Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!Reader, Ben/Soldier Boy POV
Summary: With a birthday printed on your wrist that happened over a hundred years ago, you always thought that you were cursed to never meet your soulmate. But when you finally meet the man that's supposed to be the other half of your soul, you wonder if the stars were wrong, and wonder how this man was meant for you. Reader is Hughie's sister, is not a supe, and is a Literature Professor that gets dragged into the middle of things. This fic takes place in an AU set loosely after Season 3 and does deviate from the plot of The Boys
Tropes: Soulmate AU, Little bit of Grumpy and Sunshine, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Forced Proximity, Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy, Jealous Ben/Soldier Boy,
Warnings: Self Deprecating Thoughts, Heart Wrenching ANGST, Sexism/Homophobia (It's Soldier Boy), References to Sex, Cursing, Sexual Thoughts, Sexual Inneundo, Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy, Loneliness, Longing, Basically the reader just wants to be loved, Reader wears glasses?, Soldier Boy might be a little OOC.
Word Count: 5.8K
Song Inspiration For Chapter: The Scientist By Coldplay. Title of chapter taken from this song.
Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!
Internal Monologue Is in First Person And Is In Italics
Main Masterlist
Series Masterlist
Guide:
Reader's thoughts are in italics and in first person.
Ben's thoughts in italics, bold, and blue!
Ben POV
"You want her to what?" Hughie sputters from the couch beside you at Butcher.
Butcher nurses a cup of tea, leaning back into the uncomfortable white chair on the opposite side of the football sized living room. His usual disheveled appearance seems exacerbated by the delicate white cloth beneath his body.
By now the sun outside was nothing more than a hazy orange blob slowly sinking into the horizon, the rest of the city beginning to come alive with the famous NYC nightlife.
If Ben were paying attention to any of it he'd hear the familiar screech and honks of the gridlocked taxis, watch the flash of the lights below as they flicker on one at a time, and find some sense of peace in the noises below.
He wasn't.
Since the moment your brother came hurtling through his bedroom door, Ben's full attention has been on you.
"I think that it's best she stay here. We don’t know where Stormfront is and the second we leave her, the cunt will come out of the woodwork like a termite. Maybe if the Yankee twat had given us a call things would be different, but for now that’s the only plan we’ve got."
Stormfront getting away hadn’t been apart of the plan, neither had been losing his shit and leveling an entire block, but Ben wasn't apologetic about that.
He never was.
He had been willing to do anything to get you back, burn any bridge, level any skyscraper, kill anyone who stood in his way. He thought that you would see it as a big romantic gesture, that you'd see how serious he was about you and protecting you, see the hero that he believed himself to be with every fiber of his being-
You hadn't and all it did was make Ben more furious.
He didn't understand why you were doing this. He'd seen your memories the same way that you'd seen his and he thought that someone who wished for him as much you did would have been more willing to at least hear him out.
Because he was after all, him.
Stormfront's jeer rings in his ears.
"To think you spent all those years fucking away your worries trying to fill that hole inside of you, hoping that someone would love you, just for the one person supposed to, to shit all over you and call you a monster. I can't imagine that."
Even now the words strike something inside, clawing their way through the harsh outer shell Ben had developed over the better part of 80 years, and shaking something within him that he hadn't felt since the final nail in his mother's coffin.
It made him feel like a pussy to have all of this swirling in his head. In the past he would have been more than happy to distract himself with someone he met in a bar, to lose all sense of reality in the pleasure of a good fuck, but again he was stuck in the dilemma of you.
Now thinking about or checking out another woman made him feel absolutely nothing but guilt which in turn only made him feel like a pussy whipped jerk-off like your brother.
Ben's jaw tightens as the onslaught of self-deprecating thoughts come back parading around his head, each one sounding remarkably like his father.
He's leaning back against the living room wall, gaze leveled on where you're swaddled beneath a blanket on his couch curling slightly into your older brother.
It was difficult to look away from you, and no matter how many times he tried it was like his eyes stumbled back every time. Probably didn't help the overall situation that he couldn't stop frowning either.
Ben sighs to himself again as he tries in vain to drop his gaze, only to have a sweeping wave of anxiety build in the moments his eyes aren't on you.
That had been happening more and more since the housewarming party. Ben thought the last year of trying to find you had been bad enough, but now it was worse.
