small smirk on his face. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the wall before walking over to you and patting your shoulder.
"She talks. Must be feeling a bit shy 'round a stranger," he says.
The physical contact seems to snap you out of your little starstruck daze. You straighten up and shrug his hand off.
"I- I'm not shy," you stutter and smooth your clothes out. "I just um... I think I recognize you from like some old movies my mom used to like. Caught me off guard. Sorry."
A shaky breath expels from your lungs, and you hope the cover-up is enough to stave off any further questions. Luckily, that seems to be true as a grin spreads across his face.
"Your mom, huh? She still around by chance?"
You bristle at the sleazy way he asks the question. It's ridiculous to feel jealous over his interest in a lie you made up, but you still feel it prickling at you.
"No," you answer before turning back to the table to empty the rest of the fast food bag.
You shoot a glare at Butcher who's still grinning at you. Of course. This was why he hadn't told you. It wasn't part of his normal failure to consider anyone else's feelings or his typical manipulative ways. He did this to fuck with you.
He was the only one who knew about your soft spot for Soldier Boy. Though, soft spot was an understatement. Attachment might have been more appropriate. Undying love and devotion also good possibilities.
You adored the guy. Part of your lie had been true, you'd gotten it from your mother. She introduced you to his movies and showed you all the tv appearances she'd taped. You inherited her small collection of posters and t-shirts, and styled your room to reflect your Soldier Boy centered world. Eventually, your obsession superseded the one she experienced in her younger years. That was probably because her love for Soldier Boy fizzled out not too long later when she met your father. Yours stayed strong as you kept to yourself and focused on getting through school.
You'd confessed all of this to your team leader one night after too many drinks. Years had passed between now and the height of your obsession, so your drunken-self figured it was fine. The information came out hiccuped amongst a flood of giggling. You had found it so funny, that you had been so hot for a supe when now, your entire life revolved around taking them down.
Honestly you thought, or at least hoped, that Butcher hadn't cared enough to remember it. But clearly you were wrong.
The four of you sit down to eat the food you bought. You're across from Hughie while Butcher takes the seat opposite Soldier Boy. He obviously finds it amusing to dangle the other man in front of you, taunting you with what he knows you want but will never admit to.
You try your hardest not to stare, but it's a challenge. You're not eating much. Your appetite pretty much vanished with the shock of his arrival. Instead you rest your cheek on the heel of your palm, attempting to keep your eyes on the table and not his face.
The whole thing is just too weird. It's like you've been transported to the fantasy world you used to imagine to fall asleep. In there, Soldier Boy, or Ben as you called him in your dreams, went everywhere with you. He took you to the mall, accompanied you to the family gathering you didn't wanna go to, sat beside you on the bench at the park while you listened to music alone. Imaginary Ben stroked your hair when you failed a test, told you he loved you when you cried, and rubbed your stomach when you had cramps.
He was always there for you in those years, filling the void everyone else's lack of attention left.
That was until he started to fade away. He popped up less and less as you adapted to life and found other people to fill your time. And then one day he just wasn't there anymore. You strolled through the mall with your friends. You went to see your family without anyone on your arm. You sat on the bench alone.
You outgrew the posters and the t-shirts. It all went into a storage bin tucked away in your closet. He went with it. Not thrown away, but no longer a part of your days. Looking back, it feels like you had two different lives — the one when you loved Soldier boy and the other where you remembered him.
But he's actually here now, sitting a foot away from you. Only everyone else can see this version of him, and he writes his own dialogue. Somehow you're just supposed to pretend like it's normal for you.
The guys chatter amongst themselves, but you barely hear it. You consider asking Butcher if you can leave. You'd do damn near anything else to get out of this situation. Your younger self would probably slap you across the face, absolutely maim you for fumbling your chance with him, but you just can't take it. It's like he's radiating humiliation and shame that projects only onto you.
Before you can speak up though, Butcher and Hughie rise from the table. You look up at them, desperation glimmering over your irises.
"Sorry, love. You're on soldier-sittin' duty for the next few hours," Butcher tells you as he goes to grab his coat.
"It's just until we get back," Hughie adds, sensing your discomfort with the situation.
Pouting and rising from your chair, you follow after them. You ignore Hughie and stare right at Butcher putting on his trench coat. "Can I come with you instead? Please?" you ask.
"Why? Thought you would be excited to get some one-on-one time with your-" he starts but you cut him off.
"It's too weird," you whisper. "Plus, he’s not gonna listen to me anyways. Can I please come with you?"
"'Fraid not," he tuts. "This one's for me and Hughie. You'll be fine for a couple hours."
"Butcher," you say, on the verge of begging.
But he holds no sympathy for you. Hughie gives you a kinder look. "Just put on the tv. He seemed pretty interested in filling in his gaps about the world on the drive here."
You weakly nod, watching them gather their remaining things before departing. Their absence leaves you and him alone in the room. It's quiet except for the crinkling of his wrapper and the thundering beat of your heart.
Turning back towards him, you force yourself to return to the room and clean up the other trash Butcher and Hughie had left behind. You gather the greasy papers while trying to keep your hands steady. They're shaking pretty bad, but moving them disguises it. At least you hope so. You don't want him seeing how nervous you are. It's stupid and pointless, but a small piece of you still wants to look cool and collected in front of him.
When you finish, you head over to the small couch that sits against the wall. You can feel his eyes on you. One thing you realize now that your juvenile fantasies failed to account for was that you really had no clue what to talk about with him. What was there to say to someone born nearly a hundred years ago? What could you bring up when he'd missed the last forty years of life? You decide to fill the silence with what Hughie had suggested.
"Do you wanna watch tv?" you ask.
"Not really, but what else is there to do in this shit hole," he says and shrugs.
You nod, reaching for the remote and flicking the screen to life. The first station is on a commercial break. You switch it to the next which is playing a basketball game. Finally, you get to the numbers playing movies and scroll through to find a good one.
While you occupy yourself with the television, he stands from his chair and heads in your direction. He plops down on the couch next to you, spreading his thighs and draping his arm across the back of the sofa. You keep your eyes locked on the screen ahead. There’s no way you’re gonna look over at his open lap. If you do that, you won’t be able to fight off the heat that keeps trying to rise into your cheeks.
You can still feel him looking at you though. The constant weight of his curiosity makes it hard not to shift around in your seat. Your thumb keeps tapping through the channels until you come across one showing something you recognize. It takes you a few seconds to place it, but as soon as you do, you go to skip it.
Before you can, he straightens up. "Wait- what's this? This looks familiar," he says, eyes narrowing.
You glance over at him, blinking a few times before giving an answer. "Um yeah... it's the remake of Red Thunder that came out a few years ago," you explain. You work hard to keep your voice even.
He looks over at you, astounded. "Remake? What do you mean remake? They just did it over again?"
You nod. "Yeah, y'know. Like how Scarface is a remake of the old one from the thirties... Like that."
He scoffs. "They tried to remake my movie?" he asks, still in disbelief. He examines the tv again. "Which one's supposed to be me?"
You wait a few seconds, looking for the updated version of him. "Um... that one," you say and point to the younger actor dressed in Soldier Boy gear.
He laughs, the sound booming across the room. "That guy? That's who they chose to play me?" he mocks. "Jesus, if that's the type of man you kids think a hero is no wonder the world is in the state it's in."
"Yeah..." you say, a little smile rising to your lips. Your nerves begin to settle. This isn't so bad when you keep your mind off your feelings… even if he does talk a little bit like your grandfather. "I like the original way better," you continue.
"Oh do you now?” he asks. That start of a smirk on his face is nearly audible.
"Mhm. This one is just kind of boring," you answer, eyes flitting between him and the screen. "They took all the romance stuff out, and we're not in the cold war anymore so the bad guys are just some vague, random evil army. Plus, I don't understand why they didn't just use one of Vought's new supes instead of imitating you."
The words flow easily, just as they did to all your friends when the movie had first come out. You don't have as much trouble expressing yourself when the topic of discussion is one of your favorite subjects.
He nods as if he's genuinely interested in your points before commenting. "I thought your mother was the fan?"
You bite the inside of your cheek, your heart rate picking up again under the spotlight of his attention. It wasn't too big of a slip up. You can play it off like you had with your initial anxiety. Though you can't focus enough to answer while gazing into his cocky eyes, so you look down at your lap.
"She was. But I saw some of your movies too. Doesn't take a genius to know they were better than this stuff," you shrug.
There's a little pause. Your heart beats impossibly faster. But he just chuckles and turns back to the tv. "You sure you've only seen some of my movies? Sounds like you know more than a casual fan," he goads.
Hesitation creeps up on you. Maybe this is your opportunity to tell the truth. You can just confess your thing for him like it's an embarrassing story. Maybe then it won't hold so much power over you and this will be a whole lot easier. Your palms flex against your thighs as you steel yourself.
"Well... more than some. I've seen a lot. I just didn't wanna weird you out or anything," you admit, doing your absolute best to seem casual. Maybe they should give you the Oscar they never offered your beloved.
"There you go. Be honest," he praises, and you think you feel something throb between your legs. You glance up at him for a second before your eyes drop back down. He shakes his head. "It doesn't ‘weird me out.’ I'm used to the attention y'know. I lived with it longer than you've been alive."
"Yeah, but I didn't want things to be uncomfortable. Make you think I was like obsessed or something."
"Well are you like obsessed or something?’ he teases. Something in his tone tells you he already knows the answer.
"No," you deny immediately.
"It would make sense if you were. It'd explain why you're so nervous," he says, his voice smooth as polished marble.
"I'm not nervous," you defend.
"C'mon, sweetheart. You can't look at me for more than a second, and I can hear your heart beating faster than a baby bunny runnin' from a wolf."
You practically swoon when he calls you sweetheart, but you force your eyes up and onto his. No matter how many butterflies erupt in your stomach, you're intent on being professional. That little childish crush is a thing of the past, you're sure of it. You're an adult now with a real passion for your job.
"It's just that you're kind of intimidating," you reason. "It's weird seeing a movie star in person."
"A movie star? You flatter me."
Rolling your eyes, an involuntary huff slips from your lips. "You know what I mean. It's just different talking to you like in real life and not just seeing you on a screen. That's it."
"Is that all? I don't know if I believe you, honey. I recognize that look on your face," he says.
"What look? I don't have a look," you say.
"No, you do. You have that look I used to get from the girls hanging around outside set. They'd stand there with their little autograph books, waiting to get a glimpse of Soldier Boy," he says, eyes almost twinkling as he reminisces. "Only every time I'd go over to sign something for 'em, they could never get their eyes off their shoes. Always looking down, stumbling over their words. I don't typically go for you younger girls, but it was pretty cute."
You feel your cheeks heating up along with a small smile forming on your lips. Just like that, your commitment to professionalism has started to wane. It's dumb, but you can't help yourself. He basically called you cute. You just count yourself lucky you haven’t started giggling.
"Yep they used to do that too. That little smile," he continues.
He's making you malfunction with only a handful of words. Your head spins, but you're powerless to stop it. You can't help reacting like one of those girls because, inside, part of you is still one of them.
"C'mere, sweetheart," he says next before patting his lap.
You know you shouldn't. If Butcher and Hughie came back and saw you like this, it would be the humiliation of a lifetime. But you can't resist him. It's easy to declare your commitment to acting professional when the situation is only a hypothetical. When it becomes real, presented right before your eyes, it's a different story entirely.
Tentatively, you scoot towards him, eyeing his thighs. His hand comes to your back between your shoulders to urge you along.
"I'm not gonna bite you, bunny," he says with that action-hero smile.
More timidity pumps through you at the repetition of that term. You find the courage to close the rest of the gap and crawl into his lap. His arms welcome you, shifting you around on his thighs into a comfortable position.
"Perfect. Feels better like this, doesn't it?" he says.
That palm on your back strokes up and down. He runs it along the length of your spine, bringing a chill over every area it touches. You keep your gaze on your hands in your lap until his fingers tap beneath your chin and redirect your vision onto him.
"Don't hide those pretty eyes from me. That's how I know what you're feelin’. They give so much away.”
You honestly believe you're seconds away from melting into a puddle, from slumping over against his chest and becoming some boneless rag doll for him to play with. You can only imagine how stupid you look if even half of the lovesickness you feel reflects on your face.
"Tell me — have you ever thought about this before? I bet you have," he murmurs.
Of course he's right. You'd envisioned yourself on this very lap countless times when you were younger. But a part of you still clings to the idea that you should hide how absolutely pathetic you are for him. You shrug.
"I guess..." you answer. The words come out airy, almost as if your voice is getting away from you.
He simply smirks at the reply while rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over your chin. "Yeah? You imagined sitting my lap, hm? Dreamed of me holding you close?"
"Something like that," you reply, feeling as though your throat was constricting.
He chuckles at your squeak of a reply. "Well, how do I match up to your dreams? Am I everything you hoped I would be?" he asks. His voice drops, and there's no question about what he wants from you now. Something you would give without hesitation.
"You're doing a pretty good job," you say. You try to adjust yourself to face more towards the tv, but he keeps you pinned in place.
"I haven't really done anything yet," he says.
