Summary: You’re Soldier Boy’s dealer, nothing more. That was the deal, until you got desperate for money and he offered to pay extra for something else. One rough night on your couch later, you panicked and ghosted him for a full week. He didn’t take it well.
❤︎ Warnings: MDNI, 18+, NSFW, substance abuse, unprotected sex, age gap, finger sucking, power imbalance, slight choking, drug use
wc: 3.5k - part 1
You’d been ghosting Ben for almost a full week.
Every time his name lit up your phone you’d stare at it until the screen went dark, then typed out some half-assed excuse, anything to keep him at arm’s length after what happened on your couch. You told yourself it was just business, that you needed space, that you weren’t supposed to feel anything about the way he’d fucked you like he meant it and then left five hundred dollars on the cushion like it was nothing.
You were half-sprawled on the couch, legs kicked up, mindlessly scrolling when your phone started vibrating hard. You didn’t even have to look. You already knew.
He was getting impatient. You could feel it. The crash was coming, and when Ben needed a fix he didn’t do subtle. If you kept ignoring him he was going to show up at your door again, and this time he wouldn’t be half as polite.
You sat up with a heavy sigh, thumbed the answer button, and pressed the phone to your ear.
“Hello?”
There was a long pause, then the sound of him exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for days.
“The fuck you been?” His voice was rough. In the background you could hear a girl’s muffled laugh, high and annoying.
“Sorry,” you said, trying to keep your tone flat. “I have other customers. Sometimes I have to prioritize them.”
Ben let out a short, humorless laugh that didn’t sound amused at all.
“Really? Do I have to fuck you again just to get some?”
Your eyebrows shot up. The bluntness of it hit harder than it should have, especially with the memory of last time still sitting warm under your skin.
“No,” you answered after a beat, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “You don’t. I can meet you tonight.”
“Yeah, baby. I’ll get ‘em soon. Don’t you worry that pretty head.”
The girl in the background said something, clearly annoyed that he was still on the phone with you. Ben didn’t bother answering her.
You closed your eyes, let out a long breath, and hung up before you could say anything else.
Your body collapsed back onto the couch the second the call ended, a heavy groan slipping out of you as you stared up at the ceiling.
Eventually you forced yourself upright, dragging your fingers through your messy hair and deciding, against every instinct that told you to stay small and invisible, that you were going to get ready properly.
You washed your hair for the first time in days, standing under the hot water until the steam filled the tiny bathroom, then you took your time with makeup.
You told yourself it had nothing to do with him. You weren’t dressing up for Soldier Boy. You just wanted to feel pretty for once, to look like someone who had her shit together instead of a broke dealer who’d let a supe fuck her on her own couch and then ghost him for a week out of pure panic.
By the time you slipped on your sneakers and checked yourself in the mirror one last time, the denial was starting to feel thin. You sighed, grabbed your phone, and typed out a short message telling him you were on your way.
Then you carefully slid the last of the drugs into the bottom of your backpack, zipped it shut, and stepped out into the night before you could change your mind.
By the time you finally made it to the alleyway the night air felt heavier than usual.
Ben’s black car was already parked halfway down, engine idling low, one arm hanging out the open window. He had a thick cigar clenched between his teeth, the tip glowing orange every time he took a slow pull.
“Took long enough,” he said around the cigar. He flicked the half-smoked thing out the window without looking where it landed.
You stopped a few feet from the driver’s side door, backpack already sliding off one shoulder. “Sorry. How much money do you have?”
Ben raised one thick eyebrow. He didn’t answer right away. Instead he just held up a tight band of hundreds between two fingers, waving it lazily like the amount was irrelevant.
“None of your goddamn business,” he muttered.
You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it. Unzipping the backpack, you pulled out the carefully wrapped package and held it out. Ben snatched it from your hand harder than necessary.
He didn’t even bother checking the contents this time. He just tossed three hundred-dollar bills at your chest like they were nothing, the money fluttering against your hoodie before you caught it.
“It’s one-fifty,” you said automatically, frowning down at the extra cash.
He ignored you completely, already stuffing the package into the glove box. Then he turned his head, really looking at you for the first time since you’d walked up, and the irritation in his face shifted into something heavier.
“You needa stop that avoiding me shit,” he said, “I don’t like being left hanging. Especially not after I had my dick in you.”
The words landed like a slap. You opened your mouth to snap back, but before you could get anything out he leaned farther out the window, reaching up with surprising speed. His big hand caught the front of your hoodie and yanked you closer until you were almost bent over the open window, face inches from his. The smell of cigar smoke and whatever cologne he wore hit you all at once.
“I mean it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “You ghost me again and I’m showing up at your place whether your mom’s home or not. We clear?”
Your pulse jumped. You managed a tight nod, the extra money still crumpled in your fist. Ben held your stare for another long second, like he was deciding whether to pull you the rest of the way into the car or just leave you standing there. Then, almost reluctantly, he let go of your hoodie and sat back.
“Get in,” he said suddenly, jerking his chin toward the passenger seat. “I’m not done talking to you.”
You hesitated, heart hammering, but the way he was looking at you left very little room for argument. With a quiet breath you walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, and slid in beside him. The second the door shut, Ben locked it with a soft click and pulled away from the curb, the alley disappearing behind you in the rearview mirror.
You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, the crumpled three hundred dollars still clenched in your fist, backpack resting between your feet.
Finally he spoke.
“You look different.”
You glanced over and caught him side-eyeing the makeup you’d carefully put on earlier, the clean hair, the way you’d actually tried to look put-together for once.
“I just felt like it,” you muttered.
Ben let out a short, skeptical sound through his nose. “Bullshit. You put that shit on your face because you knew you were coming to see me.” He didn’t sound smug about it. He sounded almost irritated that you’d done it at all. “Don’t start acting like you’re trying to impress me. That ain’t what this is.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off before the words could form.
“And don’t look at me like that either.” His hand flexed on the gearshift. “I already told you I’m not paying for pussy every time. That was a one-time deal. You needed the money, I needed a release. We both got what we wanted.”
The car turned down a quieter street. Ben’s jaw worked for a second like he was chewing on something he didn’t want to say out loud. When he spoke again the edge in his voice had softened just slightly, almost against his will.
“You okay after last time?”
The question landed heavier than anything else he’d said. You stared at the side of his face, caught off guard by the unexpected check-in. He still wouldn’t look at you fully, but the fact that he’d asked at all said more than he probably wanted it to.
You swallowed. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Ben gave a short nod, like that settled it, but his grip on the wheel tightened. A few blocks later he pulled into the empty parking lot of a closed-down warehouse, the kind of place no one bothered to check after midnight.
He killed the engine, leaving the two of you sitting in sudden quiet with only the faint tick of the cooling car and the distant sound of traffic.
“You really thought you could just disappear on me?” he asked. There was no real anger in it this time.
“I don’t do that shit, doll. People don’t get to walk away from me when they feel like it. Especially not after I had you shaking under me on that shitty couch of yours.”
“I wasn’t disappearing,” you said carefully. “I just... needed space.”
Ben let out a short, humorless breath through his nose and shook his head. “Space. Right.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Look,” he said, leaning an arm against the steering wheel. “I ain’t asking you to be my fuckin’ girlfriend. I’m not that guy. We can keep it simple. Or...” He paused, eyes flicking down to your mouth for half a second before coming back up. “We can keep doing what we did last time when the mood hits. You just don’t get to ghost me again. Deal?”
Outside, a light rain started to fall, soft and steady against the windshield.
Finally you nodded, quiet but clear.
“Deal.”
Without another word he reached over, grabbed you by the front of your hoodie, and hauled you across the center console like you weighed nothing. Your knees knocked against the gearshift as he pulled you into his lap, straddling him in the driver’s seat, the leather creaking under the sudden weight.
His tongue pushed past your lips immediately, tasting like smoke and whatever he’d been drinking earlier, one big hand already sliding under your hoodie to palm your breast through your bra. The other hand gripped your ass hard enough to bruise, forcing you down against the growing bulge in his jeans.
“Fuck, you’ve been thinking about this all week, haven’t you?” he growled when he broke the kiss, voice low and rough right against your ear. “Acting all distant, pretending you didn’t want my cock again. Look at you now, already grinding on me like a desperate little slut.”
You tried to say something, but the words turned into a shaky breath when his hand left your breast and shoved two thick fingers against your mouth.
“Open,” he ordered.
You did. He pushed them in deep, pressing down on your tongue, the taste of salt and skin flooding your mouth. Ben watched with dark, focused eyes as you sucked, his hips rolling up against you in slow, deliberate thrusts that made the car rock slightly.
“That’s it, good girl. Suck ‘em like you mean it. Get ‘em nice and wet for that tight little cunt.” His voice was pure degradation, but the way his other hand stroked up your back, almost soothing, kept the roughness from tipping into pure meanness. “You look so fucking pretty with my fingers in your mouth. Better than that cheap blonde I had the other night. She didn’t even try.”
He pulled his fingers free with a wet sound, then shoved his hand straight down the front of your leggings without warning. Two slick fingers found your clit immediately, rubbing in tight circles before sliding lower and pushing inside you in one firm stroke. You gasped, forehead dropping against his shoulder as he curled them, stretching you open while his thumb kept working your clit.
“Fuck, still so tight,” he groaned, voice going rougher. “Didn’t even last a week and you’re clamping down on my fingers like you’ve been starving for it. That’s what happens when you ghost me, doll. You get yourself all needy and desperate.”
He fucked you with his fingers hard and deep, the wet sounds of it filling the quiet car, his free hand still gripping your ass to keep you grinding down on his lap. n.
“I’m gonna make sure you remember who your cunt belongs to when you try to ignore my calls next time.”
When he finally pulled his fingers out you were shaking, soaked, and already close. Ben didn’t give you time to recover. He shoved his jeans down just enough to free his cock, thick and hard and already leaking, then yanked your leggings and underwear down your thighs in one rough motion. He lined himself up, the blunt head pressing against your entrance, and looked up at you with those sharp green eyes.
“Ride it,” he ordered, voice low. “Show me how much you missed this.”
You sank down slowly, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you inch by inch. Ben’s head tipped back against the seat, a deep, guttural groan leaving his chest. His hands clamped onto your hips hard enough to leave marks, guiding you until you were fully seated, stuffed full and trembling.
“Fuck, there she is,” he muttered, almost reverent for a second before the usual crude edge returned.
He let you set the pace at first, slow, deep rolls of your hips, while his hands roamed, one sliding up to wrap lightly around your throat, the other still gripping your ass. Every time you clenched around him he groaned praise and filth in the same breath.
“Gonna fill you up so deep you feel it tomorrow when you’re trying to act like you don’t want this.”