Being away from you felt like a black hole that sucked in until there was nothing left of Ben and left him wanting all of you.
He'd never felt so emasculated in his entire life.
Now that you were here it was better, though Ben knew the closer he got to you the better he would feel.
Carrying you out of the ruined building, with your warm body curled into his chest, watching the quiet rise and fall of your shoulders, feeling the gentle breath that wisped across his throat where your face was buried in the little you shaped nook that Ben never noticed before- Ben had never felt more alive.
Now… not so much.
By now his eyes are back on you, curious, inquisitive, trying to figure you out in vain.
You’re still wearing his shirt.
The shirt he dressed you in.
The shirt that did nothing to cover every single dip and curve of your body and made Ben feel like a horny sailor who finally made it back to land after ten long years at sea.
Honestly, it wasn't that far-fetched given the fact that it had been 81 years despite how many times he tried to pick women up in bars.
Yes, perhaps changing your clothes hadn't been his best move, but yours had been ripped and dirty and Ben hadn't looked…
Well…
Ben's eyes drop to the floor for a moment.
He hadn't looked that hard and it certainly hadn't helped him soften up at all. The well needed hot shower that followed did relieve enough tension to get him walking in a straight line again, but then he'd seen you in his clothes, in his bed, and brought him right back to square one.
Ben's gaze rubber bands back to you.
Hughie's arm is across your shoulder, his thumb rubbing soft circles to soothe you, while you lean into him.
She should be doing that with me! I’m the one who saved her. Not with her fuck-face brother. Why the hell is she so-
Ben growls inside his head, jealousy flaring in his chest like a dying star.
He wasn't bothering to hide his annoyance, hadn't been since Hughie crashed through the doors of his bedroom and launched himself at you.
As if Ben was some horrible beast who locked you away in a tower and refused to let you leave.
Truthfully, Ben wasn't opposed to locking you away if it meant that you'd actually talk to him. He thought he'd have a better chance if your brother wasn't there talking for you.
Ben took the emotion that fluttered through you at the appearance of your brother like a bullet to the chest. He had been expecting you to feel that way about him the moment you woke up.
That you'd finally see him as the hero he was, finally feel something other than fear whenever you saw him, finally accept that you were his, but you hadn't and Ben was inches away from throwing everyone out of his apartment and force you to tell him why you couldn't just let it go.
Your head turns in his direction, eyes wide, sensing his rage. The fear that floods through the bond the second you make eye contact with him makes Ben angrier.
Fuck.
He drops his gaze instead to your hands where they lay on top of the plush blanket, noting the bruise-like fingerprints and blistering skin that Stormfront left behind.
It does little to soothe his anger, if anything it makes the temperature in the room flare a few degrees higher, and his eyes flicker an intimidating gold once.
The same were displayed prominently on his own tanned forearms, hidden beneath his long sleeved henley. And even if he didn't know why that was, he wasn't about to share that little tid-bit with Butcher.
Ben couldn't remember the last time that he was physically marked by something, but there they were in varying shades of purple across his skin. A fucked up reminder of something that hadn't happened to him, something that you'd had to endure because Ben wasn't there.
Feeling guilty was unusual for him, but standing in the aftermath of the explosion, fingers black, while he pried concrete from the ground trying desperately to find you, only to discover you unconscious, almost ripped Ben apart.
Each trail of his fingertips against your dirt smeared cheeks didn't bring you to consciousness, neither did the soft rumble of your name on his lips or the gentle cradle of your body in his arms.
It had scared him to see you like that.
He'd placed you in the passenger seat of his car and agonized over going to the hospital, but he didn't want you to be whisked away somewhere he couldn't see only to have Stormfront come when you needed Ben the most.
So instead he'd brought you here, dressed you in his clothes, and tucked you into his bed.
Fuck, it had done something to him to see you there.
The apartment didn't feel so large or empty anymore, and there had been a trace of excitement in Ben's heart when he thought about you waking up here. It was the closest to happy that he'd felt in a long time.
He'd thought that you'd wake up and be grateful that he'd come to save you, that maybe it was the proof you needed to finally look at him like he was a person instead of some kind of psychopath.
But you hadn't and that minuscule piece of hope inside Ben had shriveled up like a raisin in the sun.
The ice in his glass clinks when he raises it to his lips.