A little bout of silence rises between you two. Neither of you say anything. The only sound is the hushed chatter of the tv in the background. Despite the lack of conversation, his eyes stay on your face. His fingers caress your cheek before smoothing down to your neck.
"How'd a pretty girl like you get involved with those two jackasses who brought me here anyways?" he asks.
"It's a long story..." you say. Your skin is on fire everywhere his fingers trace. They're working over your throat down onto your collarbone and shoulders.
"Too long for you to care about right now, yeah?" he asks, completely smug.
You nod though because smug or not, he's correct about that. Recounting how you got involved with Butcher ordinarily wasn't too hard. But in this moment, on his lap, it seems like the effort of a lifetime for your foggy brain.
"You're too soft and sweet for hunting supes," he says. Despite poking fun at you, he remains gentle and soft, careful not to really upset you and break you out of this docile little haze he's got you in.
"It's not so bad,” you say.
"Sure, sure. You're strong and independent, can do anything a man can and all that. I'm just saying-"
Talk talk talk. So much talking, and you can barely focus on a word he's saying. Your eyes are lingering on his lips. They look so soft and smooth. Nothing’s touched them in forty years. He’s definitely noticed your stare. And you know that means you should stop. You can’t though. You want it, and he’s practically offering it up to you.
He continues speaking, however. “- I can think of a few things you’d be much better at. Things that don’t involve your little hands getting bloody.”
“Like what?” you start to ask.
“Maybe something like this.”
That hand on your chin tugs you closer. Before you register what’s happening, his mouth is on yours. Electricity zaps all through your body like a live wire. You lean into it without thinking, pressing closer and molding your lips to his.
He chuckles as your arms slide up to loop around his neck. You swallow up the low, rough sound, not disconnecting from him for a moment. His hand flattens out along your jawline. It allows him to hold you right where he wants you for a series of more kisses, all of which you reciprocate.
“Atta girl,” he mumbles in the brief interval where you’re forced to drawback for breath. “Not so shy now, are ya?”
You shake your head before diving in for more. He receives you by opening his mouth. His tongue gently flicks over your lip. He slides it against your own as things become deeper. The heat inside you no longer holds the sting of shame or embarrassment. It aches now. It burns with pure want, clustering in the pit of your stomach rather than in your face.
He leans back into the sagging couch. His hands ensure you move along with him. With a firm grip on your waist, he boosts you closer and shifts you around so your thighs are parted across his own.
A small whimper leaves you. You can’t help it. Your bodies are even closer now. Your center is pressed right against his lap, right where his cock is. You can’t feel it yet, but the idea is enough to send phantom sensations rippling through you.
You feel his lips curling into a smirk against yours. Those hands leave your waist. They dip lower, sliding across your curves to grip onto the plush flesh of your ass. That gets a real moan out of you. Your head falls back, away from his mouth. He doesn’t let you go too far though. A second later, his affections move to your neck. His kisses are hot and wet, tongue laving over your pulse point and teeth nipping sensitive skin.
Just a few simple touches, and his strength shines through each one. The firmness with which his fingers knead your ass is unlike anyone else you’ve ever felt. You’ve been with muscular guys before, but nothing like this. Strong is too weak a word to describe the undercurrent flowing through his grasp.
You roll your hips down in an exploratory swivel, something faint to see if you could find some friction. He aides you. His fingers tighten around your ass, pushing you down harder and then dragging your core back over his lap.
You suck in a little gasp.
“That feel good, huh? Your pretty pussy’s getting wet for me, isn’t she?” he asks with another rotation of your hips.
“Y-yeah,” you stutter. You push your upper-half closer to him so that your chest squishes against his own.
To your dismay, he stops you from fully holding on. He nudges you backwards and boosts you off his lap entirely so that you’re standing on your feet. A whine builds at the front of your mouth, but before you can protest, his fingers come to the button on your jeans.
He flicks it open, looking up at you as he yanks your pants down. “Been forty years since I got some tail. Let’s not waste any more time,” he says in explanation.
You nod along and step out of each of your pant legs, kicking the garment aside. You also take your t-shirt off. The fabric lands on top of your discarded jeans. Once you’re left in just your bra and panties, he tugs you back down.
Your bodies come together with a thud. The material of his sweats grazes your tingly inner-thighs. Before you can get back into rutting yourself on him, he runs his palms over your legs. They’re pretty smooth for someone of his age and experience. You always imagined something a little rougher, something that would contrast against the smooth nature of your own flesh. But forty years in a cryo-tank hadn’t given his skin much opportunity to become weathered.
His hands find your ass again, one coming down to give it a quick smack. Your hips jolt in surprise at the sudden sting. He soothes it away by rubbing over the heated area. His fingers dig into your malleable skin harder now that it’s bare to him.
“Skin’s baby-soft,” he murmurs mid-grope. “Been wanting someone rougher to come and mark it up?”
Your eyes flicker over his mocking smirk, heat filling your face. You grind yourself on him again with a whine. It feels so much better with your clothing out of the way. Even though the thin cotton barrier of your panties keeps you from rubbing down on him raw, the material is skimpy enough that it doesn’t impede. Instead it adds a little extra spark to the building pressure between your legs. Your eyes roll towards the back of your head, fluttering as you rock yourself forward and back.
He helps out just like before. His hands rein your movements into a steady rhythm. In between your bodies, his bulge starts to form. With each swipe of your covered cunt across his lap, you feel it becoming more and more prominent; hard and solid right up against your soaked folds.
“Just like that, get yourself ready for me,” he praises with another slap to your backside. “I’ll teach you how to really ride.”
You moan while biting your lip. Your hips work faster on him. Being so close, so lost in his feel and scent, has freed you of your previous trepidation. You’ve lost the ability to be stuck in your head with him like this.
He shifts you over slightly so that you’re lined up with the flat top of his thigh. It makes no difference to you. You keep your hips moving like nothing’s changed, grinding your throbbing clit down onto the firm muscles in his leg.
“Fuck,” you whimper. Your arms wrap over his shoulders once more. You squish your face into the crux of your elbow.
This time he lets you stay. He wraps an arm around you and lazily pats your back. “Good girl. Keep going. I gotcha.” His voice rumbles beside your ear. “Better than any dream, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you whimper. “Fuck- so much better. You- you’re perfect.”
While you continue to pleasure yourself on his leg, he lifts his hips off the couch just enough to push his sweats down towards his knees. He takes his cock out. It’s fully hard now, stiff in his hand as he gives it a few strokes.
You don’t notice at first, so wrapped up in your own bliss. But when he starts pulling you center again, you lift your head and glance down through heavy-lids.
You’d imagined him big, but seeing his cock for real makes you feel like you didn’t imagine big enough. His length is long and moderately thick. It’s flushed for you, the tip shimmery with the slightest bit of pre oozing out.
Your mouth waters. You want to taste him. You want to show him how badly you want it. You want to drop to your knees and think about nothing but how good he fits in your mouth.
But you know you have limited time. Butcher said you had a couple hours, but he’s also unreliable and a liar and purposefully fucking with you today so… you don’t want to take any chances.
He doesn’t seem too eager to have you like that anyways. He gives you a slight boost and pulls the soaked material of your panties to the side. The silky skin of his tip replaces the feeling. He drags himself across your entrance once, twice, and then nudges inside.
Your teeth sink into your lip as your head falls back slightly. You still can’t understand how this is real, but it undeniably is. The feeling of him working himself in, inch by inch, is not a figment of your imagination. That sweet stretch is absolutely real, and it consumes you more with every passing second until your ass is flush against his thighs once more.
He groans. “Shit, that’s good.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “Haven’t felt anything this nice in a longgg fucking time.”
Your walls flutter around him, eliciting another hiss from between his gritted teeth. Every noise he makes feels as good as a physical touch. You can’t get enough of hearing his voice strained with pleasure — pleasure you’re giving him.
You rise on his lap before sinking down. The rhythm is slow to start, a way for both of you to get used to the feeling. His hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bring a little burst of pain. You like it though. You want more of it.
He smacks your ass again. “C’mon, bunny. I know you can do better than that.”
Your hands plant themselves firmly on his shoulders, giving you the leverage needed to go a little faster. You bring yourself up and then down in quicker succession.
“That’s it. Such a good girl. Show daddy what you’ve been dreamin’ about.”
A shudder tears through you. Your muscles feel weak, like the simple string of praise had loosened them up completely. It doesn’t matter though. You start to bounce faster. Your body works with a mind of its own. It doesn’t let you slow down.
He slides in and out easily with how wet you are. Every drag of his cock on your insides is a straight shot of bliss. You feel even better when he grips your jaw and pulls you in for another few kisses. His mouth moves against your own before moving along your jawline to the space below your ear and then onto your neck and collarbone.
“Every inch of you tastes so fucking good. Like cherry pie,” he mumbles. “I’ll have to try out that pussy of yours next.”
“Mhm, fuck,” you whimper.
You keep riding as his teeth nip at one of your bra straps. The noises of your skin on his fill the small motel room. His tight grip on your waist helps you maintain the rhythm, pulling you down hard and boosting you up quick
The tip of his cock bumps up against your g-spot and gets a squeal out of you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as a way of bracing yourself. Neither of you slow down. You stutter slightly, but his hips lift to meet your movements. His fast thrusts strike at that angle over and over until your legs are quivering to the point that it truly feels like they might give out.
Luckily for you, he makes sure you don’t go toppling to the floor. The firm weight of his hands guide you closer to his body. Your weight shifting gives him the leverage to take over pumping in and out of you.
Your cheek hits his shoulder as your head fills with a warm, thick fog. He pounds into that sweet spot inside of you over and over. You can hear him grunting beside your ear, low and strained sounds that have your stomach full of butterflies.
“Pretty, pretty girl. You were worth the wait,” he mumbles alongside another deep thrust.
You whimper, lazily nodding your head against him. “You- mm- you were too.”
Sweet, tight heat coils in your belly. You know release is creeping up on you. Your eyes flutter shut, waiting for it to take over. You don’t notice his hand sliding between your bodies until you feel the pads of his fingertips rubbing at your sensitive clit. Your hips buck into the pleasure, and your walls clamp around him hard.
He lets out a deep laugh that only makes you tighten up more.
“Yeah, that’s a good girl. I know what you need, babydoll. Let go for me. Let me see how good you look when you cum,” he says.
His fingers keep swiping at the little bud between your legs. Syrupy shots of bliss shoot through you, pushing you along, taking you to the edge. It’s no time at all before a round of shudders rack through you. Your arms latch around his neck while your thighs clamp on either side of his. Embarrassing strings of whines trickle into the air.
“I- I- fuck,” you whimper. “Feels so- so fucking good, god.”
The last word to leave your lips is pitchy and broken. Your release cuts it short. Moans replace any coherent praise you could have given him. You bury your face in his neck and pant against the warm skin. Vaguely, you can feel his arms tightening around you. One of his hands rests between your shoulders while the other stays at your waist. He keeps pumping up into you, fucking you through each and every wave of orgasmic euphoria.
He’s less clingy as he finishes. His hips snap up into you a few more times before he groans loud and deep. He maintains the solid grip he has on you, hands still clamped around your waist as he spills inside. His chest rises and falls under your own, puffing quick with the exertion of finishing.
Your eyes stay closed for another several seconds as the room goes quiet and your nerves stop buzzing. His thumb lazily drags back and forth in tiny lines along the base of your spine. That almost makes you shiver more than anything you did on top of him.
With the fog of lust clearing from your mind, you separate from his chest and sit up straight. He’s relaxed as can be, head tilted back against the couch, watching you with the same lazy appraisal you’re giving him. Now that your entire body isn’t thrumming with want for him, he doesn’t seem so intimidating. You know that’s not the truth, that he could still crush any of your bones with minimal effort if he so desired — but in a weird way, you just don’t feel like you’re perpetually looking up at him now. It’s not negative, but the mystique is gone. The man of your dreams doesn’t exist anymore. Soldier Boy is flesh and blood, sweaty and spent beneath you.
You roll off of him to the other side of the couch. You’re pretty sure not much time has passed, but you don’t want to risk anything. You’re gonna be well and dressed when Butcher and Hughie come back. The two of them will be none the wiser that anything out of the ordinary occurred.
He stretches for a moment before adjusting his own appearance.
“Gotta say, I’m in no rush to do whatever it is they thawed me out for now. You’re much more fun.” His voice breaks the silence.
A small smile cracks on your face. “Yeah… think I’ll be pretty distracted too.” You look over your shoulder at him.
Little comments bounce back and forth between the two of you with nothing substantial really being said. That’s ok with you. The fact that you really just fucked Soldier Boy has left your mind void of conversational skills.
After the two of you are back to looking plain as you had been before, your collective attention returns to what’s left of the Red Thunder remake still playing on the tv.
“Who’s the head honcho nowadays? Was it Homelander they said?” he asks you. “Guy must not be able to get it done if they’re remaking this old shit.”
You laugh softly and nod. “Yeah… I’m sure Butcher will tell you allll about him when they get back.”
The two of you watch the remainder of the movie, with you chattering here and there about things you don’t like or little facts you know. It’s nice in a weird way. Feels almost like something you would’ve dreamed up all those years ago.