The car rocked harder as he started thrusting up to meet you, rough and relentless, the sound of skin on skin mixing with the rain outside. He kept one hand on your throat, not choking, just holding, while the other reached up and pushed two fingers back into your mouth for you to suck again, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
“That’s it, suck while you ride. Show me how much you love being used.”
“Tell me how it feels,” he ordered, voice low and demanding. “Tell me how much you missed having me stretch this tight cunt open.”
You could barely form the words between gasps, but the second you managed a shaky “So good, missed it—” he groaned like the admission alone was enough to push him closer to the edge.
“That’s right. Missed my cock. Missed getting fucked stupid in the middle of nowhere.” He thrust up harder, the force of it making the whole car rock. One hand slid between your bodies, thick fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles.
The dual sensation, his cock pounding deep and his fingers working your clit, pushed you right to the edge. Your thighs started to shake, walls fluttering around him, and Ben felt it immediately. His pace turned almost brutal, chasing your orgasm like he needed it more than his own.
“Come for me,” he snarled against your mouth, voice dropping into pure command. “Come on my cock right now. Milk me. Show me who this cunt belongs to.”
The orgasm hit you hard, ripping through your body in sharp, overwhelming waves. You cried out against his lips, clenching down around him so tightly he cursed loudly, hips snapping up as he fucked you through it. The second your walls started pulsing he followed, burying himself as deep as he could and coming with a guttural groan, thick and hot inside you. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you down while he spilled every drop, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out.
For a long moment the only sound in the car was the rain and both of you breathing hard. Ben’s grip slowly loosened, one hand sliding up your back in a surprisingly gentle stroke before he seemed to catch himself and stop. He stayed buried inside you for a few extra seconds, like he wasn’t quite ready to pull out, then finally lifted his head.
“Fuck…” he muttered, voice still rough. He looked at you, flushed, messy, still straddling him.
He reached up, thumb brushing roughly across your bottom lip like he couldn’t help himself, then smirked.
“Next time you try ghosting me, remember how full of my cum you are right now.”
You didn’t ghost him after that night.
At first it stayed exactly what he’d offered. He’d text at odd hours, “Got product? Come through.” and you’d meet him in alleys or empty parking lots or, more than once, the backseat of that same black car. Sometimes it was quick and rough, him bending you over the hood or pinning you against a brick wall with a hand over your mouth so no one would hear. Other times it stretched longer, the two of you fogging up the windows while he talked filthy praise and degradation into your ear until you came so hard your legs shook.
But somewhere along the way the “on and off” started changing shape.
He’d show up at your place with takeout after a deal, complaining the whole time about how your apartment was a dump while still sitting on your couch like he belonged there. He’d text you random shit in the middle of the day. “This new dealer’s product is dogshit compared to yours,” and then act annoyed when you actually answered.
Once, after a particularly rough session that left bruises on your hips in the shape of his fingers, he stayed the night. You woke up to find him already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette out the open window, looking at you like he was trying to figure out how the hell he’d ended up still there.
He never said anything soft. Not really. But the soft parts started leaking through in other ways.
He’d overpay for the product more often than not and then act like it was an accident. He’d get weirdly quiet if you mentioned other customers. One night, after he’d fucked you slow and deep on your bed instead of the usual hard and fast, he stayed buried inside you for a long time afterward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing like he was trying to memorize the way you felt around him. When you asked if he was okay he just muttered, “Shut up,” and kissed the side of your neck harder than necessary.
Weeks turned into a couple of months. The casual arrangement started feeling less casual every time he showed up.
It happened on a Thursday night, of all things.
You were half-asleep on the couch when the heavy knock came. You already knew who it was. Ben stepped inside the second you opened the door, smelling like cigars and night air, a paper bag of Chinese food in one hand.
He set the food down, kicked the door shut behind him, and then just stood there. Looking at you.
“I don’t do this shit,” he said, like the words themselves tasted bad. “I don’t ask people out. I don’t do dates. I don’t do... whatever the fuck this is turning into.” He gestured between the two of you, frustrated. “But I’m tired of pretending I only show up when I want my dick wet or a bag of pills. So.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “You free Friday night or not?”
You stared at him.
Ben’s jaw tightened. “Don’t make me say it twice, doll. I’m asking you out. Properly. Dinner. Whatever. And if you say no I’m still fucking you on that couch later, just so we’re clear.”
You stared at him for a long second, the paper bag of Chinese food still sitting forgotten on the counter, the smell of sesame chicken mixing with the faint cigar scent that always clung to him.
Ben stood there with his arms crossed, jaw tight, looking like he’d rather take a bullet than repeat the question.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it.
“Yes,” you said, voice quiet but clear. “I’m free Friday.”
He tried to play it off immediately, of course, rolling his eyes and muttering “About fucking time” under his breath, but the relief was still visible around the edges of his expression. He stepped closer, one big hand reaching out to grab the front of your shirt and tug you in until you were pressed against his chest.
“Good,” he said, low and rough against the top of your head.
Daily reminder to protect and love your gender non-conforming, gender fluid, agender, trans and any and all genderqueer partners, mutuals and friends. You just have to, they need us more than ever.
puppygirl!satoru can't do anything but beg for your pussy when catgirl!sukuna is also there ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
cw: mdni, hybrids, fem!satoru, fem!sukuna, collar and leash, strap on usage, clit play, tit play, degradation, praising, cuck!satoru, she's really catching all the strays on this one, art by khouxyon and arrja
The position is obscene. Sukuna’s strap is heavy against your ass while she keeps you against her back, letting you feel her hand nipples. She’s purring into your ear while she plays with your tit with one hand and with the other, she holds your own hand that’s holding Satoru’s leash.
She’s kneeling on the edge of the bed, drooling and salivating over the sight of Sukuna teasing you everywhere except where you need her the most. Her ears move every time your pussy clenches around nothing and her tail is wagging with excitement.
“It’s my turn now, Suki,” she whimpers, trying to get closer but Sukuna taps your hand, commanding you to tug on her leash. You do it gentler than Sukuna wants it, but still works to make Satoru suffer a little. “Mmph- please!”
“Nu-uh,” Sukuna shakes her head, a big smirk on her lips while her hand presses down your stomach to make you whine. “You need to learn how to treat a lady, you mutt. You were mean to her earlier, or did you forget?”
She really wasn’t, you were just cooking with Sukuna when she came into the kitchen after waking up at noon, hair a mess and yawning. Satoru took a look at what you were making and, still half-asleep, she told you that she didn’t like what you were cooking and that she’d order take out for herself. So this is Sukuna’s punishment for Satoru.
“I already apologize!” Satoru tried to rest her forehead on your calf, but Sukuna quickly took the leash in her hand, pulling it so she was as far as possible from you. “Baby, please ngh- say something.”
She was looking into your eyes, her big blue orbs making you a little dizzy. Her naked body was gorgeous, with her pretty rosy nipples hard and too appetising. You try to tell her something, that she can have you later (Sukuna and you know that’s a lie) but Suki takes the opportunity to graze your clit at that exact moment.
“Ah-” you whine, thighs trying to close but Sukuna’s strong legs and tail keep you open for her and for Satoru to see. “Suki, fuck- I’m so-”
“You’re soaked,” she says, mockingly. Now toying with your clit more freely, flicking it and pressing it down, but never rubbing it with enough pressure.
Sukuna’s fingers kept moving in a torturously slow rhythm, two thick digits sliding through your slick folds without giving you any real relief. The wet sounds were so loud in the quiet room, every little squelch making your face burn hotter. You could feel how drenched you were, your arousal coating her hand and dripping down toward your thighs. Her breath was hot against the shell of your ear as she chuckled low.
“Listen to that,” she whispers, voice rough with satisfaction. “Your pretty pussy is crying for more already. Such a greedy little thing.”
You whimper, hips twitching forward instinctively, but her strong arm around your waist holds you firmly against her chest. The heavy strap-on pressed right between your ass cheeks, a reminder of what she could give you later if you behaved. Her free hand kept playing with your breast, rolling your nipple between her fingers until it ached in the best way.
“Please, Suki… I need it harder,” you beg.
Your fingers tighten around Satoru’s leash, giving it another tight without realizing. Satoru lets out a broken moan, her ears flattening against her head as she strains forward on her knees. Satoru’s eyes are glassy, fixed between your spread legs while she was starving. “Sukuna, come on… let me taste her. I’ll be good, I swear!”
Sukuna laughed, she finally pushed her fingers a little deeper, curling them just enough to brush that sensitive spot inside you before pulling back again. The drag was so slow you felt every ridge, every inch. Your walls clenched hard around nothing when she withdrew, a fresh gush of wetness slipped out.
“You hear that, mutt? She’s clenching so desperately and you think you deserve a taste?” Sukuna pressed her palm flat against your stomach, holding you still while she dragged her fingertips up to circle your clit again. Light, feather-soft touches that made your legs shake. “Think twice before acting like a spoiled brat to our girl. Now you only get to watch while I play with her.
Satoru whined loudly, leaning as far as the leash allowed. She looked you in the eyes again. “Baby, please tell her… tell Sukuna I can lick you so good. I’ll suck on that cute clit until you’re screaming my name.”
You tried to answer, but Sukuna chose that moment to slide her fingers back inside you, pumping them in and out in long strokes. You moaned, head falling back against Sukuna’s shoulder, she took the chance to bite down gently on your neck, sucking a mark into your skin.
“Fuck… Suki- nghh please, more,” you gasped, trying to grind down on her hand. Her tail wrapped tighter around your thigh, keeping you open and exposed for Satoru’s hungry gaze.
“See how polite she is?” Sukuna cooed, voice dripping with mock sweetness as she looked down at Satoru. “Begging so nicely while you’re over there drooling like a pathetic dog in heat.”
Satoru’s cheeks burned red, but she didn’t look away. If anything, the degradation made her press her thighs together, a soft desperate sound escaping her throat. “Suki please, let me have her pussy. I’ll do anything. I’ll lick your strap clean after, I’ll kiss your feet, just please…”
Her head drops in the bed, kneeling between your legs like she was ready to pray. Sukuna’s fingers sped up for a few glorious seconds, fucking into you with filthy noises that filled the air. You cried out, pleasure sparking up your spine, but she slowed right back down before you could get close. The denial made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
“You like that, don’t you?” Sukuna whispered hotly against your ear, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jolt. “Being fucked slow while this desperate whore watches. Your cunt is fluttering around my fingers like it wants to suck them in deeper.”
“Yes… hah god, yes,” you breathed, trembling. The heat of her body against your back was overwhelming, her hard nipples brushing your skin every time she moved. You could smell her arousal too, mixing with yours in the air.
Satoru tugged on the leash herself this time, eyes wide and pleading. “D-don’t make her suffer too much, Suki…”
Sukuna snorted, pulling her fingers out completely. You whined at the loss, pussy clenching around empty air, but she quickly brought her slick fingers to your mouth. “Open.”