It wasn't just because Stormfront got away, Ben hated that she'd gotten that close to you.
It was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid a year ago when he left. He thought he'd made the right decision, kept you out of all of this, kept you safe, but now he wasn't sure.
He wondered if maybe he'd made the wrong decision. That he should have stayed and made sure you were safe because now he knew the only safe place would be with him. Ben hadn't expected his past to follow him like this, thought he tied up all the lose ends with Payback, but now Stormfront was back with a vengeance and she'd taken out her anger on you rather than him.
His teeth grind together at the thought of her name, eyes tracing over your body. The memory of how you looked on the floor hits him like a lightning bolt. You'd looked so small, broken, curled into a ball on the cracked concrete as if you were trying to make yourself smaller, as if that would protect you.
Ben had screamed himself hoarse while sifting through the disaster, ash flickering upwards from the rubble around him, while sirens rang in the distance growing closer and closer. But like hell he was going to leave you again.
He didn't like the feelings that came through the bond when he'd witnessed your memories after he left the first time, didn't like to see how broken you were when he walked away. If Ben had been willing to admit it, he would say that it broke him too, but he refused to focus on the guilt that came with the memory of the day the two of you met for the first time, instead he zeroed in on the anger that was beating it's wings in his chest.
The rays of the setting sun slip through the floor to ceiling windows surrounding the room and send a luminous wave over your body, tracing the gentle curves of you with a soft hand. It accentuates how different you are from Ben, and carves a hollow place in his heart.
You were so different than what he'd expected.
Honestly, he'd expected someone more like him, a supe, maybe a woman who had a little more grit to her, but not you. He liked the softness of your figure, the kindness and gentleness that was reflected in the warmth of your gaze, and how you carried yourself.
It stirred every single protective instinct he had.
"I'm not going to leave her with him!" Hughie shouts, eyeing Ben. "It's bad enough that she was here with him alone for as long as she was! Jeez Butcher, the maniac could have done anything to her! And now you want me to voluntarily leave her here? Hell no!"
Why the fuck does everyone keep thinking that I'm going to do something to her? She's my damn soulmate. What kind of animal do they think I am?
"I'd like to see you try to take her." Ben snarls, eyes so dark they look black. He rolls off the wall to stand to his full height, daring Hughie to come closer. "She's safer with me than with the British Twat and with you."
"Oh really?" Hughie scoffs. "Because I seem to recall it was you who leveled the building and you who gave her a concussion."
"I saved her." Ben takes another step towards Hughie. By now the air around him has begun to heat, body pulled so tight that he could snap at any moment. "While you just sat around with his dick in your mouth."
"If you had told us like she asked you to, then she wouldn't have a concussion!" Your brother shouts back standing up from the couch to face Ben. "And I'm not going to leave her here with you!"
The glass in Ben's hand shatters raining shards down onto the hardwood floors and making you flinch hard beside your brother.
"Hugh-" Butcher starts to say, but the rest of it is drowned out by the thought that comes screaming through the bond into Ben's head.
I want to go home. I can't be here with him.
Ben hears you think.
His eyes flick to where you're curled into your brother, wide-eyed gaze still on Ben. Your eyes flick between your brother and Ben, worry and fear flowing freely.
You hadn't said much since Butcher and Hughie had shown up to Ben's apartment and it was Ben who had given the account of what happened, and then Ben that Butcher and Hughie had shouted at for not calling them.
As if he actually gave a fuck about that.
The only thing Ben cared about was that you were away from Stormfront and here at his apartment, where you should be, or want to be.
Where she should have been from the damn start if she wasn't so fucking stubborn.
Ben wasn't sorry for what he'd shouted at you earlier in his bedroom, but he did regret that he hadn't been able to say anything else before Hughie showed up.
"Butcher, please don't make me stay here." You say in almost a whisper, fingers curled in your lap. "Not with him."
Ben fights the flinch when you say it, but it does little to ease the roar of his anger that claws at his ribcage like a savage animal trying to break free.
He didn't understand how someone who had wished for him her whole life could be so against being with him now.
He'd lived your memories.
Felt the frustration, anger, loneliness, and sadness that plagued you in the moments you thought he didn't exist.
Saw every birthday you lit a candle for him.
Heard the taunts and jeers other people tossed your way when they saw the date on your wrist.