Your little bubble of fantasy bursts when the car doors slam not too far from the motel room entrance. You sit up a little straighter, smooth out your hair a bit, trying to make sure you look totally normal before Hughie and Butcher walk in.
Soldier Boy makes no such effort. His eyes rest on the tv while his legs stay spread and his posture slightly slouched.
The door creaks open and shuts just as quick. Hughie enters first with Butcher right behind him. You keep your focus on the tv. But even though you’re not looking, you can feel Butcher’s curious stare.
“We got everything we needed, so we should be good to go for tonight,” Hughie says, not giving the two of you any real thought.
You nod and take the chance to look over at him walking towards the table all of you sat at earlier. In your sweep of the room, you catch Butcher’s gaze lingering on the two of you.
“Seems like everything went well here,” he says. You know from that lilt in his tone the words aren’t as innocent as the untrained ear would believe. You know he wants to poke and prod and expose your new dirty little secret, but you won’t let him.
You shrug. “There wasn’t a ton to do here, so yeah,” you huff like it’s obvious.
His boots squish on the cheap carpeting as he takes a few steps closer.
“So just smooth sailin’. Nothing out of the ordinary happened?”
You roll your eyes. Does he somehow know what you did? Is he sick enough to have left cameras or something?
“Yeah. Everything’s the same as you left it, boss.”
He laughs, brief and short, a prelude to his killing strike.
“’s funny cause I don’t remember your shirt bein’ on inside-out when we left.”
Your eyes zip down only to find he’s right. The seams on your shirt puff out as they do on the interior side of the fabric. Heat rushes into your face. You grab the lumpy throw pillow jammed between your hip and the couch and chuck it in his direction.
“Shut up,” you huff as you take off towards the bathroom, swinging the door shut behind you.
His laughter carries after you, and there’s a bit of Soldier Boy’s as well, lower and deeper in timbre.
“What can I say? She’s a super-fan.” His voice rumbles through the thin walls.
You want to be offended, to go back out there and tell him and Butcher off, to not put up with any of their shit. But hearing him talk about you in that sugar-coated, condescending tone of voice, openly acknowledging he’d been with you… it wouldn’t be honest.
You adored him before you learned to hate supes. Even if the fantasy is gone, deep down, you’re not sure you’ll ever fully rid yourself of that version of you who was whole-heartedly a super fan.
content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k
The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.
You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.
The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.
Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.
You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.
“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”
You didn’t turn around.
“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”
You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.
“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”
You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.
Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.
“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.
He grinned.
“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”
“You were supposed to be on my six.”
“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”
You took a step forward.
“Don’t fucking talk to me.”
“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”
He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.
You didn’t.
“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”
He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.
“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”
You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.
“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”
“I’d rather chew glass.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”
Your hand twitched toward your blade.
He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”
He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”
You shoved him.
It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.
Then smiled.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”
You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.
His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.
Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.
“That all you got?”
You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.
You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.
His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.
“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”
His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.
“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”
You shoved him—hard.
This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.
He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.
That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.
He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”
Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.
“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”
He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”
“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”
“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”
Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.
“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”
He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”
You scoffed, but his grin widened.
“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”
You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.
“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”
Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.
“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”
“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.
“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”
Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.
Then you spit.
Right into his face.
It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.
Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.
His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.
You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.
His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.
“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”
He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.
“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”
You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.
“Don’t. Speak.”
His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.
“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”
Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.
You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.
You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.
The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.
From want.
And it hit you like a slap.
No.
No, no, no.
Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.
And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—
You were getting wet.
You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.
“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”
You froze. Heart lurching.
“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”
You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.
“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”
You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.
“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”
“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.
He ignored it.
“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”
You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.
He chuckled darkly.
“Temper, temper.”
Then you bit him. Hard.
Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.
You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.
“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.
Ben didn’t blink.
“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.
Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.
His eyes lit up.
“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”
You slapped him.
The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.
And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.
“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”
He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.
His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.
“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”
You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”
He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.
His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.
“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”
You turned your face away.
That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.
Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.
He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.
He heard it.
“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”
You clenched your teeth.
“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.
“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”
He pressed his hips against yours.
You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.
And still—your jaw locked.
He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.
“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”
He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.
“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”
His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.
“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”
You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.
“You want me to say it?” You whispered.
He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.
You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.
“No.”
His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”
You kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.
And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.
His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.
“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”
You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.
He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.
Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”
“You already have,” you spat.
His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Then he went for your pants.
And froze.
You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.
“Fuck this shit,” he barked.
Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.
You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.
“Hargrove—” you started.
He didn’t listen.
Didn’t care.
His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.
“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”
Then he dropped to his knees.
You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.
And then—his mouth.
“Oh fuck—”
The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.
Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”
You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.
“Don’t flatter yourself—”
But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.
“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”
Then he really started working.
Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.
“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”
His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.
You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.
He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”
You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.
“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”
And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.
You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.
His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.
And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.
“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”
He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.
“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”
His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”
But you didn’t. Couldn’t.
“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”
“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”
You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.
“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”
That was it.
He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.
The world flipped upside down.
“Hargrove—what the fu—”
Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.
Your throat convulsed.
He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.
“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.
“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”
He wasn’t pulling back.
Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.
And then?
His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.
You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.
Your whole body spasmed.
“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”
He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.
“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”
His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.
His eyes rolled back.
“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”
You tried to move. Couldn’t.
Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.
He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.
And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.
But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.
He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.
Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.
His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.
And he loved it.
You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.
“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"
He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.
“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”
You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.
“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”
He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.
“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”
Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.
His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.
“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”
He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.
You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.
“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”
His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.
He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.
“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.
Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.
“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”
You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.
You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.
He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.
“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”
One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.
You locked eyes. He was gone.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.
Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.
No rush. No brutality.
Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.
“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”
Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.
And then he started to move.
Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.
Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.
He slapped your thigh—hard.
“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”
You blinked, dazed.
He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.
Another sharp slap to your thigh.
“Look. At. Me.” he growled.
You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.
“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”
He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.
“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”
You whimpered, and his mouth curled.
“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”
Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—
And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.
“No.”
He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”
He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.
“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”
Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.
“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”
Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.
And that made him feral.
“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”
Your eyes fluttered again.
He tutted.
“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.
“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”
You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.
His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.
“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”
You moaned, head tipping back more.
He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.
“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”
Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.
He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.
“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”
Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.
“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.
“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.
You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.
He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.
“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.
You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.
He stilled.
You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.
“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”
Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.
He grinned.
“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”
You clenched your teeth, panting.
“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”
He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.
“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”
Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.
And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.
“…Ben.”
His name. Your voice.
Everything stopped.
His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.
“Oh, fuck…”
He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.
“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”
You said it again, even softer.
“Ben…”
And he shattered.
“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”
His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—
He snapped.
“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”
His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.
You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.
And still—
He didn’t stop.
Not even for a second.
He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.
You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.
“Ben—”
“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”
He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.
You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.
Your head tipped back again.
Eyes closed.
Your fatal mistake.
He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.
You cried out.
His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.
“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”
You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.
His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.
“You look at me when I fuck you.”
He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.
“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”
“Ben—fuck, I—”
He spit the next words like a threat:
“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart—
I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”
Your whole body spasmed.
His voice dropped, feral.
“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”
You choked on a moan.
He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.
“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”
He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.
Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.
He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.
Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.
Then—
His pace broke.
He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”
His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”
Your answer was a sob. One word.
“Inside.”
And he stopped cold.
You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.
His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.
“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”
He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.
“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”
You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”
He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.
“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.
He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.
“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”
You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.
“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”
You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.
“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”
He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.
“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”
He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.
“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”
You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.
He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.
“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.
Your legs spread wider.
He grinned. “That’s my girl.”
Then his hand hovered over your lips.
“Open wide,” he said, voice low.
You did.
He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.
“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.
You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.
He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”
Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.
“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”
You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.
He groaned loud. “Good girl.”
And then—
He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.
Because you had.
author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life.
i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it.
i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet.
let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request.
all the damn love.
ben has never had any issues getting laid. whatever he wants, he usually gets. after all, who doesn't want to be fucked and bent over backwards by the soldier boy?
however, in this century, when he has seen what he has seen, he understands that perhaps there are certain things that are off limits. in this case, it includes the kid's girlfriend.
the four of you are trapped in this stupid safe house — him, the old man butcher, the kid hughie, and you, hughie's non-supe girlfriend who will surely get yourself killed if any of them took their eyes off you for even a second.
you're this fragile little thing with a mouth. you walk the kid like a dog and, for some reason, that pisses ben off. why the fuck is hughie letting you dictate his life? he watches you give hughie advice, tell him what to do and what not to do.
you're a girl. all you should be doing is sitting pretty or spreading your legs.
see, if you were ben's, he'd never let you run your mouth. he'd simply plug your little mouth pussy with his cock. keep those lips busy enough that you won't find the time or energy to tell him what to do.
not to mention, the one good thing about this fucking century is the change in fashion. if he had a daughter like you, dressing the way you did in skimpy little tank tops that showed way too much tit and shorts that barely covered your ass, he'd put you over his knee and teach you a lesson.
you wouldn't be walking out of the house with those denim pants again unless you wanted everyone to see his handprint across your cheeks.
but ben — as a man who's just entered this generation — is both dismayed and pleasantly surprised by how much skin you're showing. supple, soft. he imagines burying his fingers into your flesh until you bruise, listening to you cry his name.
fuck. now, he's hard.
he grunts from his spot on the couch. he'd rather fucking sleep here than share a room with his pathetic companions; god fucking forbid someone walks in and thinks he's fucking one of them.
he could jack off. easily wrap his fist around his cock until he's cumming but he won't get the same satisfaction of a tight pussy clenching around him. he misses fucking. once he's free of every one of his traitorous ex-teammates and whatever the fuck butcher wants, he's going to find every dame in this country and give them the time of their lives.
maybe starting with you. no chance in hell that a lame kid like hughie could satisfy a gal like you. bet your pussy's still so fucking tight when his small dick's the only thing that's been in it.
bet you feel like a virgin.
speak of the temptress, ben perks up when he hears footsteps in the darkness. water runs from the tap into a glass. he knows these steps, has heard the light footfalls of your bare feet countless times prancing around this house without a care in the world, as if you weren't stuck with three murderers.
he sits up and spots you in the open kitchen facing the sink, tipping back a cool glass against your lips.
moonlight spills across the pale countertops and onto your skin, giving you that evangelical glow like you're an angel sent from heaven. the flimsy straps of your tank tops slip down your shoulders, exposing more skin than necessary that has his tongue itching to taste.
from his spot, he can also see the pajama pants you have on. even shorter than the ones you go outside with. he can see so much skin, so much of your ass, your inner thighs, begging to be marked.
when you turn and spot him staring at you, you nearly fall over. "jesus!"
"blasphemy's a sin, you know," he remarks dryly, coming to a stand and stretching his stiff limbs.
"i didn't know you were awake," you mutter, adjusting the straps on your top when you notice him staring a little too long at your bare shoulders.
"couldn't sleep."
"maybe it's all the drugs you take," you drawl out sarcastically with a roll of your eyes.
his fingers twitch, just itching to drag you towards him and put you across his knee for a good spanking. you'd look so pretty weeping on his lap, pussy probably leaking too.
"no, that kangaroo's snoring kept me up. need something to tire me out." ben says mostly to himself, but he can't help the way his eyes trace the curve of your body, barely hidden underneath the scraps of fabric you call clothing.
"you seem smart, you'll figure it out," you smile tightly, seemingly no longer interested in the conversation.
that's the thing about you. hughie's scared shitless of him. he knows what he's capable of. but you — god, you look at him like he's nothing. like a relic that can't do no harm, despite the evidence you've seen.
for someone with no powers, you seem to have very little sense of self-preservation.
"not so fast," ben intercepts you before you can leave the kitchen. "maybe you can help, huh?"
you stiffen, narrowing your eyes. "i don't think so, buddy. now move it. i'm gonna go back to sleep."
ben's hand wraps around your bicep. small, frail. he could snap you like a twig. "didn't i tell you to wait? you're not a very good listener, are you?"
"i listen to people who deserve it. i have no interest in whatever you're about to say."
you try to yank your arm away, but he doesn't budge. it doesn't even take him effort to hold you. thrill shoots up his spine at your resistance. he's had plenty of women throw themselves at him, but there's something satisfying about having to work just a little bit to get a pretty pussy open for him.
because being a man is about being brave enough to take what he wants — and what he wants is you.
"don't leave in such a hurry, doll," ben smiles. "need ya to do something for me."
he can see the sour, irritated curl of your lips. "what is it?"
"why don't you make yourself useful? bend over the counter so i can fuck that cunt of yours."
you look as if you've been slapped across the face. your hand raises, ready to do the same to him. he takes your other hand, whirling you around to pin them both behind your back. he holds them with one hand.
"what the fuck?" you hiss, "let me go, soldier boy."
his cock stirs at the name. it's one thing to be called by his birth name, it's another to be addressed by his god-given title.
"i told you what i needed. now, keep your trap shut while i fuck you."
"over my dead fucking body, i'll scream. i swear to god."
he almost yawns. "what's going to happen then? hughie's going to come save you? really think he can do that?"