You obeyed, tasting yourself on her skin as she pushed them past your lips, the salty-sweet flavor made you moan around them.
“See that? She’s such a good sucker,” Sukuna said to Satoru, voice sharp.
Satoru moved forward on her hands and knees, leash pulling tight. Her breath was coming fast, chest heaving. “Yes, god. She is, she’s the best girl ever, right? She-she deserves to be fingered and eaten out at the same time, don’t you think?”
Sukuna hummed in approval and slid her fingers back between your legs, this time rubbing your clit with firmer strokes but still not letting you tip over the edge. “Not by you, tho, mutt.”
“Suki!” Satoru groans, rolling her eyes and pouting. She taps your calf as she speaks. “I’ll eat her out so so good, I know how she likes it. Listen, baby, I’d suck your clit hard and lick your pretty pussy like that one time, remember? I’d make you feel amazing, tell Sukuna how much you want me.”
You moaned loudly around Sukuna’s fingers, hips rolling. The picture of Satoru eating you out mixed with Sukuna’s relentless slow torture was driving you insane. Sukuna laughed softly, finally pulling her fingers from your mouth so she could grip your hip instead, holding you down while she worked your clit in tight circles.
“That’s cute,” Sukuna said, the degrading tone never fading. “You talk a big game for someone who’s not even allowed to touch yet. So pathetic.”
“I’m not pathetic,” Satoru protested weakly, but her tail was wagging even faster, betraying her.
You reached down, trying to press Sukuna’s hand harder against you, but she caught your wrist and pinned it to your side. “No rushing, baby. You take what I give you.”
The words sent another rush of heat through you, Sukuna rewarded you by pushing two fingers back inside, fucking you with deep thrusts while her thumb kept teasing your clit. Every stroke dragged against that perfect spot, building the pleasure higher and higher. Your moans grew louder, body arching against her.
“Mmmh, Suki… I’m so close, please don’t stop,” you begged.
She kissed the side of your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Not yet. I want to hear you cry for it first. And I want this stupid puppy to keep begging while she watches you fall apart.”
Satoru’s blue eyes were locked on where Sukuna’s fingers disappeared inside you, her own thighs shiny with her arousal. “Please let her cum, Sukuna. She sounds so pretty when she does.”
The tension kept climbing deliciously, every sense overwhelmed. Sukuna’s low laughs, Satoru’s desperate whimpers, the wet heat between your legs, the press of that thick strap against your ass. You knew Sukuna would drag this out until you were a sobbing, begging mess, and you loved every second of it. Your breaths were coming in short little gasps, thighs shaking hard against her hold. Just when the heat started to crest, she pulled her hand away completely.
You let out a frustrated cry, body arching. “No, Suki, please, I was so close-”
Before you could finish begging, Sukuna flipped you over onto your back in one smooth, strong motion. The world spun for a second, then you were staring up at her, chest heaving. The thick strap bobbed heavily between her legs, glistening a little from how wet you’d made everything.
“Can you take it, baby?” she asked, one of her hands stroked down your stomach, fingertips brushing your soaked pussy teasingly. “All of it?”
You nodded fast, hair sticking to your damp forehead. “Yes, please. I can take it. I need you.”
Sukuna’s grin widened, she was feral. “Good girl. Keep the leash tight, yeah, baby? Don’t let her get too close.”
“Wait, Sukuna, that’s not fair! I’ve been waiting so long.”
Sukuna didn’t even look at her right away, she grabbed your hips, pulling you down the bed a little so your ass was lifted, completely ignoring Satoru.
Satoru whined loud, ears drooping. “It’s not fair, I can treat her so good. Please, just let me lick her once before you–”
Sukuna practically kicked her off the bed with one firm shove of her foot against Satoru’s shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send her tumbling back onto the floor with a surprised yelp.
“Grab a chair and sit your ass down,” Sukuna ordered, not even sparing her another glance. “You can watch from there if you behave.”
Satoru scrambled up, face flushed dark red, but she did what she was told. She dragged the wooden chair from the corner closer to the bed, sitting down with her legs spread, one hand already trailing down her own body. “This is so mean… I just wanna make her feel good.”
You didn’t have time to feel bad for her, Sukuna lined up the thick head of her strap right against your entrance, rubbing it up and down through your folds to coat it in your slick. The pressure was insane already and she hadn’t even pushed in yet. You whimpered, hands fisting the sheets.
“Suki… it’s so big,” you mumbled, voice breathy.
She leaned down, capturing your lips in a rough kiss before she started pressing forward. The stretch burned so good as the thick strap sank into you inch by inch. You gasped sharply, back bowing off the bed. “Ah- fuck, fuck, it’s filling me up…”
“That’s riiiight,” Sukuna growled, voice thick with lust. She bottomed out with a wet slap of skin on skin, hips flush against yours. The fullness made your head spin, every nerve lighting up. “Take it all like the good girl you are.”
She pulled back and slammed in hard, setting a brutal pace that had the bed creaking under you. Each thrust punched the air out of your lungs, making you whine and gasp loudly. The wet sounds of her fucking into your soaked pussy echoed through the room, filthy and loud.
“Oh god- S-Suki, it’s so- too deep,” you moaned, legs wrapping around her waist without thinking. Your nails dug into her shoulders as she pounded you, breasts bouncing with every rough snap of her hips. “Feels so good… don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Satoru’s voice came from the chair, all desperate and shaky. “Baby, tell her you want my mouth too. It’s not fair I’m stuck over here watching…”
“Quiet,” Sukuna snapped at her without breaking rhythm. She grabbed one of your legs, hiking it higher over her shoulder so she could drive even deeper. The new angle made you cry out, eyes rolling back a little.
You were mumbling nonsense between moans, head turning side to side on the pillow. “Suki… ahh, yes, right there- mmmm harder, please nghh!”
Sukuna laughed breathlessly, sweat starting to shine on her skin as she railed you. Her hands gripped your hips tight enough to leave marks, pulling you back onto her strap with every thrust. “Such a pretty girl taking my strap, oh look at that, am I hitting all the right spots?”
Satoru whimpered, shifting in her seat. Her tail was thumping against the wood, eyes glued to where you two were joined.
“Yes!” you screamed, eyes rolling back. “It’s so hah deep, so so good, Suki.” You gasped as Sukuna hit that perfect spot again and again, pleasure crashing through you in hot waves. “Satoru… ngh Suki’s fucking me so good. I’m so full… g-gonna cum soon if she keeps going like this.”
Sukuna leaned down, biting at your neck while her hips kept slamming forward. The slap of skin, your wet moans and Satoru’s soft begging all mixed together into something dizzyingly intense. She reached between you, thumb finding your clit and rubbing fast circles that made your vision blur.
“Cum for me then,” she demanded, voice right in your ear. “Let that desperate dog watch you fall apart on my strap.”
Your body tensed hard, thighs quivering around her as the orgasm built fast and overwhelming. “Suki fuck! I’m- I’m cumming, please, don’t stop ah-ahh!”
The pleasure hit you like a wave, ripping a loud cry from your throat. Your pussy clenched tight around the thick strap, pulsing as you came hard. Sukuna kept pounding through it, drawing it out until you were a whining, trembling mess underneath her, mumbling soft little praises and begs between shaky breaths.
“That’s it, baby, you did so good. I’m gonna pull out now, yeah?” she warned you before slipping the strap out of you, making you whine at the emptiness.
You stayed down while Sukuna stared at the shiny and wet strap, she looked at Satoru, playing with her own clit while seeing you two and she rolled her eyes at the sight.
“Wh-What?” Satoru whined, crawling out of the chair and getting closer to the bed.
“Nothing,” Sukuna huffed. “I was gonna let you suck the strap clean but you can’t even control yourself, so…”
Satoru gasped loudly, grabbing Sukuna’s strong arm, ready to beg.
“C’mon, baby, I’ll run you a bath,” Suki said, ignoring Gojo once again. “You deserve a good and long one.”
a/n: terrible ending i apologize. anyway this is all thanks to @kamislop who gave me this idea and my mind went insane, thank you so much bb this is for you<3
tags: @irisgrrl
There is nothing fiercer than a dragon who protects his hoard, especially from his own brood, or in which, after seeing you with your sons, Maekar Targaryen wants another.
Because apparently I am incapable of writing fluff without smut. In this, the Maekarlings are yours, as this will now be dubbed the 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐒 universe, where you replace Dyanna Dayne and be the mother to the precious babies.
“Maekar..”
“Fuck off, woman, and let me love you.”
The chamber was quiet but for the crackle of the low-burning hearth and the soft rustle of linen. Maekar’s mouth moved against yours in slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper than the last, stealing the air from your lungs until your fingers were tangled in his hair and your body arched helplessly into his. “Maekar...”
He tasted of wine and warmth and the quiet possessiveness that never quite left him, even in the soft hours after the children were meant to be asleep. “Hmm, shut that mouth and take it.”
You made a small, breathless sound when his lips trailed to the corner of your mouth, then lower, along the line of your jaw. His hand splayed possessively over your hip, thumb stroking idle circles that made your pulse skip.
“Fuck me,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough with want, “you’re still the most beautiful thing I have ever known.”
“Maekar!” You gasped in mock scandal, eyes flying open even as a helpless smile tugged at your lips. “Language. There are impressionable ears in this keep.”
He only huffed a quiet laugh and claimed your mouth again, kissing you until your thoughts scattered and the world narrowed to the solid weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours, the way his arms locked around you like he meant to keep the rest of the realm outside the bed curtains forever.
That was when the soft scrape of bare feet on stone reached you.
A small shadow hovered at the edge of the bed, clutching a wooden dragon, the one Maekar himself had carved years ago for him. Aerion’s hair was mussed from sleep, his lower lip caught between his teeth.
“Mommy,” came the little voice, thin with worry, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”
Maekar’s arms tightened around you at once, a low grumble of displeasure vibrating through his chest.
He lifted his head just enough to glare past the curtains, still half-draped over you like a dragon guarding its hoard.
You turned your face toward your boy, soft smile already forming, only for Maekar’s gruff imitation of a child’s plea to tumble out first.
“Mommy,” he mimicked in a deep, aggrieved rumble, arms locking tighter, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”
A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. You flicked the tip of his nose the moment the words left his mouth.
“Oh, hush, you impossible man.” Then, gentler, to the small figure at the bedside: “Oh, my sweet boy…”
You shifted, ready to throw off the linens, but Maekar’s hold only hardened.
“Woman,” he growled, low and final, “you are not leaving this bed.”
“You are insufferable, Maekar.”
“You are my woman. My wife.” His head settled heavily on your chest, eyes still fixed on Aerion with pure parental outrage. “See what your spoiling has caused. Go back to bed, boy.”
Aerion’s lower lip trembled, but his chin lifted with the same stubborn set his father wore. “Please, mommy.”
You reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, voice warm and firm all at once. “My sweet boy, you are grown now. You must start being independent. The dark is only dark, and your dragon will keep watch.”
Aerion’s eyes widened, pure betrayal shining in them as he pointed an accusing finger at the large man currently occupying the entirety of his mother’s arms. “No! Daddy is bigger than me. Why should he get to keep you? He’s bigger than me, he should be independent too!”
Maekar’s only answer was a deeper glare and an even tighter embrace, as though the very suggestion might somehow pry you from his side.
A bright, helpless laugh tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, soft and fond and utterly undone by the sight of your third son standing there in his little nightshirt, wooden dragon clutched to his chest like a shield, solemnly declaring that his father ought to be independent too.
Aerion’s whole face lit up at the sound. The worried crease between his brows vanished. He beamed so brightly the dim chamber seemed warmer for it, small shoulders straightening with pure, triumphant hope.
You reached up, carding gentle fingers through Maekar’s hair even as he continued to glare daggers over your chest. “It is only until I know he is safe and asleep,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing against his ear. “Just a little while, my love. Then I will come straight back to you.”
Maekar’s answer was a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated straight through your bones, half protest, half pure possessive displeasure. His arms tightened once more, as though he might simply refuse to let the world or his own son claim even a single heartbeat of you.
Yet when Aerion padded closer, bare feet whispering on the stone, Maekar did not stop you from shifting the covers. He only pressed one last, lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw, silent promise and soft warning both, before reluctantly loosening his hold enough for you to slip free.
Aerion’s small hand found yours at once, warm and trusting, and the wooden dragon bumped against your hip as he tugged you toward the door with quiet, victorious urgency. Behind you, Maekar’s growl followed like a shadow, low and continuous, the sound of a dragon who had temporarily lost his hoard and was already counting the minutes until it returned.
You guided Aerion down the quiet corridor, his small hand warm in yours, the wooden dragon bumping softly against your side with every eager step. The night torches burned low, casting long golden pools across the stone, and the keep felt hushed and safe around the two of you.
His chamber was small and familiar, tapestries of ships and stars, a single shuttered window, the bed piled high with soft furs. You helped him climb in first, then slid beneath the covers beside him, tucking the blankets snug around his narrow shoulders. Aerion immediately burrowed closer, the carved dragon clutched between you both like a shared secret.
For a moment he simply lay there, breathing in the quiet. Then his voice came, soft and hopeful in the dark.
“Mommy… will you tell me a story?”
You smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Of course, my brave boy. What sort of story shall it be?”
He thought hard, nose scrunching. “A scary one. But with a happy ending. And swords.”
“Very well.” You propped yourself on one elbow, voice dropping into the low, dramatic cadence reserved for the best tales. “Once there lived a fierce lady knight, strong and clever and never afraid of the dark. One night a terrible basilisk crept into her castle, its eyes glowing like green fire, its scales black as pitch. It meant to steal her youngest son away…”
Aerion’s eyes went round. You sat up a little higher, one arm sweeping wide as though drawing a blade from thin air.
“But the lady knight would not allow it!” You rose onto your knees in the bed, imaginary sword flashing in great, heroic arcs. “She charged down the corridor, slash! clang!, driving the beast back with every strike. ‘You shall not have my boy!’ she cried, steel ringing against scales. The basilisk hissed and lunged, but the lady knight was faster. She leapt, spun, and with one final mighty swing,” you brought the invisible blade down in a decisive arc that made the covers flutter, “she sent the creature tumbling into the shadows, never to return!”
Aerion giggled, pure delight bubbling up as he clutched his dragon tighter. “And then she hugged her son?”
“And then,” you said, settling back down beside him with a soft smile, “she gathered her son close, tucked him safely into bed, and promised that as long as she lived, no darkness, nor any beast within it, would ever touch him.”
You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. Outside the chamber door the keep remained quiet, and somewhere down the hall a certain gruff dragon was almost certainly still counting the minutes until his wife returned.
Aerion’s small arms wound tightly around your neck the moment the last words of the story faded. He pressed his face into the curve of your shoulder, the wooden dragon caught awkwardly between your bodies, and held on as though the entire keep might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.
“Promise,” he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. “Promise you won’t leave me, Mommy. Not ever.”
You stroked slow circles over his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing begin to deepen. “I promise, my sweet boy,” you murmured against his hair. “I will always be here when you need me. Always.”
His fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, a soft, trusting hold that slowly relaxed as the last of his fear melted away. Within moments his body went heavy and warm against yours, the even rhythm of sleep claiming him at last. The wooden dragon slipped a little in his slackening grasp, but he did not stir.
You remained still for a long while, listening to the quiet of the chamber and the soft, steady sound of your third son’s breathing, the promise still warm on your tongue.
You waited until Aerion’s breathing had deepened into the slow, even rhythm of true sleep before you carefully eased his arms from around your neck. The wooden dragon remained tucked against his chest as you drew the furs higher, brushing one last soft kiss to his temple. He did not stir.
The corridor outside was cooler, the torches burning lower still. You moved quietly, bare feet silent on the stone, and turned toward the chamber that belonged to your firstborn.
Daeron’s door stood slightly ajar. Even before you reached it you could hear him, small, broken whimpers that caught in his throat, the restless shift of limbs against the sheets. Your heart clenched the moment the sound reached you.
You slipped inside.
He lay tangled in the covers, hair damp against his forehead, brow furrowed deep even in sleep. Another soft, wounded sound escaped him, and you knew at once what plagued him. The same dreams that had haunted him since he was barely more than a babe, shadows and fire and things too heavy for a child’s mind to carry alone.
It broke your heart.
You crossed the room without a word and sank carefully onto the edge of the bed. One hand found his, small and warm and tightly curled, and you stroked your thumb across the back of it in slow, steady circles. Your other hand brushed the hair from his brow, gentle as a whisper.
“Shh, my love,” you breathed, voice barely more than a breath. “I’m here. You’re safe. The dreams cannot keep you.”
Daeron’s whimpers quieted by degrees, though the tension in his small body remained. You stayed exactly where you were, heart aching, watching over your firstborn as the night pressed close around the both of you.
You leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Daeron’s forehead, letting your lips rest there a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm skin and the faint trace of the lavender the maids sometimes tucked into the bedding. Only when his breathing had evened into something closer to true rest did you rise and slip quietly from the chamber.
Aemon’s door was next.
You eased it open just enough to peer inside, and caught him in the act. The candle flame vanished with a sharp little puff of breath. In the sudden dark a small shape dove beneath the covers in a frantic rustle of linen, leaving only a tell-tale book abandoned on the edge of the mattress, its pages still open.
A soft, knowing smile curved your mouth.
You crouched low, voice dropping into a deep, rumbling growl that filled the quiet room.
“I am the great dragon of the night,” you intoned, claws of your fingers curling against the floorboards. “I hunt for children who refuse to sleep… children who read by candlelight long past the hour they should be dreaming. Those children must climb onto the bed… and then they vanish. Forever.”
A long, dramatic pause.
From beneath the covers a pair of wide eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket.
“Mommy?”
You lunged.
Aemon’s startled squeak turned into helpless, delighted laughter as you pounced, fingers finding every ticklish spot along his ribs and under his arms. He thrashed and giggled and tried to squirm away, but you were merciless, growling dragon-like nonsense between bursts of his bright, breathless laughter until the whole bed shook with it.
You finally relented, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a warm heap of soft laughter, both of you breathless. Aemon’s cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up in every direction, and the abandoned book had been kicked halfway to the floor in the scuffle.
You reached over and gently tugged the covers up around him again, smoothing them with a mother’s practiced hand. Your voice softened, though a thread of fond amusement still lingered in it.
“Now then, my little night-dragon…” You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. “Why are you still awake?”
Aemon’s laughter faded into something quieter. He tugged the covers up to his chin and looked at you with wide, earnest eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted in a small voice.
You tilted your head, fingers still gently smoothing his hair. “Why not, sweetling?”
He was silent for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, so softly you almost missed it:
“I just… wanted you.”
Your heart melted. Before you could answer, Aemon sat up a little straighter, expression suddenly solemn, as though he were about to make a formal declaration before the entire court.
“Mommy… can I marry you?”
The question hung in the quiet chamber, perfectly serious.
A deep, familiar voice answered from the doorway before you could.
“No.”
You both turned.
Maekar stood there, bare-chested, hair still mussed from the bed he had been forced to abandon. His violet eyes were serious, though a faint, reluctant warmth flickered in them as they moved from his second son to you.
“She is my wife,” he said, the words low and final, as though the matter had been settled long ago and required no further discussion.
You rolled your eyes at the pair of them, the fond exasperation of a mother and wife who had heard far too many claims upon her in one night.
But something darker flickered across Maekar’s violet gaze, something heated and intent that made your pulse skip. You knew that look. Knew exactly what it meant.
You turned back to Aemon, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, my little night-dragon,” you whispered. “I’ll be right down the hall.”
You stayed until his breathing evened and his small hand finally loosened its hold on the covers. Only then did you rise.
Maekar was already moving.
He crossed the chamber in three long strides, caught you around the waist, and in one smooth motion hauled you up and over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. A startled breath left you as the world tilted. One of his large hands settled firmly across the backs of your thighs to keep you steady.
“I want another,” he declared, voice low and rough with certainty as he carried you from the room, the door swinging shut behind you both.
Your bright, helpless laughter spilled out and echoed down the quiet halls of Summerhall as Maekar carried you with single-minded purpose, each long stride a clear declaration of intent. You knew exactly what that promise meant, knew the heat in his blood and the determination in the strong arm locked around your thighs.
Still laughing, you braced your hands against his bare back and asked, voice soft with hope and amusement both, “Do you think the gods might grant us a little girl this time?”
Maekar’s answer came without hesitation, low and absolute, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.
“Then I’ll keep trying until I give you one.”
You barely had time to draw breath before Maekar’s shoulder met the closed doors of your chambers. He set you down only long enough to press you back against the wood, one powerful thigh sliding between yours as his hands dragged the soft fabric of your nightshift higher and higher, bunching it at your waist.
His mouth found the side of your neck at once, open, hungry, almost reverent, trailing wet heat along the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. A low, broken sound escaped him, something closer to a growl than a word, and you felt the tremor that ran through his entire body as he pressed closer still.
He loved you so fiercely, so completely, that language had long since failed him. Every urgent kiss against your throat, every desperate grip of his hands on your bare hips, every ragged breath he spilled against your skin was the only way he knew how to say it.
Maekar’s mouth never left your neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke, the words rough and low and thick with hunger.
“I’m going to fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”
The promise vibrated against your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you harder against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently through the thin barrier of his own clothing.
He rolled his hips once, deliberate and slow, letting you feel every inch of what he intended to give you, then again, deeper, more demanding, as if already imagining the way he would fill you.