And even if it made Ben feel like a pussy, there was a little part of him that wanted to be the person you wished for, usually the same part of him that was drowned out by the confusion, anger, and annoyance at your current aversion to him.
Butcher gives you a sympathetic look and puts down his cup of tea on the queen sized glass coffee table in the middle of the room. He says your name in a soft way that makes jealousy curdle in the pit of Ben's stomach.
"Hughie, Annie, and I 'ave a gig down South. We’re going to be gone for a bit. And as much as I hate the thought of leavin' you with 'im," Butcher gestures his head in Ben's direction. "He's the only person that's going to keep you safe."
"But what if she doesn't come back?" You ask. "What if this was enough and she's gone for good?"
Ben chuckles darkly under his breath. "She won't come back if she knows what's good for her."
Personally, Ben couldn't wait for Stormfront to come back. He was ready to send her to hell where she belonged or at least somewhere like the hell he'd been in for the past 40 years.
Stormfront had no idea the things that he'd wished he'd been able to do to her for touching you.
"Buck up poppet." Butcher says, placing his hand on your shoulder. "I might be a son of a bitch, but I don't want you to get hurt again."
Your hand raises to your shoulder to hold his there a few seconds longer. "I'm okay."
The tremor in your voice makes Ben grind his teeth together so tight he hears it in his ears.
"No, you're not. And staying here with 'im will make sure you are."
Ben bristles at the feeling that floods through the bond between the two of you. It's soft, grateful, caring. Ben can see the way you look at Butcher. The kindness and gentleness reflected in your eyes as you lean into his touch while Butcher's expression softens.
It makes an inferno spark to life in Ben's chest.
She should be looking at me that way. Not with Butt-fuck Butcher! He's done plenty of horrible things, killed people, tortured others! Why can she let go of his shit, but not mine?!
He watches you wince as the thought comes into your head, and you drop your hand from where Butcher's squeezes your shoulder.
Because Butcher understands those things were wrong. He feels remorse. He's sorry.
Fine! I'm sorry, is that what the fuck I have to say to make you actually look at me?
You don't mean it. It might as well just be you saying the sky is green.
Ben huffs out a breath at your thought, but doesn't bother to say anything else.
He hated this.
Hated every single time you avoided looking at him.
Hated feeling like he was some beast that you couldn't bear to be in the same room with.
The sound of you calling him a monster rings in his ears all over again, followed by Stormfront's jeer. It makes an unusual feeling clench in Ben's chest, like he's being slowly pulled apart by one of those medieval stretching devices.
"Speaking of which-" Butcher sighs at the sound of his phone chirping in his pocket. "Yep, we've got to go."
"But-" Hughie begins.
"But-" You mirror.
"I've already lied to MM and said we were on our way an hour ago. I go another hour and he'll drive here and castrate us all." Butcher shrugs. "I don't know about 'ughie, but I don't want to live the rest of my life as a Monk, love."
"Butcher this is crazy. We can't just leave her with him. Not like this." Hughie tries to reason, pointing at the marks along your arm. "She might need to go to the hospital. She might have head trauma."
"You have head trauma if you think I'm going to let you take her." Ben grumbles under his breath.
He knew better than anyone here, the only way that Stormfront was going to get past him was if he was in the ground. Ben would go to his grave before she put another finger on you.
And like hell he was going to leave you with your limp-dick powerless brother.
It would be the same as leaving you with a flyswatter for protection.
"I don’t need to go to the hospital." You argue. "I'm fine-"
Why you decide to try to stand up at this moment, Ben isn't sure, but the moment you do Ben sees you wobble a step, head tilting sideways. He lunges towards you to catch your body before you fall, but his sudden movement makes you flinch back from him with a gasp and fall onto the couch beside your brother.
"Are you okay?" Hughie asks you, gently checking you over, but Ben doesn't hear it.
His jaw clamps shut with an audible snap as another unusual feeling squeezes Ben's heart in his chest.
He didn't know how to fix it.
Ben had tried everything he knew.
Sweet talking.
Saving you from a literal psychopath.
Flowers.
Saving you from a literal psychopath.
The arm flex.
The smolder.
Running his hand through his hair.
Oh what was that?
SAVING you from a literal psychopath!
He might as well just be standing around with his dick in his hand, because it had done fuck all, you still wouldn't hold his gaze for more than a few seconds.