"he's— he's juiced up too!"
ben laughs at that. "yeah, transporting around buck naked. that'll do him some good. i'll break your neck before he even thinks about touching me. then what good will that do?"
your lips seal together then.
"what? you gonna tell on me to butcher next? you think he'll care if i kill that kid or you? he has bigger fish to fry. he wouldn't let hughie touch me. not when i'm the only one who has a shot at taking down this homelander."
the argument lands in an unsettling realization in your gut. he sees the surprise written across your face, the horror. it makes him so fucking hard to see it.
he uses that brief moment of quiet to pin you down against the kitchen counter, your cheek pressed against the cool surface. you try to wriggle free again but to no avail.
"you make a sound, if hughie comes out and tries anything, i'll snap your head off. got it?"
you only pinch your lips further in defiance.
ben pushes your head down harder against the counter. "got it?"
"got it," you spit out. "just get it over with."
"oh, no, sweetheart. i'm going to take my time. i've been thinking about what's underneath all this tiny clothes all this time. probably some ripe, unsatisfied pussy."
"i'm fucking satisfied," you snap at him.
"only because you haven't had better," he chuckles.
ben traces a finger up your bare thigh, watching you squirm in discomfort. you keep wiggling your ass, which causes the hem of your small shorts to ride up further. the delicate curve of your ass cheeks looks too tantalizing, he can't resist pinching it, earning him a little yelp.
"what did i say, toots? keep it down. you don't want me to kill your boyfriend, do ya?"
he can hear you grind your teeth but instead focuses on your skin again. he tugs the fabric up to give you a small wedgie, but mainly so he can expose more of this silky skin to him.
don't get him wrong. he fucking loves women. women are truly god's gift to this planet — which is why they're meant to be protected. treated with care. fucked into submission. when they don't know any better, he needs to teach them to listen. so that they can survive and provide the world with offsprings.
his offsprings. god knows how many bastards he has out there.
"can you just get this over with?" you whisper over your shoulder.
"hey, i can appreciate a good woman, alright. you've got a nice ass. i can use that someday."
the attitude drains from your face. the someday making you realize that he won't be happy with a one night stand.
finally, ben shoves your pants down to the floor, letting them pool around your ankles. he lifts you up a bit to kick them to the side, allowing him to spread your legs.
and what a pretty sight it is. cute cotton panties as the only barrier between him and his supper. it would be so easy to rip them off you, but he's too busy observing the damp spot in your panties. your juices seeping through the fabric to betray your desires.
"you getting wet from this?"
"fuck no."
"pussy says otherwise," ben chuckles, pressing his thumb against that spot. the fabric darkens further as it absorbs more of your arousal. he can practically see the outline of your lips through this.
"that was— that was from earlier! it's not you."
ben's fucked enough actresses to know that you don't have the talent to be one. "yeah? then why are you still dripping wet? don't think that limp-dick kid could even get it up? i've seen him piss his pants out there."
"you're an asshole."
"no, i just know women and you like this. is that it? do you like me forcing myself on you? you can be honest. aren't you ladies these days all about being honest about what you want? if you wanted me to fuck you, you could've just said so."
you sneer at him, baring your teeth. instead of looking threatening as you intended, you look like a puppy trying to fight the big bad wolf.
"your mouth can open and close all you want, but nothing's more truthful than these lips right here." ben drags his finger up your clothed slit, causing you to jerk against the counter.
he feels you try to fight his grip on your hands again. it's a cute effort. he almost wants you to give chase to make it seem like you have any say in what's about to happen.
however, he's far too impatient right now to be entertaining your tantrums. instead, he tears through the center of your panties; the fact that you've drenched it makes it all the more easier for him to poke through it.
your pussy is moist, practically dripping onto his fingers like honey. he scoops up a bit onto his fingers, brings it to his mouth for a taste.
sweet, as expected.
he pushes down his pants to his knees and positions himself between your parted legs. the comparison between his thick, throbbing cock and your pussy, tight and pulsing with need, is almost comical. he already knows this is going to hurt.
ben sinks himself fast into you. your heat immediately surrounds him, warm and tight and fucking perfect. he groans into your shoulder as he leans down to press himself on top of you.
"fuck, you're so goddamn tight. you sure you're not a virgin?"
"fuck you," you grit out, "just get it over with."
"you say that but i feel her clenching 'round me, sweetheart. your pussy can't lie. tell me, you ever have a dick this big?"
another sassy retort nearly tumbles from your lips, but instead what comes out is a delicious, high-pitched whine when he pulls out and fucks deep into you. you're still so goddamn tight around him, squeezing the life out of his cock as he plunges into that wet heat.
ben's had virgins that weren't this tight before.
"man, what have you had up here? pussy's barely giving in. i knew the kid was small but — what — never had one of those sex toys? i've seen the big ones on the internet."
"you're such a fucking dick," you rasp, lurching forward again with another whimper when ben shuts you up by drilling back inside you.
with one hand keeping both of yours trapped and the other gripping your hips, ben finds a nice, steady pace to fuck you with. it's like having a pussy made just for his cock to break and stretch. he can feel your walls defying the intrusion, but sooner or later, it's going to relent.
he can already feel it beginning to give in to the way he abuses your cunt. your legs lose their power, dangling uselessly over the counter. your body slumps forward as you take his cock thrusting inside you hungrily. your pussy — fuck, your pussy starts to slacken a little bit, giving him more room to slide in easier.
you only get wetter, soaking his cock like his own personal lubricant.
"enjoying it now, doll? feels good doesn't it to have a cock that fits you properly? you needed a real man to fuck you. to break in this tight cunt of yours."
you can't seem to bring yourself to respond. your lungs feel like they're about to implode, the burning between your legs only intensify when ben picks up speed.
"f-fuck, please, no more," you cry out.
there it is. that's what he wants to hear.
"no more? i've only just started," ben grunts in your ear. "also, didn't i tell you to keep it down? i swear if either of them walk out and see you like this, trust me, it's not going to be me that's embarrassed. you really want your boyfriend to see you enjoying my cock more than his?"
another whine climbs out your throat, but there's no denial there. ben can feel you squeezing around him as he ruts into that delicious spot inside you over and over again, the one that makes you quiver every time he fucks into it.
he knows the exact angles he needs to tilt his hips to have your eyes rolling to the back of your head. the speed to drag his cock in and out of you to pull those moans from your pretty lips.
it's too easy to read you. your wants are etched across your expression.
and he wants to see more of it. so he pulls out of you, which in turns pulls a cry out of you, before flipping you over and folding your legs up and apart. he sinks back into you with a groan.
"fuck, this cunt feels like heaven. they really don't make pussy like this anymore. i bet with that stick up your ass, this pussy snaps back into place, doesn't it? that's why you're always tight."
your hands fly around in an attempt to scratch him, to smack him. all valiant efforts that do nothing to harm him. if anything, he likes seeing you still put up a fight.
even when your pussy is begging for more.
"tell me you wanna cum and i'll let ya."
your face contorts into one of disbelief. "i'll never fucking do that."
"you sure, toots? this pussy's squeezing me so tight says otherwise."
"go fuck yourself."
"exactly what i'm doing. using you to fuck myself. much better than my fist," he smirks, much too cheeky for your liking. "like my own sex toy."
you growl at him and it only makes him laugh.
"so fuckin' cute. look at you acting up while your cunt's got a vice grip on my cock. you think you're some sweet princess for hughie but you're really just a nice little cocksleeve, aren't ya?"
ben ignores your hand that slaps his stomach again to instead push up your flimsy tank top. pretty fucking tits too but that's unsurprising. he gropes you roughly, feeling the flesh give into his fingers. you try to pry him off you, complaints falling from the tip of your tongue.
"you don't quit that and i'll rip this thing apart. then you'll have to explain to your little boyfriend why you're coming in half naked with a gaping pussy leaking my cum. you want that?"
your muscles tense, your hands stop as you ball them into cute little fists. ben smiles pleased to himself as he keeps fucking deep inside you, tweaking your nipples until your teeth catch your bottom lip to stop the moan from spilling out.
"come on. tell me you wanna cum and i'll let ya. otherwise, i'll just cream inside this cunt and leave you frustrated. ya know after this that you're not even going to feel hughie's cock inside you."
a conflicted look flickers across your face. too easy to read.
"i ain't tellin' anybody what happens here tonight. won't tell a soul that you begged me to fuck you until you cum."
your lips inch together, refusal still going strong.
ben's getting too close. all those years being experimented and not a single pussy to play with will do that to him. now that he has the perfect pussy in front of him and your snarky little attitude, he nearly came in two minutes flat.
"you can do it, sweetheart. just use your words," he coaxes patronizingly. "won't do it unless you ask me."
you mutter something low, barely audible, breath hitching when ben thrusts particularly deep to lean closer towards you.
"what was that?"
"please," you grit out.
"please what?"
"please let me cum," you wince.
"no, i wanna hear you really ask for it. how about pretty please, soldier boy, can you make me cum on your fat cock?"
the soft look wipes away from your face, once again replaced by a scowl. "fuck you."
"do it or i'll leave you wet and whimpering with nothing to fill this greedy cunt."
your throat moves as you swallow. your eyes squeeze shut, the last shred of your dignity hanging on by a thread.
ben's ears perk up, waiting in anticipation.
"pretty please, soldier boy," you rasp, "can you make me cum on your fat cock?"
fuck, it sounds even better coming from your mouth.
"yeah, sweetheart, i can do that. i'm gonna make you cum around my cock, then i want you to milk me inside you."
at that, your face pales. "n-no, don't. please. you need to pull out."
"what? you telling me you and hughie still use condoms?"
condoms are a crime against humanity. why would you stop what nature has always destined for a man and a woman?
your teeth sink into your bottom lip again.
"you're telling me that if i cum inside you right now, there's a risk i might knock you up?"
"yes, so fucking pull out!"
oh, you really shouldn't have told him that. this is the first time he's had pussy in a while. good pussy at that. it's in his genes to cum inside you, to fill you up so much that his cum will leak out of you for days.
you must see it in his face. that desire in the way his pupils have overtaken his eyes. "please. i'm begging you. you're already raping me, you can't—" you hiccup, "you can't cum inside."
raping me. such a crude way to describe what he's doing. all he wants is to give you some pleasure. if you're enjoying it, can you really describe it as such? when you're moaning and squeezing around his cock like this.
"dunno, doll. pussy feels too good to pass up."
before you can say anything else in protest, he's fucking into you earnestly. he fucks all those good spots inside of you, he gets you to squeeze around him even tighter until his hips are jerking. he replays you asking him to let you cum again in his head.
pretty please, soldier boy, can you make me cum on your fat cock?
that's all it takes before he's feeling you pulse around him as you reach your own peak, before he spills inside of you hot ropes of cum to paint your insides. he cums — a lot. enough that he can feel it soak his cock.
he buries his moans inside your neck, ignoring your futile attempts to push him off you. your efforts are even weaker now, when your orgasm is still wracking through every nerve in your body.
"attagirl," ben chuckles against your skin, cock still spurting out the last of his cum.
you whine in annoyance.
"we're going to have a good time this trip, aren't we?"
a/n: i had to get something out for my new fixation. he's already a dark character so it was fun to take him a step further. i think i have one sequel for this story and then that may be it. more to come hopefully!
if you enjoyed this, please like/reblog/comment. kisses!
— divider by @/easytiger-xo
hi! you’re amazing! i always stop by here to read something and you never disappoint. this time i thought i’d make a request. could you write something with dean in his early 20s when he finally meet the girl (into the supernatural business because let’s be honest: there’s no girl that could really understand him except one who shares his lifestyle). she is the one that finally gives him a way to deal with his life and so is him for her. i’m not asking for anything particular in terms of style. i trust you 🫶🏻
͙͘͡★ ┊ on the road
dean winchester ٠ ࣪⭑ female reader ٠ ࣪⭑ fluff n smut
summary. the winchester family is well known around the hunter community. dean is just as cocky as you've ever heard him being described. also irresistable. it messes with your head. and with your heart.
wordcount. 4328
warnings. typical supernatural canon violence and injury, alcohol, mild language, sexual tension off the roof!!!, explicit sexual content (multiple, protected, p in v, semi-public), dirty talk, biting, marking, grinding.
dean pushes open the door to the dingy bar. the neon signs flicker like they're on their last breath, buzzing obnoxiously loud against the hum of conversation inside. it's a tuesday night in some podunk town in ohio—athens, maybe? the names blur after a while.
he's here for a vengeful spirit, straightforward salt and burn once he pins the bones.
all the leads pointed to an old cemetery on the outskirts, but the local records office is dragging their feet on the plot details. so, he's killing time, scoping the place for any weird vibes that might tie back to the case.
ghosts don't punch clocks, but bars like this? they're where the stories spill out after a few drinks.
he slides onto a stool at the end of the bar, the wood sticky under his elbows from years of spilled beer and poor cleanup. the bartender, a grizzled guy with a tattoo peeking from his sleeve, nods without much interest.