Maekar dropped to his knees without warning.
He shoved your nightshift higher still, hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between your thighs like a man who had been starving for the taste of you.
There was nothing gentle about it, only raw, desperate hunger.
His tongue dragged through your folds in long, greedy strokes, then focused on the sensitive peak, sucking hard enough to draw a sharp cry from your throat. He growled against you when your hips jerked, the sound vibrating through your core as he licked and devoured, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from you before he took his own.
Only when your legs were trembling and your fingers were tangled desperately in his hair did he rise.
He manhandled you across the chamber with effortless strength, spinning you and bending you forward over the edge of the bed. The nightshift was shoved up around your waist, one large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other guided himself between your slick folds.
He thrust into you in one deep, claiming stroke, filling you completely, and a low, broken sound tore from his chest.
Then he fucked you from behind, hard, relentless, each powerful snap of his hips driving him deeper, the slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. His grip on your hip was bruising, possessive, as though he meant to imprint himself on every part of you.
Maekar’s hips snapped forward again and again, the wet, filthy slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. Each powerful thrust rocked you hard against the mattress, the ropes of the bed creaking in protest beneath the force of him.
Heat poured off his body in waves.
Sweat slicked the hard planes of his chest where it pressed to your back, and the scent of him, salt and skin and raw, masculine need, filled every breath you took.
His teeth were bared, a low, animal sound tearing from his throat as he drove into you without mercy. The thick length of him stretched you open on every stroke, the drag and burn of it so intense your fingers clawed at the sheets.
“Fuck, look at you,” he snarled, voice rough and broken, hot against the damp skin of your neck. “Taking me so deep. My wife. Mine.”
He leaned over your back, one hand fisting tightly in your hair until your scalp prickled, the other gripping your hip hard enough that you felt the imprint of every finger. He pounded into you harder still, the head of his cock dragging over that perfect, aching spot inside you with every brutal snap of his hips.
“Gonna fill you until you can’t walk straight. Until every fucking soul in this keep knows who you belong to.” His breath scorched your ear, teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to sting. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine while I fuck another babe into you.”
He didn’t slow.
Every stroke was deep, punishing, claiming, his body moving over yours like a man possessed, teeth still bared, the wet sounds of your joining obscene and constant, the words spilling out of him in a relentless, heated stream as the whole world narrowed to the overwhelming heat and friction and the raw, consuming way he took you.
Your moans fractured into soft, broken mewls as the relentless drive of his hips stole every coherent thought.
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the chamber, louder now, raw and desperate as heat bloomed low in your belly, sharp and overwhelming, and the words he demanded spilled from your lips without hesitation.
“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice high and trembling. “Yours, only yours. Maekar...”
A savage sound tore from his throat.
He fucked you even harder.
The pace turned punishing, almost frantic, deep, brutal strokes that forced the air from your lungs with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back so he could watch the way your body took him. Sweat slicked the places where his chest met your spine.
The bedframe groaned beneath the force of him as you felt every thick inch of him, the stretch and friction so intense it bordered on too much, and still he drove deeper, chasing the promise he had made, determined to leave you wrecked and full and marked as his.
Maekar’s voice was rough, almost broken, as he leaned over you again.
“Do you want another babe?” he demanded, the words punched out between deep, driving thrusts. “Tell me.”
“Yes...” The answer tore from you in a high, helpless cry. “Yes, Maekar, yes...”
Something in him shifted.
The punishing edge softened all at once, though his hips never stopped their steady, deep rhythm.
He released your hair and slid that hand around to cradle the side of your face instead, turning your head so he could press open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.
Soft.
Reverent.
Almost aching.
He still snapped his hips against yours, full, claiming strokes that filled you completely, but the hunger had turned tender, every thrust now laced with the quiet intensity of a man who loved you beyond reason.
His lips trailed warm and lingering over your skin, murmuring your name between kisses, as though the only thing that mattered in the world was the way your body welcomed him and the promise you had just given.
Maekar’s mouth never left your neck as he continued to move inside you, deep, steady, relentless. The tenderness in his kisses only sharpened the way every stroke dragged over that perfect place within you, building the pressure higher and higher until it broke.
You came undone with a broken cry, walls clenching tightly around him. He groaned against your skin but did not stop. He simply held you through it, hips still rolling, drawing the pleasure out until you were trembling and oversensitive, then he kept going.
A second climax tore through you sooner than the first, sharper, your fingers twisting in the sheets as soft, helpless sounds spilled from your lips.
Maekar’s hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding the swollen peak of your pleasure and circling in time with his thrusts, coaxing a third wave that left you shaking and gasping his name.
Only when you were boneless and wrecked beneath him, body fluttering around his cock with every lingering aftershock, did his own control finally shatter.
His rhythm faltered.
A low, guttural sound tore from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you in long, pulsing surges, hot and deep and endless, filling you exactly as he had promised while his mouth pressed one last open, trembling kiss to the side of your throat.
Maekar stayed buried inside you for a long moment after the last pulse of his release, his breath warm and uneven against the damp skin of your neck.
Then, with exquisite care, he eased free and gathered you into his arms as though you were something infinitely precious.
He carried you the short distance to the head of the bed and laid you down among the tangled sheets. His hands were gentle now, so gentle, as he smoothed the nightshift back down over your body, then reached for the soft cloth kept near the washbasin. He cleaned you with slow, reverent strokes, murmuring low, wordless sounds whenever you shivered under his touch.
When he was satisfied, he discarded the cloth and climbed in beside you, drawing the covers over you both. One strong arm slid beneath your shoulders. The other curled around your waist, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest. His fingers combed lazily through your hair, untangling the strands his earlier grip had left mussed.
He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, each one quieter than the last. His violet eyes, no longer fierce, held only a deep and open tenderness as they traced your face in the low light.
“My wife,” he whispered at last, the words barely more than breath against your lips. “My heart.”
He held you closer still, one large hand splayed protectively over the soft plane of your stomach, and simply breathed with you, slow, steady, and content, while the quiet of Summerhall settled around the two of you like a blessing.
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: ben starts acting rather strange. being quiet. hitting on you less. making sure you eat. you're worried, even though he doesn't want you to be. you never could've guessed the reason why.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), light angst, softer!ben in a way (as soft as he can get lmao), canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (panty stealing/kink, posessiveness, teasing, messy sex, size kink, dry humping, sex pollen, stripping, body worship, dom!Ben, blowjobs, finger sucking, masturbation, fingering, begging, nipple play, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, praise and degredation kink, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god, just so many orgasms, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.3k✦
✦author's note: request! i dare to ask the question. can this man get hornier✦
Ben is being quiet. It’s incredibly worrying.
You’d been waiting for them to get back from the mission on the couch, and he’d stormed into the room like the world outside was on fire. You’d sat up with wide eyes, and he’d gone perfectly still. His face had been red, his eyes blown out, his attention almost burning through you.
“Ben?” You’d whispered, unsure if you should be running to him, or as far away as you could get. “Are you- Is there something wrong-“
He’d lurched back, blinking wildly. You’d sat up on your knees, ready to reach for him, and he’d taken a staggered step back.
“Ben-“
He’d marched into the meeting room like something was dragging him there. You’d sat on the couch for another minute, staring blankly after him until the rest of the team came up.
You sat next to him for the debrief. You always sat next to him, no matter how you protested. It didn’t matter how many times you asked not to play babysitter, you were the best at it.
It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.
“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.
He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.
That’s what makes you freeze.
Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.
But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.
There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.
Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.
But this.
This feels like a fever.
Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.
You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.
Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions. Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.
You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.
“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.
Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“
“What happened?”
“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“
“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“
“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“
“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”
Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”
“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”
“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“
“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“
“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”
You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“
“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“
“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“
“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“
You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“
“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“
The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.
You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.
A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.
You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.
It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.
And you never fear Ben.
Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.
Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.
“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“
He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.
Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.
In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.
“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”
“Eating your- What?”
“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“
“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.
“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”
“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“
“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”
“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.
“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”
Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”
“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”
“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”
Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.
“What-“
“You’re not eating.”
You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“
“Why.”
“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“
He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.
“Um- The dryer-“
“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.
“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“
“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“
“But- Ben-“
He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.
You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.
If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.
“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.
Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”
“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.
“You got something you wanna say to me?”
“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.
“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”
Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“
Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”
“You were sweating, Benjamin-“
“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”
You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“
You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.
“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”
“I- That’s not what I said-“
“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”
You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”
“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.
“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”
He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“
“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”
Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”
Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”
Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.
“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.
“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”
You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”
Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.
“Wha- What-“
He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.
You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.
“Ben, what’s- Shit-“
He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.
“I- Um-“
“Eat that,” he grunts.
You blink. “What?”
“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”
You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.
Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.
He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.
“Ben, what the fuck-“
He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.
At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.
And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.
“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.
“Jesus fucking- Ben-“
You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.
“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.
“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”
“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.
He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.
“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.
“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”
He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.
“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”
Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.
Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.
Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.
“What- What the hell was that?”
You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”
Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“
“Hughie-“
“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“
You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.
“Please don’t-“
“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.
“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“
“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”
Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.
It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.
“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.
You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.
He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.
“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.
He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.
Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.
He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.
You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.
“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“
“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.
“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“
“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”
You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.
“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”
And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.
“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.
“Moment it hit the fucker.”
“Where you there-“
“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”
You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.
“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”
You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“
“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.
“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.
It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.
“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.
“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”
You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“
“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”
Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“
“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”
You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“
“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”
And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.
“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.
“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”
“Butcher-“
“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”
You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.
A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.
Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.
If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.
If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.
“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”
He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.
You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.
The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.
Your panties.
Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.
Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed.
You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.
“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.
“I’ll give ‘em back later.”
You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.
“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”
You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.
You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.
Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”
You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.
“Go.”
There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.
“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.
“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“
“Why are they mine?”
The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.
“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.
“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“
“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”
Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”
Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.
“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“
“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.
No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.
“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.
“It doesn’t want hookers.”
You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”
He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“
“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”
What do you want.
He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.
“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.
“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”
Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.
A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”
You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.
He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.
“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“
“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”
Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.
“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”
You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.
It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.
“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“
He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.
You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.
“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“
He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.
“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”
You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else.
He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“
He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.
“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”
“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”
Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.
You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.
“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.
Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.
“Something fuckin’ funny?”
“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”
“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“
You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.
“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“
You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.
You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.
“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“
His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.
“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”
You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.
“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”
You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.
You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.
“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“
You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.
It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.
“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”
You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.
“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”
“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.
“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”
“It needs me?”
You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.
But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.
He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.
Worth it.
“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”
He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.
Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.
You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.
“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“
“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”
Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.
He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.
“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”
You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.
“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”
Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.
“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“
He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.
He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.
“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”
You shake your head, and Ben leans back with narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.
“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.
“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“
He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“
You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.
Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.
You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.