"I'm fine." You clear your throat, blinking with a shake of your head. "Just moved a little too fast."
Hughie raises his head to stare at Butcher. "We can't leave her like this."
"For fucks sake!" Ben finally explodes. "You're not leaving her with a rabid dog-"
"That's debatable." Hughie's eyes narrow.
"Keep talking like that and I'll give that mouth something to do." Ben snapped back eyes blazing. "She's here because I went to fucking get her. She's alive because I did what no one else could. And I don’t know how many times I have to fucking say it or if I have to write it with your ripped off arm- I'm not going to hurt her and I'm not going to let you take her away."
Butcher opens his mouth, but Ben doesn't stop, in fact, he only gets louder.
Predictably.
"So get the fuck out of my apartment, before I chuck you two uggos out the window."
"I don’t care how many times you say it! She's not staying here-" Hughie begins.
"Why are the three of you talking like I'm not even here and don't get a say in this?" You interrupt.
Honestly, you looked more like yourself than you had since Ben carried you away from the ruins, but right now that's not important to Ben.
"Because you don't." Ben replies.
It comes out in an authoritative gruff monotone, coupled with the usual intimidating stare that Ben used to get his way.
The same one that had no effect on you and usually only made you mouth off to him like it was a formal debate.
"I think I do!"
"No, you don't. Because the last time you had a say in anything you ended up in that corpse fuckers house of horrors!" He roars. "So just sit your ass down-"
"You don't get to talk to me like that."
"I can talk to you however the fuck I want sweetheart. It's a free country, you're welcome!"
It was perhaps better than the other thing he wanted to say, because you mouthing off to him made something akin to arousal begin to spread through his body. If you were up for it, he would have been more than willing to toss the other trespassers out on their asses before he took you back his bedroom and showed you exactly the way he wanted to talk to you.
By now the bond is flooded with annoyance and anger and Ben isn't exactly sure if it's coming from you or from him. Either way, he's not pleased.
Neither are you given the way your eyes are narrowed.
You open your mouth-
There are better things the two of us could be doing right now instead of arguing about this shit. Just say the word Sweetheart.
You visibly falter, whatever you were about to say lost in the fluster of Ben's words ringing in your head.
Ben's frown twitches upwards into a smirk, eyebrow raising. He thinks that he's won, that by making you speechless it's proven something.
"Oi-" Butcher says, drawing your attention back to him and breaking the spell. "It doesn’t matter how many times we go round robin with this, you have to stay here. I'm sorry."
"But-" Hughie stutters, but Butcher shuts him up with a look.
"We'll be back soon."
"But what about Heathcliff? I can't just leave him for days!" You argue. "And my clothes, my laptop, my books- What about my classes? My students? I can't just disappear!"
Who the fuck is Heathcliff? Does she have someone living at her house with her? How did I not see this?
He's my cat.
You amend in your head.
Oh.
"Call out sick." Hughie rubs the back of his neck as if anticipating how mad the statement will make you.
"What?" You gasp, looking offended. "You want me to lie? To Dale? Are you crazy? He’s a human lie detector and an asshole. Plus, I'm already on his shit list because of Fabio over there and the great Tate Toss of 2026!"
Ben glowers.
Oh good, that dinosaur. Good to know that she’ll just rely on old four eyes whenever I piss her off.
Shut up! You don’t get to mock me for caring about someone else Ben. That’ the whole point of being human.
Thank you for clearing that up. I’ll be sure to bring that up at the next monsters anonymous meeting.
Your eyebrows furrow together, a worried frown turning down the sides of your mouth.
I know that you don’t believe me, but I don’t think you’re a monster.
Ben only rolls his eyes.
You can't lie to me.
"Tate's your TA, can't he teach your class for a little while?" Butcher takes another long sip from his cup of tea.
"Well-" You hesitate, trying to find an answer that suits you, before sighing in defeat. "Yeah, he can."
"There we go love." Butcher winks. "No problems, only solutions."
Ben prickles at the use of the word ‘love’ and wonders how satisfying it would be to watch Butcher plummet to the ground.
"What about my stuff and my cat?" You sigh again. You seem small again, sinking low into the oversized living room couch. “I can’t stay here with no clothes.“ You pluck the end of the borrowed shirt for emphasis.