"whiskey, neat," dean says, voice low, scanning the room.
pool tables in the back, a couple of locals nursing pints, and yeah, there's you. bent over the green felt, cue in hand, lining up a shot like you own the place. you've got that focused look, hair falling just right, jeans hugging your frame in a way that's distracting even from across the room.
the townie's you're playing—three guys in flannel, looking like they've underestimated you—grumble as you sink the eight ball. money changes hands, and you pocket it with a smirt that says you've done this before.
dean sips his whiskey, the burn steadying him. impressive. most girls in these joints are either serving drinks or looking for trouble of the wrong kind. but you? you're hustling like a pro, reading the angles, playing the marks.
he watches as you rack up another game, the cue ball cracking sharp against the others. one of the guys bows out, muttering about bad luck, and you laugh—the sound cutting through the smoke-hazed air.
the case nags at him. the spirit's been targeting cheaters, husbands who stepped out on their wives. last victim was found in his garage, throat slashed by invisible hands.
dean's got the emf meter in the impala, ready to hit the graveyard once he gets the location. but for now, this is better than staring at motel walls. he orders another drink, eyes drifting back to you. you're good. too good for a civilian.
you finally wrap it up, sliding the cue back into its rack, and head to the bar. right next to him, of course. fate or whatever. you order a beer, voice casual, but there's an edge to it, like you're always listening.
dean turns slightly, flashing that grin he's perfected over years of one-night stands. "nice game back there. you clean 'em out?"
you glance at him, eyes sharp, assessing. not the usual flutter or blush. "enough for a few rounds. you play?"
"sometimes." he leans in a bit, testing. "dean."
you take a swing of your beer, bottle sweating in your hand. "y/n. and you're not from around here."
"neither are you." it's out before he thinks, but yeah, the way you carry yourself—alert, no jewelry that could snag in a fight, boots scuffed from real wear. hunter. has to be.
your lips quirk. "what gave it away? the pool skills or the fact i'm not giggling yet?"
he chuckles low. "both. so, what're you in town for? vamp? werewolves?"
you set the bottle down, turning to face him fully. your eyes are intense, but there's a spark there, amusement mixed with caution. "try ghost. pissed-off wife from the '50s, right? slashing throats."
dean's gut tightens. same case. figures. "yeah. waiting on the bones, too?"
"same. thought i had it solo." you tilt your head, pride flickering. "but hey, if you wanna tag along, i won't stop you."
"tag along?" he scoffs. "sweetheart, i've been hunting since i could hold a shotgun. you sure you don't need backup?"
you roll your eyes. "please. i just hustled three guys without breaking a sweat. try not to get in my way."
dean's jaw tightens, that easy grin faltering for half a second before he leans back, arms crossing over his chest. the movement pulls his jacket open just enough to flash the glint of the knife handle tucked inside. "get in your way? sweetheart, i've been doing this longer than you've been old enough to buy beer. you think i need your permission to finish a job?"
you feel the heat crawl up your neck—not the good kind, not the spark you'd let yourself feel if this were any other night. this is the prickly kind, the one that comes when someone questions whether you can handle yourself. you set your bottle down harder than necessary, the glass clinking sharp against the bar. "longer doesn't mean better. i've seen plenty of old dogs who think they're still running the show. usually ends with them getting bit."
he lets out a short, humorless laugh, eyes narrowing. "you're cocky for someone who doesn't know who they're talking to."
"i know exactly who i'm talking to." you meet his stare head-on, voice dropping. "dean winchester. john's boy. the one who thinks he's the only one who's ever lost someone and kept swinging. newsflash: you're not special. and you're definitely not the only hunter in this bar tonight."
the air between you thickens, charged with something sharper than flirtation. his fingers drum once on the bar, a restless tic, before he leans in closer—close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath and the faint leather-and-gun-oil scent that clings to him like a second skin. "you've got a mouth on you. hope it's as good with a shotgun as it is with trash talk."
you don't flinch. "better. i don't miss when it counts."
he holds your gaze for a long beat, something flickering behind the green—annoyance, sure, but also a grudging respect he's too stubborn to admit. finally he exhales, pushes off the bar. "fine. do it your way. just don't cry to me when the ghost has you pinned and you realize solo isn't always smart."
"i don't cry," you snap back, already sliding off the stool. "and i don't need a babysitter."
the bartender glances over, sensing the shift in temperature, but neither of you cares. you toss a few bills on the counter, grab your jacket, and head for the door. dean's right behind you—too close, too quiet now. the night air hits like a slap when you step outside, cold and damp, the neon buzz fading behind you.
you both turn toward the parking lot at the same time. your truck is parked two spaces down from that black impala you've heard stories about. of course.
you get in without a glance back at him. he does the same.
the distance doesn't last long. it doesn't last at all. because five minutes later, you're both staring at each other.
you stop. he stops.
"you're kidding," he mutters.
you exhale through your nose, shoulders tight. "room twelve."
he looks at you, then at the impala, then back at you. a muscle ticks in his jaw. "room fourteen."
neither of you moves for a second. the streetlight hums overhead, casting long shadows across the gravel. you can feel the weight of it—the fact that you're stuck in the same damn orbit, same case, same motel, same stubborn refusal to back down.
"this doesn't mean anything," you say, more to yourself than him.
"didn't say it did." his voice is rougher now, quieter. he locks the impala. "just means we're both too damn stubborn to quit."
you don't answer. just walk to your room, keys biting into your palm.
you wake to knock on your door. 2:17 am. an paper slides under the door: bones in oak hill plot 47. graveyard. 3am. we leave in 5. dean.
you read it, your pride telling you to not go with him, but you're already pulling on boots, the cold leather creaking against your shins. salt rounds in your shotgun, emf meter tucked in your jacket. the air outside bites, motel parking lot empty except for that black impala gleaming under the sodium lights.
you drive alone—for the sake of dignity—truck rumbling low, but his car passes you on the county road, headlights slicing the fog. asshole.
the graveyard waits on the hill's edge, wrought-iron gates sagging, headstones tilting like crooked teeth. mist clings low, soaking your jeans cuffs as you slip through a gap in the fence. your flashlight beam dances over faded names—mary ellis, 1952. close. plot 47's deeper in, near a gnarled oak. shovel bites dirt, rhythmic thuds echoing too loud in the quiet. you're three feet down when the temperature plummets, breath fogging sharp. emf spikes, needle burying.
then she's there. the spirit. translucent veil of a woman in a house dress, eyes hollow black, mouth stretched in a silent scream. she surges from the mist, cold hands clamping your throat before you can swing silver. air vanishes, lungs burning, your back slamming a headstone that cracks under the force. stars burst behind your eyes—shit, this is it—and your fingers scrabble for the salt in your pocket, but she's too strong, nails like ice picks digging in.
gunshot cracks the night. rock salt blooms orange, shredding her form into shrieking mist. you gasp, coughing gravel and cold, vision clearing on dean lowering his shotgun twenty feet away, jaw set hard. "glad you don't miss when it counts," he calls, but there's no smirk, just that hunter edge, eyes scanning the dark.
you scramble up, ribs throbbing where the stone bit. "i had it." lie. your hands shake loading the shotgun.
but he doesn't call you on it. just grabs the shovel, starts digging faster. "bones are here. burn 'em and we're done."
dirt flies. you work in sync despite yourselves—him prying the splintered coffin lid, you pouring gasoline.
he's brushing dirt off his hands, turning to you with that cocky tilt starting back up, lighter in hand. "see? backup—"
she reforms. faster this time, angrier. slams into him mid-sentence, hurling him into the open grave like a ragdoll. he hits bottom with a grunt, shotgun skittering away. you don't think. pump the salt round, fire twice into her translucent chest. she dissipates again, buying seconds. you leap down after him, dirt crumbling under your boots, grab his arm. he's heavy, winded, ribs probably bruised, but you haul him up together, his hand gripping your wrist too tight, calluses rough against your skin.
"cocky asshole," you mutter, shoving the shotgun into his chest as you both climb out. flames whoosh up as you light it, orange light licking the oak branches, the spirit's wail rising shrill before it twists into smoke. gone.
he steadies himself against the oak, breathing ragged, green eyes meeting yours in the fireglow. dirt streaks his cheek, jacket torn at the elbow. "yeah. well. you didn't miss." the air hums, not just from adrenaline—something thicker, his gaze dropping to your mouth for half a heartbeat before snapping back.
"we even?" you ask, voice steadier than you feel. your pulse thuds low, traitorously aware of his heat inches away, the way his shirt clings damp to his chest.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirks faint. "call it square. for now."
you don't touch that. just kick dirt over the fire's edges till it's embers, pack shovels silent. drive back separate, but the motel's neon welcomes you both, impala pulling in right after your truck.
you shower off the grave chill, hot water pounding bruises blooming purple on your throat, side aching deep. towel rough on skin, you pull on clean jeans, a tank that hugs too close tonight, hair damp. not planning to go out. but the hunt's done, ghost torched, and the itch under your skin won't quit. whiskey would help. or distraction.
the bar pulls you anyway. same sticky stools, same haze. he's there when you walk in, leaning on the pool table alone, cue spinning lazy in his fingers. no townies tonight. just him, flannel sleeves rolled to elbows, forearms corded from digging. he looks up, eyes tracking your approach. he doesn't straighten.
he just keeps spinning the cue between his fingers, slow lazy circles, like he's been waiting and pretending he hasn't. his eyes drag up your body once before settling on your face.
you walk straight to the table, hips loose, boots scuffing the worn floorboards. stop just close enough that your shadow falls across the green felt.
"kinda rude of you to come here and not invite me," you say, voice light, almost teasing. the edge from earlier is gone, smoothed out by adrenaline crash and hot water and the fact that you both almost died tonight.
he huffs a small laugh, finally sets the cue down. "you didn't invite me either."
you tilt your head, let a slow smile curve. "who says i didn't go to your room?"
his brows lift, mock surprise, but the green darkens. "sweetheart, you're a terrible liar." he steps around the table, closing the distance until the only thing between you is the narrow strip of felt and about six inches of charged air. "bet you're also not better than me at pool."
you laugh—soft, real—and reach past him to grab a cue from the rack. your arm brushes his chest on purpose. "put your money where your mouth is, winchester."
he racks while you chalk, the clack of balls settling loud in the quiet. you break first. hard. the cue ball scatters everything, stripe dropping clean in the corner. satisfying.
"nice," he concedes, circling to your side as you line up the next. he doesn't step back. just leans one hip against the rail, close enough that when you bend over the table your ass brushes the front of his jeans. you feel the heat of him instantly. solid. interested.
you miss the shot. straighten slow. turn into him instead of away. "your turn."
he doesn't move right away. just looks down at you, thumb brushing the cue chalk off your fingers when he takes the stick from you. the touch lingers. rough pad dragging over your knuckles. you don't pull away.
he pots two solids in a row, easy, cocky. then misses on purpose—you know it's on purpose—because the next thing you know he's behind you again, chest to your back, one arm sliding around your waist "to help" with your stance.
"you're leaning too far left," he murmurs against your ear. breath hot. stubble scraping the shell when he talks.
"am i?" you push back just enough to feel the hard line of him against your ass. definitely on purpose.
his grip tightens on your hip—fingers digging into denim like he's deciding whether to pull you closer or flip you onto the table right here.
you sink the shot anyway. perfect draw. the seven rattles in.
he growls low—barely audible—and his hand slides up under the hem of your tank, palm flat against the bare skin of your stomach. warm. callused. you arch into it without thinking.
"careful," you breathe, turning your head so your mouth is close to his jaw. "you're distracting me."
"good."
next shot you take your time. bend deeper than necessary. let your back arch, let your hips roll just enough that the friction between you both makes him curse under his breath. his free hand finds your hip bone, thumb pressing hard into the divot above your jeans. you grind back once—slow, shameless—and he hisses.
"fuck, y/n."
you miss the shot on purpose this time. straighten. turn in his arms. faces inches apart. his pupils are blown, breathing rough.
"rematch?" you whisper.
he doesn't answer with words. just drops the cue on the felt with a clatter, grabs your wrist, and pulls you toward the back hall.
the bathroom door bangs open—single stall, shitty fluorescent flickering overhead, sink chipped.
no preamble.
smut below ☆ smut below ☆ smut below
his mouth crashes onto yours before the door even settles—hard, demanding, all teeth and tongue like he's been starving for this since the graveyard. you kiss back fierce, hands fisting in his flannel, yanking him closer till there's no air between you. the fluorescent buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows, but you don't care. the sink digs into your lower back when he crowds you against it, his thigh shoving between yours, grinding up roughly.
"knew this would happen since i saw you bend over that table," he growls against your lips, voice gravel-low, words spilling hot into your mouth. one hand tangles in your damp hair, tugging your head back to expose your throat. his mouth latches there—sucking, biting, stubble scraping red marks into the bruises already blooming from the ghost's grip. "fuckin' tease in those jeans. knew you wanted it."
you gasp, arching into him, nails digging into his shoulders through fabric. "shut up and do something about it." but your voice shakes, body betraying you with how you rock against his thigh, chasing friction. want floods you—hot, insistent—but there's that twist in your gut, the hunter's voice whispering this is stupid, temporary, gone by dawn. you shove it down.
he laughs dark against your skin, free hand popping your jeans button open one-handed. shoves the denim down your thighs, rough enough the zipper scrapes. you kick out of one leg, boot clattering to the tile, and he's already palming you through your panties—fingers pressing hard, circling where you're soaked. "shit, sweetheart, you're drippin'. all for me? or you always this easy after a hunt?"