“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”
You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.
You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.
Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.
He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.
Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.
You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.
Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.
“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.
“Too- Too much-“
“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”
Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.
But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.
“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”
Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”
You nod, and Ben smirks.
“Yeah. I know.”
He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.
Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll.
“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”
Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.
“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”
Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.
Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.
“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“
You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.
He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.
“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“
You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.
You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.
He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.
“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“
You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.
Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.
He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.
You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.
“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”
You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.
“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.
You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.
The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.
At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”
He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.
Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.
“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“
He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.
Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.
“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”
It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.
He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands.
This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.
You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.
He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”
You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.
“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”
His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.
Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.
He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.
You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.
And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.
He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.
You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.
“Marry me.”
You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”
“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”
“Of- Of course I meant it-“
“You sure?”
“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”
That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”
“Because I’m not crazy.”
“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“
“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”
“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”
Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.
“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”
You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“
“It is not bad-“
“It’s horrible-“
“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.
There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.
But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.
“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.
“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“
“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”
Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.
“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.
You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.
Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.
✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, toxic + needy!aerion & f!reader, choking / breath play, mention of m. masturbation, 1 pussy pronoun.
aerion is frustrating to deal with even when he’s on best behavior. gods help you, you love him— you love him so much, but he’s mean to you.
he’s terrible, he’s venomous. sometimes he wakes up mad at the world and everything it has yet to offer him. he decides you’re the best person to take it out on. you’re sweet and pliant and perfect for his wrath whether it’s making snippy, borderline harsh comments or pounding you into the mattress until you’re drooling. you’re not sure how exactly he picks which way he wants to control his madness. you’ve tried to memorize any kind of pattern but they eventually dissolve when he makes a move you couldn’t manage to predict.
you’ve had enough.
“what— what the fuck are you doing?” he snarls down at you.
the rhythm in his hips falters, coming to a messy grind as his eyes flutter shut because you’ve lifted a hand, and your delicate fingers have curled around his throat with a firm grip. a hold that mimics his own whenever he grabs you up and forces you to make proper eye contact with him. “c’mon, knock it off.”
he tries to claw it away with his own digits wrapping over your wrist, blunt nails digging into your skin as a warning before he uses his actual strength. but you shake your head against the pillow you’re resting on, swallowing down a whine when he ruts into you just right and nearly folds you in half under him from the force of it. you regroup and ignore the way your cunt flutters around him beyond your control. you use your grip to yank him down until his lips hover over yours, watching his hazy eyes go wide with shock at your daring display.
“apologize to me,” you huff out, a soft sound falling from your lips after. you squeeze his throat and he gasps like he’s losing himself already, his hips surge forward with need and you watch his eyes roll back for a split second through your own half lidded gaze. you purr your words out, pride swelling in your chest, “apologize for being so rotten to me this morning, aerion.”
“baby,” he whimpers pathetically, breathlessly— shivering under your touch. his own hands glide over your soft skin. he’s holding your waist with reverence, then your hips, before his fingers finally sink into your thighs and guide you into that position he knows liquifies your brain in your skull, “you know i didn’t mean it. i never do, pretty girl.”
“then apologize, or i’ll make sure the only thing that’s getting you off for the next month is your own hand.”
aerion’s breath gets caught up in his throat at that, pulse fluttering against your fingers and his adam’s apple bobbing under your palm. he no longer cares that you have him right where you want him. not even a little bit. his pace picks back up, knocking sounds out of your chest and his own with every movement. every time he sinks into you and finds that heavenly little spot hidden in your cunt, he has your thighs twitching against either side of his waist.
he’s not good at talking, he’s not good at being nice …
but he is good at this. he’s good at fucking you senseless and making you melt under him, and he wants to keep doing it. he needs you wrapped around him one way or another and clinging to him every single day, or he won’t feel complete.
“‘m so sorry, baby.” he moans his words. he licks his lips, then shakes his head once as if he’s trying to think straight and navigate through the molten pleasure that settles in his taut muscles. he presses his heated forehead to yours, a desperate gesture that’s dewy with sweat, “so fuckin’ sorry. i’m gonna make it up to you and your sweet pussy, i promise— just don’t take her away from me.”
Tags/Warnings: BLOOD, LOTS OF BLOOD, PWP, vampirism, dragon hybrid!Rhaenyra, blood as lube, blood sucking, thigh riding, oral, come eating, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader given, no beta we die like Jace :(
A/n: IDK, I was just horny and wanted vampire Rhaenyra. This is nothing but pure self-indulgence. Comments, reblogs and liks are all appreciated. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to any taglists.
Summary: You are summoned to Queen Rhaenyra's chambers to fill her hunger.
You marinated in the jasmine scented bath, the delicate pearly petals floating in the balmy waters, while two handmaidens scrubbed under your nails and another brushed and oiled your hair. The dragon queen liked the sweet, sultry, musky smell that jasmine provided. She said she liked the way the fragrance danced on your skin, making her mouth water and her fangs yearn to sink into your flesh. Apparently, the taste of your blood matched the scent. Two of her trusted ladies had arrived in your private quarters earlier that morning to drain from your wrist. You felt half hypnotized as you watched the ruby liquid pool into the golden goblet, just enough to satiate Queen Rhaenyra in the morning to get her through her duties until she could gorge on you tonight.
It was a curse, or a blessing, passed down the Targaryen bloodline, diluted over the years. The conqueror siblings had the ability to transform into fully formed dragons, large beasts that made Westeros quiver, apart from the few brave houses who stood against them, but even they succumbed in the end. Except for Dorne, which slew Queen Rhaenys, shattering the gift passed down for generations through the matrilineal bloodline. After her death, their thirst for blood intensified while their transformations dwindled. Now they were mere changelings, with certain draconic features still evident. But now it was their blood thirst that kept the realm in line.
After your bath, you were wrapped in crimson silk, dainty golden chains decorating your ankles and wrists, and your damp hair twisted in elegant braids, sweeping away from your face. Rubies hugged your throat, fingers, and ears. The perfect little blood maid to serve up to the queen.
A sumptuous little feast was served before the dalliance, and you gorged on the best food King's Landing had to offer. Emulating the same gluttonous desire Queen Rhaenyra possessed. Roasted duck, tender bloody venison, sweet plums, and fennel salads, along with plump raspberries and juicy, red strawberries that left your fingertips and lips stained. The finest wine was served, a bold, rich red that went down smoothly and left a tart cherry aftertaste. After your stomach had some time to settle, two Queensguards escorted you to her chambers.
Dusk had just settled; a violet-blue hue bathed the once golden sky. Rhaenyra stood on the balcony, silver hair falling down her shoulders in a thick curtain that reached below the curve of her arse. In the dim light of the dying day, you caught a glimmer of her long, glassy nails. Sharp and strong as dragonglass. You had seen them slice through flesh with ease as scarlet welled beneath them. It was mesmerizing to watch her lick and suckle each one clean until not a drop remained. It was how the Hightower line was wiped out entirely. A vicious massacre for those who dared to usurp her throne. Her siblings stood at her side; five mouths a torrent of carmine, white fangs glistening as bodies twitched around the Iron Throne.
"Oh. You smell ravishing," she purred in that raspy, rich voice. "That taste of you this morning has made me salivate all day. She wore a long robe of black velvet, peeling it away when she turned to face you. Her pale, naked skin shone like a moonbeam, and her long, crimson tail curved around her left leg, hugging her calf tightly. Crimson wings remained folded against her bare back. Most of her skin was smooth and pale, apart from the small patches of crimson and black scales that clung to her right shoulder, left hip, and the small of her back just above her tail. She gave a slow roll of her neck, tendons cracking and popping. Her eyes took on an icy white hue, pupils tinged with red.
"Ready for you to devour, my queen," you purred, offering up a wrist.
Her fangs were delicate shards of pointed, sharp glass that pierced your skin easily. An ancient magic lingered in her salvia, a diluted venom that dulled the pain and caused an euphoric high to rush through you. It could be dangerous, causing the blood servants to chase the high to their detriment. To let themselves be torn apart and drained dry. If treated properly, blood servants could provide for years. Her three pronged tail swished through the air, diving under your scant silk dress and skimming over your cunt. You had been fucked with it, you had been whipped with it. The memory of Rhaenyra grazing her fangs over the welts she left on your arse came flooding through your mind, seeing it through her gaze as her thoughts melded into yours. Another side effect that servants suffered. The merging memories and shared mind.
Fully ensnared in her thrall.
Her forked tongue traced over the puncture marks, healing them quickly before ripping the silks from your body and lifting you onto the bed. It would never cease to amaze you how easily she could move and lift you, as if you weighed no more than a feather. Those sharp fangs pierced the swells of your breasts, matching scarlet streams leaked from the wounds, which she alternated lapping up. The curve of your hip and thigh was next, with deeper, ravenous bites this time. Old scars decorated these areas. They were meatier, allowing the beast inside her to come through. Those long, glassy nails raked down the curve of your stomach, leaving crimson slashes behind. Her tail wrapped around your neck while her wings slowly unfurled.
You hissed softly, waiting for her venom to dilute the pain. Very slowly, it seeped from your body until you felt as if you were wrapped in a floaty bliss. Bite marks soon covered your entire body, each wound bleeding shallowly, and her mouth drenched ruby red. She straddled your oozing thigh, rubbing her cunt over the slick blood. Eyes as white and glowing as the moon. She looked like a demon from the depths of the Seven Hells with those scaled wings stretched wide and the crimson horns now curving from her silvery scalp. Yet you yearned for her. Yearned for her to drain you until there was nothing left.
She rocked against your bloody thigh until she came, that pearly release mixing with your blood and making it shimmer like scattered rubies. Arousal clung between your thighs, nipples hard as rocks. You leaned forward, pressing your mouth to her full breast and suckling on her rosy nipple.
"Wait," she hissed, fisting her fingers in your hair and pulling you away. Those sharp nails grazed against your scalp, but didn't nick the skin. You watched with eager eyes as she sliced the top of her chest with one glassy nail, her blood pooling down her breast and coating her nipple. "Go on."
You pressed your mouth against her bloody nipple, suckling on her cold flesh and tepid blood. As a human, yours was warmer, which the zaldrīzesse preferred. They had tried feeding on only the bloodline over the years, and it did no good, causing most to grow sick and die out. Rhaenyra moaned, raking her nails through your hair.
"Which one do you want?" she cooed, one you broke free of her breast, mouth stained with her blood and the tart taste of cherries lingering on your tongue.
"The jade one, please."
You watched her naked body as she moved toward the chest with hieroglyphs carved over the top. Her tail slithered behind her, dragging over the stones like a slithering snake. She removed the jade phallus, thick and curved, with a bulbous tip, from the velvet pouch and returned to the bed, using your blood mixed with hers to coat it. Slippery with red. You lifted your hips, lining up with the shaft and sinking onto the phallus, moaning as it stretched you wide. She held the base, watching you with icy, hooded eyes as you fucked yourself on it. Sweat beaded on your temples and dripped down the back of your neck.