“We've got a pre-mission briefing." Hughie huffs in defeat. He knows that once Butcher made a decision it would take more than the National Guard to change his mind. "I can miss it to bring your stuff and Heathcliff if you want to make a list for me."
Ben watches your eyes flick to where he’s standing.
Maybe Heathcliff shouldn’t come here.
“For fucks sake.” Ben growls aloud. “I’m not going to kill your fucking cat.”
Hughie looks at Ben confused. “Who said anything about you killing her cat?”
Ben hesitates.
You hadn’t told your brother about the telepathic connection, hadn’t bothered to share it with anyone, and Ben didn’t want anyone to know about how the two of you suffered under Stormfront, not just him.
“Because I know how she thinks and it was bound to come up in conversation.” He grunts before turning away to pour himself another Manhattan.
You make the list, taking great care to write out everything you need, while Ben pretends to be interested in something outside the window instead of trying to catch glimpses of the things you hold dear as if it'll give him a better understanding of why you were the way you were.
He wanted to understand, the problem was no matter how many times he tried to, something got lost in translation.
Usually it was the fingers that he held firmly in each ear.
Hughie gives you one last big hug. "I'm not too far away. Just say the word and Annie and I'll be back here as soon as we can."
"Please be careful.” You sigh leaning in to your brother.
Ben meets your eye over Hughie’s shoulder. You’re watching him warily, brow furrowed. It makes Ben want to poke you between the eyes and smooth out the wrinkles with his fingertip.
I bet her skin is really soft.
Ben tenses, hoping that you missed his slip up, telling by the way your eyes have widened you didn’t.
What?
Shit.
On the terrace a pigeon coos softly, fluffing it's wings as it settles down into a nest for the night, giving Ben the distraction he needs for a few fleeting seconds.
Before you can think anything else, Butcher pulls you into a hug.
Ben’s fingers curl so tightly into his biceps that he’s sure you can feel it, the all-encompassing wave of rage burning through his every nerve ending, while the rabid part of his brain screams Mine!
It takes an alarming amount of restraint for Ben to hold himself back, your brother had been one thing but Butcher? Fuck no.
Perhaps what makes it worse is the way you lean into him, raise your hands to hold him a little closer, lay your head on Butcher’s chest, and the feeling of comfort that seeps through the bond from you.
You like that Butcher is hugging you and it makes Ben furious.
Red begins to creep into his vision the longer he stands there, chest warming, jaw pulling so tight he hears a snap in his head.
Butcher leans in closer to you so he can whisper in your ear, hoping that Ben can't hear. "I know you’re scared, but maybe he’ll surprise you if you give him a chance.”
I don’t think he deserves one.
“Please Butcher, let me go with you. I can boost morale or something or at least make some tea.” You give Butcher a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Maybe next time.”
“Alright, that’s enough fucking touching.” Ben doesn’t bother to whisper it, but it still makes Butcher chuckle low under his breath.
“Should be nicer to me wanker, I’m giving you time off, and having her stay here.” Butcher’s eyes twinkle with his usual shit eating grin. “Say another word and I might try a little harder to work out another arrangement.”
The silence when they leave is deafening, an odd energy thrumming through the air between the two of you that tugs at piece of you that lives inside of Ben.
Two falling stars that can't help but collide in the celestial sky.
It builds to an overwhelming throb in the center of his chest.
Your eyes flick in his direction, an unknown emotion building in the iris that Ben can feel pounding along with the beat of his heart.
He can feel the twitch of his fingertips where his hands hang at his sides. He wants so badly to touch you, to do something, because the longer he stands there apart from you reminds him of the year he spent thinking that he'd never find you again.
Ben clears his throat, but you break the silence first.
"You could have just left me there." You reply quietly more to yourself than to him.
"What?" Ben blinks in surprise.
"Just admit it. You regret saving me and bringing me here because I won't-"
"You think I regret saving you?"
His voice is guttural, seated so low in his chest it might as well be hidden behind the dam with everything else that upset him.
The feeling seeping through the bond shifts, an uncomfortable sensation festering in the pit of your stomach the longer Ben stares at you. Fear comes with the dark flash of Ben’s eyes, scuttling along your vertebrae.
“Think again sweetheart.”
He approaches with measured footsteps, eyes so dark you can no longer see his pupils. When Ben speaks again his voice is nothing more than a growl that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up on end.