"asshole." you bite his jaw, hard enough to mark, and he hisses—half pain, half want. your hands yank at his belt, leather whipping free, buckle clinking loud. you shove his jeans open, palm him through boxers—thick, hot, straining. he bucks into your touch, groaning low.
"keep talkin' like that and i'll make you scream it." he spins you sudden, your chest to the sink, mirror fogging from your breaths. his reflection stares back—eyes dark, jaw clenched—as he yanks your tank up, exposing your back. hands roam greedy, one sliding under to cup your breast, thumb rolling the nipple till you whimper. the other dips between your thighs again, shoving fabric aside, fingers plunging in without warning.
you jolt, mouth falling open on a moan that's too loud for this shitty bar bathroom. the sound echoes off tile.
"quiet," he mutters, but there's a smirk in it. his palm clamps over your mouth from behind—big, warm, muffling the next sound when he curls his fingers, stroking deep. "don't want the bartender hearin' how bad you need this. or do you? fuck, you're clenchin' already."
you bite his palm, eyes rolling back, hips grinding onto his hand. the pressure's perfect—rough, insistent—building heat low in your belly. his body presses full against yours, hard length grinding your ass through denim layers. "gonna fuck you right here," he rasps in your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. "bend you over this sink and make you watch yourself come undone. you want that?"
his hand tightens over your mouth when you nod frantic, muffled whine vibrating his skin. he pulls his fingers free—slick, glistening—and you hear the crinkle of foil behind you. protected. smart, even in this mess. then he's there—blunt pressure at your entrance, one hand on your hip bruising-tight.
he thrusts in slow at first—inch by inch, stretching you full till you're gasping against his palm. "fuck, so tight. take it, baby—yeah, like that." bottomed out, he stills for a beat, forehead dropping to your shoulder, breath ragged. then he moves—pulls back and slams home hard.
your cry gets trapped under his hand, eyes squeezing shut. the mirror rattles with every thrust, your hips banging the sink edge. rough. messy. his free hand snakes around, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and slick. "look at you," he growls, voice wrecked. "takin' my cock like you were made for it. been waitin' to bury myself in this sweet pussy since you mouthed off at the bar."
you force your eyes open—meet his in the reflection. hair mussed, cheeks flushed, his hand over your mouth like a gag. it's filthy. intimate. you clench around him, and he swears—hips stuttering before picking up brutal pace.
"yeah? you like that? dirty girl—grindin' back on me in a shithole like this." his words pour hot, nonstop, each one punching low in your gut. "gonna come for me? soak my cock while i fill you up? do it—come on, y/n, let me feel it."
the coil snaps. you shatter around him—body locking, vision spotting white, moans muffled desperate against his palm. he bites your shoulder to stifle his own groan, thrusting through it erratic. "fuck—yes—good girl—"
he follows seconds later—deep, hard, spilling with a low, broken curse. his hand slips from your mouth to your throat—not squeezing, just holding—as he grinds out the last pulses. you both sag against the sink, breaths heaving, mirror fully fogged now.
sweat slicks your skin. his shirt clings damp to your back. messy as hell—jeans tangled at ankles, tank rucked up, his belt dangling. he pulls out careful, ties off the condom, tosses it in the trash with a wet thud. you straighten slow, legs shaky, fixing clothes with hands that tremble.
he watches you in the mirror—eyes softer now, thumb brushing a stray hair from your face. almost tender. "you good?"
you nod, but the words stick. yeah. no. this was just heat, right? adrenaline fuck. but the way he lingers—hand on your waist, gaze searching—twists that resistance in you. want more. can't have it.
"we should..." you trail off, voice hoarse.
he nods. "yeah."
but neither of you moves. the fluorescent hums. his thumb traces your hip bone idle.
the fluorescent flickers one last time as you both slip out the back door, gravel crunching under boots, night air cold enough to sting the fresh marks on your neck. the ride to the motel is just as tense as the air was in the bathroom.
room fourteen. his. the door clicks shut behind you and it's on again, slower this time. clothes hit the floor in pieces. he takes his time mapping every bruise with his mouth, every scar with careful fingers, like he's memorizing the map of someone who might not be here tomorrow. you ride him on the creaky mattress, slow rolls of your hips, his hands braced on your thighs, thumbs pressing crescent indents. he talks less now—mostly curses, your name, broken praise. you come again with your face buried in his neck, his arms locked around you like he's afraid you'll vanish mid-breath.
after, you don't roll away. he doesn't either. you stay tangled, sweat cooling, his heartbeat steady under your cheek.
morning light sneaks through the blinds, thin stripes across the bed. you wake first, but you don't move. he stirs a minute later, arm tightening reflexively around your waist. green eyes blink open, soft in the half-light, no walls up yet.
"mornin'," he rasps, voice wrecked from last night.
"hey." you trace the edge of a scar on his collarbone with your fingertip. "you always this clingy after a one-off?"
he huffs a laugh, low and real. "only when the girl saves my ass and then lets me fuck her in a bar bathroom." pause. his thumb strokes lazy circles on your hip. "you always stick around?"
"only when the guy's not a complete dick about it."
silence settles, comfortable. outside a truck rumbles past. he clears his throat. the conversation switchs to hunting. to monsters. to the tragedy that is your day-to-day. nothing ever permanent. always on the road. sometimes alone. sometimes with people you don't know if you can trust. you share stories. laugh at things that other people would never understand.
the laughter fades easy. his hand finds yours, fingers lacing loose. neither of you says it out loud, but it hangs there: this feels good. too good. dangerous good.
he shifts, props up on one elbow. looks down at you like he's deciding something. "gimme your number."
your brows lift. "for?"
"compare notes. cases. whatever." he looks away, jaw working. "in case you need backup. or… i don't know. pie recommendations."
you smile despite yourself. "you're flustered, winchester."
"shut up." he leans in, kisses you—slow, deep, more intent than goodbye should be. tongue sliding against yours, hand cupping your jaw like he's anchoring himself. when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours for a beat too long.
"text me so i know you're still kicking," he mutters.
you nod. "same to you."
you leave first. he watches from the doorway, arms crossed, until your truck disappears around the corner.
the next year is a slow burn of almosts.
a wendigo in kentucky—two towns over. you meet at a dive, fuck against the impala in the lot, then spend the night curled under scratchy blankets, his arm heavy across your waist, talking about nothing and everything until dawn.
a vamp nest in indiana. quick hunt, quicker sex in the motel shower, water running cold by the time you're both boneless on the tile. eight hours after, you're both still there, him playing with your hair, you tracing the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. he tells you about his brother this time.
a poltergeist in missouri. you save his ass again. he saves yours. afterward you don't even pretend to leave. you fall asleep with his heartbeat under your ear, wake up to him making shitty coffee in the room's ancient machine, handing you a mug without a word.
he never says it. you never say it.
but every time one of you leaves, the goodbye kiss lingers longer. every text thread stays open longer. every case that "happens" to overlap feels less like coincidence.
c/w - near death experience, ooc dean, dean is implied to be older than the reader but no serious agegap, nicknames such as honey, sweetheart,pretty girl, kid, and baby are used, alchohol use, virgin!reader because im such a sap for first time fics, car sex, drunk sex (only dean is drunk but he's not like wasted), unprotected sex, dom!dean, size kink, creampie, slight aftercare, lmk if i missed any
synopsis - you’ve been hunting with sam and dean for a while, and while deans utterly smitten with you, he thinks he's done an exceptional job at hiding his feelings. that is, until you nearly dying on a hunt makes him realize he can’t keep pretending.
wc - 4.4k words
a/n - this is barely proofread, i wrote most of this in the middle of the night while half asleep, so i apologize if its a bit incoherent and out of character
you could feel your heartbeat in the tips of your ears, chest heaving at a wild pace as the vampire behind you dug his cold, dead fingers harder into the flesh of your neck, hot tears pricking the corners of your eyes as his dirty, long fingernails ripped tiny, crescent shaped cuts along your throat.
"not another step, boy." his low voice boomed behind your ear, as he pointed at dean with his free hand. "you'd best drop that blade unless you plan on lugging this pretty thing back to your car in pieces."
"woah- easy there." dean said, voice wavering as he tried desperately to swallow the lump in his throat. he glanced at you, and for the first and only time you can recall since meeting the man, he looked petrified. he dropped his machete without a second thought as hot sweat dripped down his forehead. "there, man. no need for violence, yeah?" he tried to speak with a little humor in his voice but it's washed over with palpable fear. "just let her go, and i swear we'll leave you be, scout's honor."
the thing's grip tightened impossibly around your throat, choaking a hoarsely quiet groan past your lips as your legs began to weaken, your head feeling lighter by the second. it let out a soft, dark chuckle as it's gaze bore through dean like fire.
"i don't think so, dean." the freak tutted as the edges of your vision started to blur, then darken. "but i'll tell you what," your head lulled, consciousness fading. "if you turn tail and run, i'll leave her pretty little corpse in once piece at your motel door once i'm done with her, yeah?" and as your last bit of awareness dripped from you, a loud bang blared out from behind.
when you finally came to you were laid out in the backseat of the impala, head resting in dean's lap as one of his ever so slightly trembling hands rested lightly on the apple of your cheek. the low rumbling of baby's engine gave a certain comfort, an anchor as you opened your eyes to be met with the blurry, spinning image of dean's concerned face.
"hng.." you grumbled, rubbing at your eyes as pain thrummed a pulsing beat in the back of your skull. dean's hand twitched, pulling back slightly from your puffy cheek before slowly, hesitantly resting it against you when he senses no protest from you at the small contact.
"woah, good morning sleeping beauty." dean spoke lowly, his voice a low gravely tone that you'd learned over the years meant that it was dipped in a quiet fear and a shaking concern.
"what..." you swallowed thickly, your mouth impossibly dry and filled with a tangy, almost metallic taste. "what happened?" you asked, your voice slightly slurred as you ran your tongue over your teeth, your brow furrowed in hazy confusion.
"nothing you need to worry your pretty head with." dean spoke with a finality you'd come to expect from him as he swiped a stick, red liquid from your cheek. "sammy blew that freak's head clean off, everything's all done and dealt with." dean said, leaning back slightly as he tried with little success to stretch his legs out a little further in the impala's, admittedly cramped, back seat.
you nodded, your eyes fluttering back shut as you laid contently in deans lap, the sound of the road passing beneath you lulling you into a half asleep stupor as you felt the pad of dean's thumb thumping softly against your cheek, in rhythm with a song it felt like only dean could really hear.
the following days passed in a slight blur, your head still woozy from what dean and sam collectively decided was a minor concussion, but soon enough you were back on the road.
admittedly, it took you a few weeks to notice the shift in dean's attitude when he was around you. sure, he was still his usual self, his biting wit and snappy remarks still filled the air around you with a comforting, familiar warmth, but he was different, more on edge.
you shrugged it off at first. dean had always been protective of you in the same ways he was of sammy, his role of 'big brother who'd kill and die to protect his family' had never dulled or weaned as he and sammy grew older, you supposed you'd just been tossed into the mix of people dean saw that he had a duty to protect.
so sure, his jaw clenched tighter if he saw a man at a bar eyeing you too hungrily, his fists balled quicker when drunk guys made passes at you, and he was much quicker to your side if you even had the suggestion of an injury, but so what? he's dean winchester, and while it had gotten on your nerves from time to time, being treated like you were a child that needed protecting, you knew he meant no harm. at least, that was until louisiana.
bobby had called the boys with word of a huge coven of vampires reeking havoc on a small town out in the backwoods of the boot-state and suggested the three of you make the trek down south and put a stop to it.
"y/n," dean said, pulling his worn leather jacket snuggly over his, slightly loose fitting, grey hoodie. "do me- do us a favor and stay here, yeah? need you to go over some of dad's old notes, see if you can find anything we missed about the filthy blood sucker." dean's voice was low, quiet in a way that wasn't typical. sam rolled his eyes out of your view, seemingly ignoring his brother as he pushed past him and out the motel's rickety old door.
"huh?" you cocked your head to the side, your hands stilling at your shoelaces as they fall limply between your fingers. "dean, what more do we need to know about them? we know what makes em' and we know what kills em', what else do we-".
dean cut you off with a huffed sigh as he made his way to the door, his rough hands pulling the shotty thing open with just a bit too much force as his jaw twitched almost un-noticeably. "just do it." he spoke with an air of finality that set your blood hot, anger bubbling under your skin as he slammed it on it's hinges behind him, peeling away in the impala before you even had the chance to start after him.
frustrated tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you tried desperately to bat them away. running your hands through hair, you let out a loud groan, almost a scream of hot anger. you'd had it.
you could handle the babying and the backseat driving and the occasional off-handed comment about how you 'really needed to be more careful', but this? him full on barring you from a hunt without so much as letting you get a word in edge wise? it made you shake with a mixture of inadequacy and pure indignant rage.
hours passed before you heard the squeaky door to your room whine on it's hinges, its protests followed by only a single set of heavy, tired footsteps. in walked sammy, hair dampened with sweat, face patterned with a light layer of grime and his clothes, soiled and dirty, clinging loosely to his frame.