A squelch filled the air, and you trembled with a release. She slipped the soiled phallus from your cunt and replaced it with your mouth, gathering up your blood and come. That aqualine nose bumped against your swollen pearl, making you moan with delight as your wounds began to heal. Most likely from her blood that had filled your mouth moments earlier. Once she cleaned out your cunt, a lewd mix of blood and come smearing around her mouth, she wet a cloth to wipe you up with before studying the marks she had left.
"I'll have the maester tend to you in the morning. Two nights off, I think," she hummed, nails tickling over your naked skin.
"I don't want you feeding from another," you pouted. The jealousy thick and evident in your eyes.
"Oh, do not fret, little pet. Just a few drops here and there. I only wish to feed from you," she cooed, pulling you close against her naked body and wrapping her wings around you. That's where all her heat was kept, pulsing through her scaled wings. You tucked yourself close, nuzzling your face against her cold chest until the warmth of her wings enveloped you.
"My favorite little blood maid," she cooed in your ear. How perfect you were, so vulnerable and at her mercy.
“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”
WARNINGS - 18+ mdni. smut. so much smut. darker themes ie death. a super deep and twisted interpretation of a solider who’s being reckless in attempt to run from their feelings. captain price is bred to hunt so it’s futile. piv. mirror sex. multi orgasms. size kink. dirty talk. dubcon slightly. we shouldn’t be doing this trope. slightly morally grey. a lot of sleep token references. fingering. reader afab. mentions of blood, injury. slight brat/dom dynamic. overstimulation.
The first thing you register is the weight of him.
Not his hands, though they’re there too — firm around your arms, holding you steady — but him. The heat of him at your side, sweat and cigarettes filling your muddled senses with each laboured breath you gasp for. The quiet, infernal energy that pours off him, taking up too much space, too much air from your already airless lungs.
“You with me?” His voice rumbles close to your ear.
You try to nod, but the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain ricocheting through your skull. Your breath hitches, and his grip tightens.
“Easy.” A low murmur, meant to soothe. “Almost there.”
There being the med bay, where fluorescent lights paint everything sterile. Too bright, too fucking loud alongside the offset drumbeat in your ears. He doesn’t let you sit on your own — eases you down onto the cot himself, hands as steady as they always are, even when yours are the furthest from.
You wince as you shift, and his eyes flick over you. He’s still assessing.
“Shouldn’t’ve let that bastard get a hit in,” he mutters, half to himself.
You know what he’s thinking. The result of your own impulsivity. Reckless. “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that next time.”
He exhales sharply. A shake of his head. “Could’ve been worse.”
You know that. Just like you know he’s only saying it to ease your dread. But you can see it in the way he looks at you, something unreadable tightening at the corners of his mouth, that he’s seen it. Many more times than you think.
“I’m fine,” you tell him. “You don’t have to—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
Just gives you that look, the one that shuts people up without him having to say a damn thing. It’s something you’re still learning about him — the way he often communicates without words. How his silence and pointed stares hold more meaning than most people’s shouting. You’ve also learned the effort to argue with him when he’s like this is a futile one. You’re a part of his team. He’ll be with you through it all.
Then, without asking, he reaches for you — because he knows you’ll let him. One hand bracing your chin, tilting your head so he can get a better look at the damage.
And even through the agony, it’s all too much.
The touch, the closeness, the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off you for one goddamn second since you’d been hit. Your throat goes dry at the realization that it’s doing more to you than it should. But you’ll never get used to how he does it. How a man like him — a wartime killer with more bloodshed on his fingertips than skin covering his limbs — can still look at you with something even remotely soft, when he’s bred to be everything but.
“You always this stubborn?” His voice is quieter now. A rough rasp against his throat.
You swallow, pulse hammering. “You always this persistent?”
His lips quirk, but his grip stays firm, fingers cool against your fevered skin.
“You’ll get used to it.”
You wondered then, if you ever really would.
———————
Months later, you’re still wondering the same thing.
It’s been months since that night in the med bay. Months of keeping yourself at arm’s length. Of keeping things professional. Of projecting platonic renditions despite the cursed thing threatening to take its place.
Or, well, trying to.
Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that tension like this doesn’t fade. It festers.
No matter how deep you try to bury it, perseverance is its ally. Helps it crawl out of the grave you dug for it in every brush of his fingers against yours when he hands over a magazine clip, every order spoken gravel in your ear, every glance held a second too long when neither of you are fast enough to look away. It leaves claw marks in everything, has been ever since the day he carried you through crumbling stone and mortar — ever since you felt him so fucking close and you realized you didn’t mind it. Since the moment you learned more about him in twenty minutes than you have in the entire year by his side.
That night relinquished something. Made you see him in a new light. What was once a beacon is now a solar flare for dead gods.
And it erupts here. Now.
In the barracks washroom after a mission gone sideways. After a fight that took too much out of you — left your bones aching, your skull pounding with the remnants of a concussion you’re beginning to suspect never fully healed — skin still humming raw, soaked in adrenaline and something a little too fucking reckless.
After he follows you in.
The door slams behind him, the sound ricocheting off the tiles. You don’t turn around, just strip your tac vest off with more force than necessary, breathing hard, hissing under your breath as exhaustion begins smothering out the fire in your blood.
“You got a fucking death wish?”
You can feel him staring at you. You know he’s seeing red — the heat of his eyes on your back incomparable to the even the greediest hellfires.
You exhale, press your palms flat against the edge of the sink. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” He steps closer. “You ran straight into that firefight without cover.”
“I handled it.”
“You barely walked away.”
Finally, you turn, glare at him over your shoulder. “That what this is? Another fucking lecture?”
He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t snap at you like your previous COs would. He just watches. And somehow, that’s worse.
“That what you think I’m doing?”
You scoff, shake your head, turning back toward the sink. The mirror in front of you is cracked down the middle, splitting your reflection in two. And you think, rather ridiculously, that it’s a perfect fucking picture of how you feel. Torn. Between the persistence of him and the need to keep your distance. Between what you’ve spent months trying to ignore and the way it still catches you off guard—how you keep finding yourself watching him, noticing him, like something inside you has already made a decision you can’t retract.
Behind you, he exhales slow. You hear the shift of his boots against the floor.
“Can’t keep doing this,” he mutters. “Won’t.”
Something in your chest tightens.
“What, watching my back?” You force your voice to stay even. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
“Not like this.”
The simplicity of that response has currency, and you know the behaviour. The familiar silence that tells you there’s more to this. Syllables pleading behind his teeth which he isn’t quite yet dignifying — but that slice along the back of his throat all the same. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and you see it then. In the dim light of his ocean eyes.
An emergence.
“I can’t watch you go down again.” There it is. Words coaxed out in that thick accent of his that inflicts them like a wound. He’s moving closer now, extinguishing the space. Stepping up behind you. “You haven’t been right for months. I need to know why.”
At that, you almost recoil — each syllable thrusting the knife deeper into your resolve, and you realize it’s not his accent that makes them cut, but the way he speaks them. Certain. As if he’s looking at you bare. No layers left to protect you. Like you’re nothing but sinew and marrow. Like your eyes and limbs are instruments to pick apart.
You stare at the sink. “So you are always this persistent.”
It leaves your lips exactly as you mean it — a callback, a test. You don’t watch his face, but the silence stretching long tells you it landed exactly where you wanted. A synapse snap back, an echo from the depths of whatever is eating you from the inside out.
“And you,” a pause, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Are always this stubborn.”
He says it like an indictment.
You’re sure it’s because he knows you. Because he sees how you bleed and pretend you don’t. How you’ve been keeping yourself at arm’s length for months. Because you’ve cornered yourself — because you let the bruises fade without ever acknowledging how deep they burrow.
Your fingers tighten around the porcelain, like if you hold on hard enough you can keep the charade going. Pretend you don’t feel what you feel. But then, you glance up, and there it is — your reflection wavering in the split mirror, cut through by the fault line of your own indecision. Your own internal warfare.
“Yes,” you whisper. “But you knew that long ago.”
“I did.” His hand braces against the sink beside yours as he all but cages you against it. “But I keep thinking, sooner or later, you’ll let yourself stop.”
Another pause. A breath suspended in air too thick, in a space that feels too small.
“You want me to stop?”
He exhales through his nose. “I want you to want to.”
It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.
You swallow against the burn in your throat because it’s clear he knows what’s hiding behind your eyes. He’s just asking you to be honest. To pull the words from where they’ve been buried, to stop dissolving them like acid on your tongue. To let him in.
“Then you want for nothing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, dangerously close to breaking. “Because you know I’d tell you anything if you asked.”
His eyes meet yours in the mirror.
“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”
You’d expected that — or something like it — but it still takes you apart. Thread by thread, a rope cinched through the hollow of your ribs. Pulling, pulling —waiting for you to give.
And you almost do. Almost let it spill, let it take shape in the open air between you. The truth of it. The rot you’ve kept pressed beneath your tongue, the slow, patient decay of something you know you shouldn’t feel.
But instead—
“It’s the head injury,” you lie.
A hollow offering. Brittle. A crumbling thing in place of the real answer.
His fingers twitch against the porcelain, reflection sharpening in the mirror — cutting through the fractures he’s causing. He doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. And that’s worse. So much worse. Because it means he’s seeing you. Means he’s waiting — sifting through the hollow, the fractions of you that no longer fit together in search of the thing you hesitate to give him.
“You can’t lie to me.” It sinks deep. Sticks somewhere you can’t pull it free. He’s right. “We both know it isn’t just that.”
You exhale something like a laugh except it’s boneless and bitter, just nerves spilling out because they’ve got no where else to go.
“Didn’t know you were a medic now.” You break your eyes back to the sink. “Or a mind reader.”
“I don’t need to be.” The words come fast. Convicting. “I just need to know you.”
And that. That makes you look up at him again. Makes you meet his eyes. Makes you burn.
“Price—“
His lips are against your ear. “Tell me.”
Your throat closes. The rope pulls tighter. You know what he wants — what he’s asking. But the answer feels like it won’t fit in your mouth. The swell of truth too large. Too longly suppressed because god this is your Captain and all he did was save your life. You know you should just be grateful and yet the only thing on your mind is granting him more than the debt you owe.
Because when you can’t swallow your demons, they don’t just disappear. They turn to hunger instead.
It was his hands that had fed them. They’re still starving now.
“The truth will ruin everything, Captain.” The words tear from your throat like he’s ripped them out himself. “This isn’t something you, or anyone, can help me with.”
You feel him go still the moment the words leave you. Feel it in the hand bracing against the sink, the exhale of his breath against your neck.