"I regret is that she put her hands on what's mine. I regret letting you walk away with that spineless piece of shit the other day when I knew that bitch was out there. I regret every single second you spent with that corpse fucker. She should have never been able to get that close to you, never been able to touch you.”
His eyes sweep over the bruises pebbled across your arms allowing himself to feel the full force of his rage for Stormfront's deeds, before raising to your face once more. “You would be dead if it wasn’t for me, remember that the next time you accuse me of something like that.”
He turns-
“So would you.” You say.
Ben stops halfway to the stairs. “What does that mean?”
“She said that we’re-“ You pause trying to find the word. “Special.”
Ben glances over his shoulder, eyes so dark they take on the color of a forest when night falls.
“There isn’t anything special about this clusterfuck sweetheart. And I wouldn’t listen to anything she said.”
“It’s why I- I mean- It's we can hear each other’s thoughts.”
“If you can’t tell me how to get rid of it then I’m not interested.”
“She didn’t.”
"Then it's not important."
"Ben-"
"What?" He sighs, looking anywhere, but at you.
He knew that looking at you would bring the feeling creeping back over him, the one that he was sure you felt, but did a better job of ignoring it.
Of course she fucking does. She doesn’t want anything to do with you. You're just another disappointment.
Your soft gasp with the thought comes in loud as a thunderclap. The silence in the air charged with electricity.
"Oh Ben-" You breathe. It comes out softer than the way you've ever spoken to him, reminds him far too much of the way you spoke to Butcher.
Gentle.
Caring.
Ben can’t remember the last time someone said his name like that.
Just another fucking lie.
He knew how you felt about him and it appeared that nothing he did would ever be enough.
Something inside of Ben breaks with the tone shift in your, an unnamable feeling rushing in a flood through his entire body breaking through the wall he tries so hard to keep firmly in place.
For a few seconds, Ben feels it all. Everything that he's tried to push down for the better part of 80 years.
Disappointment, frustration, guilt, and the feeling that always came in the dark when he was alone and the woman who warmed his bed had long gone.
The overwhelming rush makes him shut his eyes tight, curl his hands into fists at his sides, and grit his teeth, trying desperately to push it down, to sweep it under the rug the way he always does.
When he opens his eyes, he loses the last shred of control.
You're staring at him, eyes a little misty, your expression is pained. "I-" You stutter slightly, unsure what to say. "I'm sorry that I- I mean I can't- Ben I wish that-"
"Pick whatever room you want." Ben interrupts, expression hardening to his usual detached self. "There's plenty of them to keep you as far as you want from me."
He turns to go, but it doesn't stop the flood of emotions that claw their way through his body to drag you under, neither does the sound of the soft sob that breaks through the silence.
Wait-
It makes him want to turn around, but he won't.
Not when he knows it won't make a difference.
A/N: Bear with me now. I promise this is going somewhere, there's just a whole bunch of angst along the way 🤣
As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y'all think! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know!
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.
he didn’t want to come in so I kept trying different things to get him to come and finally he ran the opposite direction and tripped over a large branch and did this ungraceful flip and I exclaimed out loud “DAMMIT MOON MOON!”
and about five houses down someone is having an outdoor party around a bonfire and I hear someone from there exclaim back “WHO THE FUCK INVITED MOON MOON!”
I don’t post everything on Tumblr, I tend to post more sketches/artworks on Twitter. Here is the list so far for 2026 if you are interested (I’ll update it if I post something new ❤)
Sherlock smoking a cigarette. An artwork drawn to celebrate Sherlock's birthday on January 6th.
Art dump - Two illustrations of my favorite musicians ever, Morrissey and Johnny Marr from The Smiths.
John & Sherlock. Artwork inspired by Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender in a promotional photoshoot for Jane Eyre
Portraits of Johnny Marr & Morrissey. I used as refs two photo booth pictures of Morrissey and Marr in their youth.
Britpop ID Card feat. two Noel Gallagher sketches. For the two fans of Oasis out there (Hello, Hello!! It's good to be back, good to be back 😁)
Twitter artworks 2022
Twitter artworks 2023
Twitter artworks 2024
No 2025 list (I forgot and was a bit lazy that year 😶)
jacobvanloon
prguitarman
janainaart
annaxmalina
gummygunk