"where's dean?" you asked, your voice a little too loud and your tone a little meaner than you'd intended for it to come off, but either sam hadn't noticed or he was too tired to pay it any mind.
"at that dive bar 'bout a half mile up the road." sam said, shrugging off his thick jacket and peeling off the wrinkled button up that sat beneath it. "he wanted to grab a drink but i'm fucking exhausted. told him he could go ahead but i was walkin' back to the room." he spoke almost absentmindedly as he rummaged through his suitcase in search for a clean pair of sleep clothes.
you nodded once, quickly slinging your messenger back over your shoulder as you reached down to tie your long forgotten shoes. sam turned to look at you as he made his way to the bathroom, pajamas in hand as he watched you march towards the door with an eyebrow cocked up in confusion.
"where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asked as you pushed open the room door even though, really, he knew exactly where you were planning to go.
"to kick dean's ass so hard he won't know what day it is when i'm done with him." you answered simply, a slight humor in your voice as you turned back to see sam give a tired smile and a nod.
when you finally reached the bar you couldn't help but scrunch your nose in faint disgust. the stench of booze creeped out into the air around you and you could practically feel it seeping into your hair and clothes. with a deep breath that you quickly regretted you pushed through the grimy place's door, the bell above it jingling a greeting as you stepped onto the sticky floors.
it was easy to find dean, despite how puny he seemed to look in comparison to sam he was still a big man and when your eyes finally locked onto him, sat hunched slightly forward as he sat perched on a stool you made a hasty bee-line towards him.
"who the hell do you think you are?" you asked, voice raised slightly over the loud music and chatter of the surrounding bar-goers.
dean swiveled in his seat, brows rising as his green eyes met your furious ones. "what the hell are you doing here?" he asked in a tone that almost sounded accusatory, hand tightening around the drink in his hand.
you slammed you palm down on the bar next to his, a frustraited huff pushing past your lips. "what the hell does that matter?" you bit, staring at dean's face in hope you'd see at least a smidge of remourse for the way he was acting. "i'm a grown woman, dean. i can handle myself in bars!" you almost yell, your voice raised so far above your normal state it nearly made dean flinch.
he rolled his eyes, jaw clenching again in that way it always did when something was on his nerves. "i never said you couldn't handle yourself, i-"
you cut him off with a bitter, angry laugh. "you didn't? that's funny, because that sure is how you've been acting." you took a step back from him as you spoke and his rose from his seat, boot clad feet settling to the ground with a soft thump.
"what the hell are you talking about?" he stepped foreward, looming over you as he crained his neck slightly to lock eyes with you.
"don't play dumb with me, winchester!" this time you did yell, hand slamming into the side of your thigh in thick frustration. "you've treated me like i'm a toddler for months now! you're constantly over my shoulder acting like i- like i'm fragile!" you ran you finger through your hair in a futile attempt to calm, to ground yourself.
"i'm sick of it! i'm god damn sick of it! if you really do think i'm so incompetent, that i can't watch my own fucking back then i'm done! you can go back to just hunting with sam because i'm not doing this." angry tears pooled in your eyes, threatening to teeter over and spill onto your cheeks.
before he could get another word in you turned on your heels and headed for the door, silently storming past the drunken townies who's stares tore holes through you. when you finally pushed out into the parking lot you let out a low shaky breath, gravel crunching beneath your feet before you stilled next to the impala
"(y/n)!" dean called out from behind you, his boots thudding loudly on the rocks below him as he reached out for you, grabbing you firmly by the shoulders and spinning you around to face him.
when his eyes met yours again his heart dropped, the now freely falling tears cascading down your cheeks each sending a dull ache through his bones. his expression softened as he pulled you into his chest, the smell of whiskey wafting off of his clothes fills your nostrils with a light burn.
"fuck," he muttered, his hand rubbing awkward circles against your back. "listen kid, i'm sorry." he mumbled into your ear, voice low and words slurred ever so slightly as his grip around you tightened. "i know, look i know you're perfectly capable of takin' care of yourself, but i.." his voice trailed off as he gazed down at the crown of your head.
"but you what?" you asked, voice small and shaking from a sort of embarrassment as you looked up at dean, big doe eyes glassy and wet with tears that clung to your lashes.
"i- for fuck's sake." dean groaned in frustration before he pressed his lips roughly against yours, his hands reaching up to hold your head at the bottom base of your skull as he pressed his chest against yours, pushing you ever so slightly so that your back leaned against the door of his car,his tongue tasting of fiery liquor as it lapped once softly at your bottom lip.
when he pulled away his eyes were lidded, a dazed sort of look plastered on his drunken features as he leaned down once again, cupping your cheeks in his hands as he spoke.
"i love you, okay?" he said with what sounded like a mix of grief and need playing in his tone. "i need you. i need you to be okay." he pressed his lips softly, lightly against your forehead, letting out a shaky breath before continuing. "when that freak grabbed you it damn near knocked me to my knees, kid. i thought.. i thought you were a goner, and it was my fault." his voice nearly cracked as he stroked the back of your head, fingers lacing carefully through locks of your hair. "i wouldn't be able to live with my self,(y/n). if something happened to you when i could have stopped it i'd-".
you cut him off, pressing your lips softly to his as you wrapped your arms around his neck, tilting your head ever so slightly to the side as you felt him snake his arms around your waist. he hummed against your lips as he pressed his tongue against them with a silent plea for you to part them, and really, who were you to say no to him?
your lips parted slowly, a jolt of warmth flooding through you as dean slipped his tongue past them, through your teeth before making his way to your own. his palm's pressed against the small of your back as he hungrily lapped at you, a groan of satisfaction pulling from his chest as you pressed yourself further against him.
he pulled away slowly, a string of spit connecting your lips as he stared down at you, a drunken smirk pulling across his damp lips in a way that made your stomach flip as you stared hazily up at his dimpled grin. before either of you could think to say anything more he dipped into the crook of your neck, wet tongue licking a hot stipe up the side of it before he latched around it, pressing light kisses and soft love bites to it.
he groaned at the sounds you made, your soft yips, sighs and whines sending shivers down his spine and blood pumping to the tent in his pants, the feeling of it slowly pressing against your thigh enough to elicit a small squeal of embarrassment.
he pulled back, a hungry want deep in his emerald green eyes as he pressed another messy kiss to your lips before he pulled you to his chest, swung open the door to the impala and laid you down across the backseat before climbing in with you, propping himself up to loom above you as he shut the car door behind him.
"lemme take care of you, baby." he said, pressing sloppy kisses that made you whine, back arching up to press yourself closer against him as he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear. "lemme show you how sorry i am, m'kay?"
you shivered as his hands wandered under the hem of your shirt, fumbling to lift your arms as he slowly pulled it over your head, staring down at your chest once he finally tossed it in the floorboard.
"fuck, baby." dean's voice drawled out as he quickly unhooked your bra with one of his hands, the other one quicky moving to fondle your now bare breasts.
he pressed soft kisses to each of them, letting his tongue swirl around and teeth gently tug your nipples. "such pretty tits f'me." he mumbles as he grinds his jean clad cock into your thigh, soft pants parting both of your lips as he places a sloppy line of kisses down your jaw.
as his hands wandered to the button of your jeans you grabbed at them, hands sweaty as you gazed up at him.
"somethin' wrong, pretty girl?" he asked, his lips pursed against your ear as he huffed labored breaths.
"i um.." you mumble, peeling your eyes away from his in embarrassment as your cheeks flush warm. "i've never uh..." your voice trailed off.
dean chuckled a low, deep laugh that sent a hot pool of slickness into your panties before continuing to undo your pants. "ahh, okay." he said as he hooked his fingers into your waistbands, pulling your pants and underwear off of you in one swift motion before planting a sweet kiss atop your forehead. "don't worry, sweetheart. i'll be gentle."
you could only muster a nod in response as he dipped his right hand between your thighs. a satisfied hum pressed past his lips as the tips of his fingers toyed with your wetness. he smiled, watching you squirm beneath him as he pressed the pad of his thumb lightly against your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles as he lapped at your neck.
"so good, so good f'me, baby." he whispered as you panted out soft moans. "think you can take my fingers, honey?" he asked with a tone so sickly sweet yet still drenched in pure lustful desire that it made your head spin as you nodded, desperate for a relief to the growing heated pressure deep in your cunt.
with little hesitation he plunged his middle finger slowly into your sopping cunt, dick twitching in his pants at the way you moaned and squeeze down so tightly around it.
he started his movement slow, gently dragging his digit in and out of you, occasionally curling it up in a way that made your hips buck and louder moans fall from your glossy sweet lips. but it didn't take long for him to kick it up a notch. fueled by your panting and whining to slowly slide in his ring finger alongside his middle, groaning at the loud whine that pushes out of you the moment that he does so.
"good girl." he cooed, kissing at your ear as you squirmed beneath him. "such a good girl baby, you're takin' it so well f'me. so proud." he mumbled, still grinding against your thigh.
as you neared your release your hips bucked wildly, moaning unashamedly as you bit at your bottom lip. "de, god!" you moaned, burring your face in the crook of his neck. "'m close, s'close de, please." you whined, nails dragging down the leather of his jacket.
he tutted, pulling his fingers out of you with a low hum as you whined at him, back arching in protest as you looked up at him with what almost looked like betrayal in your eyes.
dean shushed you with a quick peck to your lips before he shimmied out of his hoodie and jacked and began fumbling with his belt and the button and zipper of his jeans.
"shh baby, i know." he said before scooching his boxers and jeans down to his lower thighs. "i'll let ya' cum baby, don't worry." he slurred as he pressed the tip of his cock flush against your entrance. "jus' wanna feel you, 'kay? want my pretty girl to cum on my cock, you can do that, can't you?"
you nodded, heat flooding you core as dean rubbed his tip against your swollen, aching clit before he slid into you, barely getting his tip inside of you before groaning, shoving his head into the nape of your neck.
"you okay, sweets?" he asked, his voice husky as he fought every urge in his body to snap his hips forward.
you nodded your head slightly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you stretched around the girth of dean's cock, your teeth clenched tight.
"shh, baby it's okay." dean soothed as he slid deeper into you, his hips stuttering to a stop when he'd reached about half of his length. he pressed soft, gentle kisses to the corners of your lips and crown of your hear, murmuring quiet praises while he waited for you to adjust to his size. "god, you're so tight, baby. squeezin' me so good, holy shit. shh baby i got ya', js sit pretty n' take it f'me, please honey. doin' so good f'me."
slowly, as the ache of the stretch began to dull finally, dean pushed the rest of the way in, burying his cock in your gooey core to the hilt, letting out a loud groan followed by a string of muttered curses that you couldn't quite catch.
"too much." you mumbled into his shoulder, eyes again brimming with tears as he stroked your cheek. "de, you're too big, i can't.." your voice trailed off as he peppered your collarbones with dusted kisses.
"yes you can, baby. you can take it." he murmured against your skin, his hands trailing down your body to rub your hips in soothing circles. "it's okay baby, de's got ya. just sit still f'me baby, promise it'll feel good."
you managed a small "ok" as you hid your face in his shoulder, lip quivering in a desperate attempt to keep from letting out a weak yelp as dean continued peppering you with kisses. when the pain finally subsided you rolled your hips, hesitantly bucking up into him and drawing a soft moan from yourself as dean threw his head back with a groan. his grip on you hips tightened impossibly so as he tried to not slam down into you.
"didn't hurt, did it?" he asked with a tight jaw, slowly loosening his grip on your hips.
"only a little." you mumbled, pulling back from his shoulder to meet his gaze with a shy smile. "you um.. y'can move now.."
dean didn't need to be told twice, rolling his hips against yours as soon as you gave him the go ahead.
still, despite his desperation and deep seeded need for you, he was gentle. his movements were slow, calculated and loving as his lips latched desperately onto your neck, biting, sucking, kissing, anything that would draw another honey sweet moan from your lips.
"fuuck." he drawled, his breath shaky with restraint as he rutted slowly into you. "so fucking good, baby. so good for me." praises fell from his lips like desperate prayers to you.
"de, holy shit." you gasped, nails digging into his back as he increased his pace, each drag of his cock pulling you deeper into blindingly hot pleasure, each low grunt of your name tightening the quickly growing knot in the pit of your stomach.
your cunt fluttered around him as your orgasm crept closer, causing a string of muttered curses to fall quietly from dean's lips, his hips stuttering against yours as you slowly tightened around him.
"you close, pretty girl?" he asked, his voice low and teasing as he moved one of his deft hands down your side, trailing his fingers lightly over the flesh of your outer thigh before placing it between your thighs, grinning as he began to roughly roll his thumb is tight circles over your aching clit.
"come on, baby." he coaxed, resting his head next to your ear, his warm, whiskey scented breath against your skin making your stomach flip as he once again picked up his pace, his movements almost frenzied as filthy words dripped like sin from his lips. "come on this dick, baby. you can do it, baby please." he pressed soft kisses into the nape of your neck as he pleaded with you. "make a fucking mess for me, yeah? come on, show me how good you feel."
and with that the knot in your stomach snapped, hot pleasure flooding your veins as your back arched off of the seat of the impala, pressing your chest to dean's as a flurry of moans and cries and curses fell from your spit-glossed lips.
"good fucking girl." he grunted, moving his hands to pull you into his chest as he gave a few more rough thrusts before spilling his cum deep inside of you with a low groan, face burying itself into your neck as mumbled praises poured from his lips.
as the two of you calmed down he slowly pulled out, giving a low, soft laugh at the whine you let out at the emptiness his cock leaves behind.
"did so good for me." he whispered as climbed off of you, instead opting to scoop you into his lap as he traced shapes along the skin of your back. "so so good."
you hummed, content as your bare chest pressed against his, eyes fluttering with a newfound tiredness.
he promised to let up on the protectiveness as he draped your clothes back over you before doing the same for himself. though you're not really sure you buy it, it doesn't bother you much. at least, it doesn't as you wobblily climbed into the passenger seat, eyes hooded as dean turns the key in the ignition as his hand rests firmly on your thigh.
warnings: minor nsfw mentions, also kinda ooc!soldier boy.. i’m a sucker for needy ben i fear.
note: based off this tweet!!
It was probably late. Probably somewhere between i-don’t-fucking-know o’clock and i-want-more-sleep AM. But, regardless, you were being awoken by a dastardly buzzing to your phone. Your silly little ringtone you’d customized blaring in your ear and the small metal phone vibrating against the mattress making for the ultimate alarm combo, so of course you woke up.
Unknown number.
That wasn’t ringing any bells yet. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation that didn’t make you decline the call (because, god, you should’ve), but you didn’t. You accepted it and put it on speaker within the first few seconds of squinting your eyes open.
“..Hello??”
“I’m gettin’ my dick sucked right now.”
You knew that voice.
That irritating, grating voice. The one you’d sworn yourself away from but always came crawling back to: Soldier Boy. You were, at the very least, thanking the heavens that he was with someone else right now. Makes things easier on yourself later on when you’re reflecting in a more conscious state.
You rubbed the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger. You swore you could hear the disgustingly wet, lewd noises of whatever girl, hooker, whore, or the like that he’d picked up for the night sucking on his cock. Man.. his massive, absolutely mind-numbing cock. It was making your legs shift together uncomfortably—uncontrollably.
“Okay? Why’re you telling me this.” You asked groggily, rubbing your eyes with your thumbs. He was already groaning like a bitch on the other end. Not from the blowjob, no, but because he expected another answer. Something more self-gratifying.
Through the phone he made an unpleasant noise. Something between a whine and an ugly snarl. “You’re such a fuckin’ bitch, y’know? Wanna act like you don’t give a fuck. Ms. Independent, right?” Every word came out like a curse, cutting as deep as they could even if he didn’t actually mean it.
However, it really was getting you wet just thinking about him being blown by some random while so obviously imagining you instead. It was a different kind of yearning you’d only seen in bad pornos online.
“Want me to do something about it? Is that it?” You asked. The silence was approval. “Ben, you’re pathetic.”
He knew that.
Of course he knew that his occasional check up to make sure he still meant something to you in some way was absolutely stupid, because he knew it wasn’t just random. He needs that approval like people need water to survive. It was just in his blood.
He’d never admit that, though.
What he could do, however, is hang up the phone. Which he did abruptly, leaving you back in the suddenly uncomfortable silence of your bedroom and the bright light of your phone screen, silently hoping he’ll ring back soon.
The bed creaked under the incessant thrusts of Ben’s hips slamming against yours. The room was filled with the smell of sweat, sex and weed; echoing squelching noises coming from your pussy and the amount of wetness that coated the older man’s cock. A ring of creamy white decorated the base of his shaft, and his hazel eyes couldn’t leave the mess you were making on the satin sheets.
It was sinful, more than that; it was disgusting and perverted but nothing new for the old supe. The expression of your face was corrupted by the pleasure you were feeling—lips parted, eyebrows furrowed and your skin burning.
Through all that, what Ben liked to see the most was the saliva slowly dripping from the corner of your lips, your Adam’s apple trying its best to gulp under the strength of his hand. His fingers were expertly exerting a pressure on the side of your throat, cutting your airflow the right amount. It wasn't without saying that Ben knew what he was doing; it wasn’t the first time you both decided to play the game, or the first time he fucked you like that.
With the tip of his fat cock hitting directly against the sweet spot at the entrance of your pussy, sweat coating your forehead or his hand choking you. “Fuck, look at you… Droolin’ and being all pretty with my cock inside you.” He groaned the words out, hazel eyes never leaving your face for indication that you wanted to stop, but you never did.
Your eyes closed for a second, too long for the man above you, as he angled his hips to hit deeper inside your cunt. It made you gasp, eyes opening wide. “Look at me while I fuck that cunt, got it? Don’t look away, babydoll.” He ended up by saying, hips jerking to meet your own, making your body bounce on that mattress. Ben second hand brushed hair away from his face, his forehead slick with sweat.
Your legs shook on each side of his waist, his free hand now gripping at one of your thighs to pull it higher. “M’fuck, sweet little cunt… S’gripping me so hard.” He hissed, dragging his cock almost all the way out of your cunt, just to force it back inside you, shaft rubbing at your gummy walls, stretching it to mold him perfectly. Your wetness dripped from your sloppy hole, sticking at your inner-thighs, on the skin of your ass and against the covers.
But Ben cared less about the mess, it was actually one of his favorite things. He loved being icky, being disgusting, being perverted.
He loved to watch your breasts bounce as he slammed his cock deep inside you, hearing the noises escaping you when his bulbous tip hit that sweet spot you loved so much, or the way your eyes rolled in the back of your head. He loved knowing he was the one bringing so close to pleasure, the one to hold the control on your body or how you felt. His hazel eyes lowered to your tight little cunt once more, watching his cock disappear each time his hips thrusted forward, how your hole molded around his fat shaft, sucking it in. He groaned, tightening his fingers around your throat.
“Can’t get enough of that little cunt, she’s fucking sucking me so good.” The words made you whine out-loud and Ben smirked, knowing how much you loved when he spoke like that; so disgustingly, so perverted. And if you didn’t say anything about it, your pussy spoke for you as it squeezed him tighter, letting his shaft drag all along your gummy walls. Your lips parted, another flow of saliva dripped from the corner of your lips, your hands lifting to grab at his wrist. “Yeah, babydoll, show me how much you love that fat cock stretching you open.”
Your back arched from the bed and you were unable to keep your moans out as Ben angled his hips down so his tip would hit your sweet spot. The stimulation was making you see white, mixed with the tight grip of his hand around your throat, it was almost enough to make you come on the spot.
But Ben loved to tease you and torture you, and his pace fastened, hips rutting against yours. His cock hit deeper, fat cock stretching your velvety walls like it was made for it. “Bet ya’ I can make that sweet little cunt squirt for me. What do ya’ think, angel?” He groaned, his grip on your thigh became stronger, lifting your leg to his shoulder to hit deep.
You squirmed at the feeling, it was almost overstimulating to feel him fuck you so good. You gasped, hands flying to the covers to grip them tightly, feeling the smooth fabric under your fingers. Your head rolled on the mattress, saliva slowly dripping to the skin of your neck and to the bed. It pooled, dampening the covers. Tears emerged from the corners of your eyes, rolling to your temples from the pleasure you were feeling. The view made Ben groan, his hips slapping against yours, heavy balls hitting at your ass and creating skin slapping noises echoing in the room. “Fuck—Love when you cry when I fuck that pussy. Makes me want to fill that sloppy cunt with my cum.”
You whined at the words, and his fingers just slightly loosened around your throat just for a second; a second long enough to let you talk. “Ben—Ben, please!” His thumb caressed the sweaty skin of your jaw before he tightened his fingers around your throat once more, cutting your airflow just the right way. “Begging for what, babydoll? Want that cunt filled up? All creamy and white with my cum?” He asked, letting his hips slow down, dragging his cock almost all the way out of you before slamming it back in, making you gasp.
His pre-cum mixed with your juices, coating the entirety of his fat cock, glistening at his bush. Your clit rubbed against his pelvis each time he slotted himself deep inside you and rolled his hips there. Your wetness was sticky against your skin, but it made everything way more slick, his cock able to slide in and out without any problem.
Your puffy folds were all sensitive from the way he fucked you, almost raw from the feeling of his pubic hair rubbing against your skin. “M’gonna fill that little cunt so full of my cum, you’ll feel it for days. You'll touch that pussy 'nd think of me there, so deep.” Ben ended up voicing.
With those words, he started to rut his hips against yours once more, his shaft stretching your gummy walls, his balls slapping against your ass and your clit rubbing against his bush. There was so much stimulation, even more with the position of your leg up on his shoulder. Ben was able to hit so much deeper that way, and you felt the warmth at your lower belly, a knot slowly undoing itself. Your pussy clenched around his member, a telltale of your orgasm coming, showing the tip of its nose.
Ben grunted above you, his hair falling onto his sweaty forehead, nose crunching as he watched you. “Y’gonna come, uh? Gonna come with my fat cock deep inside your cunt, babydoll,” he said, fastening his pace even more. Loud squelching noises echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and back into your ears. “M’gonna fill that womb so fuckin’ full.” He ended up saying, his hand on your thigh leaving to sneak between your thighs.
His fingers started to rub at your slick clit, making your back arch from the mattress. The hand he had around your throat tightened once more, making you gasp out, head becoming dizzy. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, drool leaking from the corner of your lips again, slowly pooling at your neck. His fingers rubbed faster circles at your wet-slick clit, his bulbous tip rubbing and hitting the sweet spot at the very entrance of your cunt.
Your thighs started to shake, and unable to warn Ben, you came in a loud whine. Juices flowed out of your cunt, splashing the soldier’s skin and coating his cock with your essence. He grunted loudly, his grip loosening on your neck as he kept thrusting inside you as you squirted. “Fuck, that’s it, good fuckin’ girl. Coat my cock, come on.” His voice echoed in your ears as you came. Your muscles convulsed, you almost tried to squirm away from his cock but both his strong hands moved to grip at your hips to pull you back on his shaft.
Your throat felt raw from his choking but you cried out. “Ben! Ben, m’fuck!” Your walls clenched around his cock, your juices had made a mess of the satin sheets that were now sticking to your ass and thighs, damp with your juices. His cock kept thrusting inside you, stretching at your sensitive walls, veins pulsating onto your insides. Ben grunted loudly, his eyes lowering to the mess of your cunt. “Keep squeezing that cunt for me, angel.” You obeyed him, clenching your pussy around his shaft, sucking him in.
His bush glistened of your juices, drops of come slowly dripped to meet your skin with his hips hitting yours; squelching noises and skin-slapping-skin vibrated in the room, mixed with your whines and Ben’s groans. He seemed feral as he pushed his cock deep inside you after a few more jerks of hips, his tip kissing your cervix before you felt the push of his semen inside your pussy. His creamy, hot white cum filled your cunt full, some of it dripped out of your sloppy hole as he pulled just slightly out.
Globs of semen left the confines of your hole, leaking to just coat the sheets under your ass. The room felt sticky with sex and sweat and the slight undertone of weed coming from Ben. His eyes still hadn’t left the mess of your cunt and he smirked.
“A very tight sloppy pussy, all filled with my cum.” He spoke, hips pulling away and his softening cock leaving the warmth it had appreciated before. A quiet pop was heard and you immediately felt emptiness between your legs. More of his semen leaked out, and Ben watched it before moving completely away from the bed. You didn’t move, your throat raw and your body tired; and you knew Ben would take care of everything.
The soft feeling of a tissue between your thighs was enough to break you out of your thoughts and your half-lidded eyes lowered to see the older man carefully cleaning you up. He didn’t say anything, hands steady as he wiped your juices and his mixed semen off of your skin. The silence was comfortable, but broken a few beats after. “Your throat hurts?” He simply asked, throwing the tissue in the bin and ended up laying next to you, all in his naked glory.
You nodded. “Just raw, I guess. It hurts a bit to gulp but that’s it.” He hummed at the words, one of his hands lifting to your throat, fingers now caressing the skin there without saying anything. His thumb rubbed at the slight bump of your Adam’s apple, like he was trying to smooth the ache he had created. “Y’want me to make you some… I don’t fucking know, tea?” His words made you smile because you knew Ben wasn’t very expressive in the way he gave aftercare, but he tried.
“Yeah, I’d appreciate that.” You voiced back, quiet and tired. Another hum left his lips before he sat up, pulling himself at the edge of the bed before standing up.
“Okay, I’ll be back.” He walked to the doorframe, asscheeks naked because of course, he was Soldier Boy, he couldn’t give a fuck. “But don’t ya’ fucking dare fall asleep before I come back, got it?” He said, pointing a finger at you and then.
He disappeared in the corridor and came back to you, very much asleep in the mess of a bed, cuddling his pillow.