“So that’s what this is.” Your stomach coils, something twisting tight as you turn your head to face him. He doesn’t move back. Just dips his gaze to your lips. “You’re feeling too much, yeah? Think by being reckless you can run from it.”
It’s startling, the way he sees right through you. Your silence is a telling confession and he reads it like scripture.
You’ve always known it would be hard with him. Knew it from the beginning, because he’s as sharp as he is skilled, because he knows how to look at a situation and read the words left unspoken.
You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.
“You can’t outrun this.” His voice drops, dragging his free hand up the nape of your neck. “Can’t outrun me.”
He tugs you toward him, something dark flashing beneath his eyes — something like possession, something that makes your bones ache as his mouth ghosts over yours. A torturous, drawn-out motion, withholding what you know he’ll take.
A breath passes between you, your eyes closed, a million things unspoken. Spinning. Thrumming in the silence.
Then, he brushes his lips to yours. And there’s fire.
A slow-burning ruin, heat licking through your stomach, curling in your spine, and it devours you — every breath, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to run. It’s all gone. Gone until the moment he pulls back. Presses his forehead against yours.
“I know.” You reply, and for a second you think he’s backing off.
He doesn’t.
Lips against yours again, he takes. Your mouth parts on a sharp inhale. Shock, surrender, his tongue slipping against yours, before he kisses you hard. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting for your admittance. Like this is something he’s fought against just as much as you have.
Your hands find his shoulders, something to brace against as he pulls you in deeper. The breath is gone from your lungs, your pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. You open your eyes as he pulls back again. Take in the sharp cut of his features — the shadow of a beard against his jaw, the darkness of his gaze, drinking you in like he wants to keep you there.
“You don’t get to die on me,” he murmurs, and it makes your world tilt. Makes you wonder if you hit your head harder than you thought, all those months ago. Makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. “Christ.” His fingers flex at your waist. “You don’t get to be careless.”
There’s something in him you’ve never seen before. Something undone. Something you don’t understand but do at the same time — because you feel it too. The decades of loss. The battle scars. The countless near misses that linger for life. You weren’t thrusting yourself into open fire with some raging death wish — but you weren’t being as methodical as you should have been either, all to chase that fucking adrenaline spike. You didn’t think he’d have this reaction.
And there’s so much you need to say. So much you need to do. But all you can do is whisper, breathless against him. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a pause. A click of his tongue.
“I’m not done with you.” His mouth finds yours again, something softer this time, but no less demanding. You don’t fight it. And when his free hand dips down your back, you tilt your head up into him, hands fisted in his shirt, wishing you didn’t miss the feel of it so devastatingly when he pulls back again. “You want reckless? I’ll show you fucking reckless.”
You don’t have a chance to answer before he spins you around and shoves you against the counter. A groan slips from your lips, but you relish the feel of him — the warmth of his chest as he steps into you, crowding you until all you know is his heat.
His hands slide down your sides, gripping at your hips, the heat in your gut burning hot as he holds you in place.
“This what you want?” He mutters against the side of your throat, his nose nudging your jaw. “Or do you still want to run?”
You swallow, mouth parted, breath coming hard. It’s a question, but you know he doesn’t really want an answer. Not with everything he’s doing. Not with the way he’s holding you, the way his hands slip beneath your shirt, calloused fingers grazing bare skin as he tugs the fabric up.
Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”
You feel his mouth brush against your neck, tongue lavving out to taste you. Like he’s hungry and you’re a goddamn four-course meal. You moan. It’s all you can do to stay upright, legs going weak when he nips at your jaw.
“No Captain.” A demand. His hand sliding lower, dipping under the fabric of your cargos. “John.”
John. You shudder at the implication of it. John is a rare thing—something you’ve only ever heard him give to a handful of others, and no one else. John is personal. John is when he’s no longer your superior, but instead, your equal.
“John.” Somehow, it rolls off your tongue like breathing, like it had always been waiting there for this moment. Another moan follows it, just as his fingers find your clit. “Ohgod, John—”
He hums, teasing you, fingers moving in paced, languid circles like he’s got nothing but time despite the way his chest is pacing against your back. Pressure building beneath his skin. You feel the tension in him — the way his muscles shift, the way he tenses in response.
“That’s it,” he grinds out, fingers speeding up just enough. “You like that?”
Your answer is an afterthought. You don’t speak, don’t need to. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the breath you try to take. All you can do is nod.
And you know you have no fucking right to know what he sounds like. How he tastes as your tongue wrestles his. Your head spinning too fast for you to think because he is everywhere, a heady mix of lust and need as you desperately try to chase the way he makes your blood race. It’s all so new. So fucking wanton. Needy. As if all the months of wanting have finally caught up to the moment, a wildfire that seems to burn all logic. You know this is wrong — but fuck you don’t care.
You know in a second, he’ll be pressing you against the granite and you’ll have to make a thousand apologies to whatever god may be listening.
But then he pushes a finger into you, and you only have one prayer on your tongue. “Oh, John.”
He exhales against you, a quiet growl that goes straight to your head. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s in a combat, and there’s something about the idea of being able to make him feel the same as he feels when he’s a man of war that makes fireworks light up behind your eyelids.
“Mm. She’s fucking tight.” He mutters as he curls his finger and presses deeper. You gasp, the sound swallowed between you. “This is what you needed, hm? Needed me to pin you down. Make you fucking feel.”
That— that’s exactly it. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror because yes. In the fractures he’d caused he’d found what you were too afraid to verbalize. And it makes you keen — the way it’s like he can rip out your soul and hold it in his hands. You know you can’t hide it in your gaze, the desperation that comes with that kind of dependency.
Of course.
“You. Mm. You always know just what I need.” You moan out, as teasing as possible, while your climax barrels closer.
And he relishes it. Every second. It’s obvious in the sharp inhale he takes, the way his pupils dilate until the blue in his eyes look like a halo in a sea of blackened lust. Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, caught between the pressure building inside you and the heat that seems to be coiling so tight you could implode.
He adds a second finger, and you have to grip onto the counter if you want to still find your feet.
“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“
You don’t know how you look, can’t bring yourself to face your reflection — but you know how it feels, the way the world is tipping like you’re on the deck of a ship, the way your stomach clenches and your nerves light like fire under your skin. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. You spent months running from him just to end up here. You realize now that he’s always been a step ahead in a way you can’t understand, and you know you’re playing a game you won’t win.
“Let me feel it.” He purrs against your ear, fingers pumping. “Let it happen.”
You moan loud at that, clenching around his fingers because it already is happening. The pleasure is hot and blinding.
“Ohgod—“ your voice breaks between words, your head falling back against of his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m—“
He knows. The heat building in your gut so bright it seeps through your skin. So, he dips his other hand back beneath your shirt, palming your breast and you know it’s to make you fall even harder — and christ, he manages it. You erupt, climax hitting you like a train.
The bliss is blinding, and you want to scream — but can’t because his mouth is on yours, capturing every strangled gasp you give as you try to catch your breath. You’re trembling, legs shaking, your body trying to find some sort of ground as you gasp for breath — but then he’s pulling his hand out and sliding off to one side. You feel empty. Breathless. You think, in some dim place in your mind, that you should feel embarrassed now, but you’re too distracted to care. As your breathing returns, you can hear him sucking on his fingers.
Tasting you.
You can barely stand it, the noise curling through the fog in your head. You hear a soft pop, and suddenly his hand is on your jaw, tilting you towards the mirror, and you finally look.
You think you almost look the same. You can almost pretend that that this is what it’s always been — something fleeting and nameless and reckless — but there’s a flush on your cheeks, a gloss in your eyes, that you can’t deny. In fact, the only thing that breaks you out of the fantasy is the way John’s eyes meet yours.
As if there was ever any mistaking what you would allow to happen here. You know, looking at him, that that the hunger in your gaze would always give away the truth. That he would always know how to read you.
“Reckless.” He mutters, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if it’s something he’d known all along. You watch his jaw clench, his fingers digging into your cheeks. It’s not angry — it’s something more. A possession. “You do not get to leave me.”
You’ve known this man for barely a year, and yet he understands something you cannot. Something different from all your previous CO’s. Something that goes deeper than protection of a superior. And for the first time, you realize you can’t hide—not from him, not from whatever this is.
“Is that an order?” You whisper. Smirking.
He leans in, the heat of him branding against your spine, and you feel his words before he speaks them, rough and low on your throat.
“An order,” he echoes, hands sliding down to your hips. “And a threat.”
Your breath stutters, head spinning too fast to think. This is dangerous — whatever this is. It’s like the two of you are careening off the edge of a mountain, barreling toward something irreversible. You should stop this. You should pull away.
“Mm.” Instead, you arch your back, pressing against him with a low, breathy hum. “Now who’s being reckless.”
“Mhm. Knew you’d like that,” he mutters, mouth dragging against your jaw. His hands are already working, tugging down your zipper. “Brat.”
You should hate that word. Before him, you would have even more so. But something about the way he says it makes you bite your lip.
“You want to be put in your place.” His hands are purposed. Tugging down your cargos, undoing his belt. “That it?”
“Depends.” Your breath hitches. “Where exactly is my place, Captain?”
“Right here.” He presses you forward, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. His other hand grips your hip, dragging you against him, the thick weight of his need sliding along the slick between your thighs. You swallow a moan. “Right underneath me, Sergeant.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your head is spinning too fast to think. Then, he’s pushing inside you, and you lose the last of your breath.
“Fuck.” Your eyes catch in the mirror, watching as he sinks in, stretching you wide, splitting you open. The breath punches from your lungs, knuckles strained where you brace against the counter. Your head falls back, and he groans — a low, guttural sound that ripples through you. “Price—“
His fingers press into your jaw, turning your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at me.”
You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.
Dark, blown-out pupils devour the blue of his irises. His chest heaves, the cords of his neck pulled tight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more wrecked, more devastating, than the way he looks at you now.
“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. His breath stutters. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”
You try. You really do. But fuck—
“Huge,” you gasp, tipping onto your toes for respite as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck—John—”
“Mhm. Don’t run—” his hand slides up your throat, fingers curling, just enough to make it dangerous. You gasp, pulse hammering against his palm. He knows. Of course he does. The way he knows everything about you. “You’ll get used to it.”
You’ll get used to it.
The words echo back at you. The same ones he murmured the first time you asked him if he’s always this persistent. If you could think, you’d laugh. But you can’t. Because now you know the answer. Yes, he is always this persistent. And no, you will never fucking get used to it.
Your moans have long since lost restraint, spilling from your lips in time with his thrusts, raw and wanton and so fucking desperate. He takes you like it’s not the first time, like he’s not far too big to be this deep — his grip bruising in the best way, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the fractures of yourself, a thousand pieces of you suspended midair, trembling on the verge of shattering. You’ve never been this close to the sun. And god, if it doesn’t feel like fire.
Then, he says your name.
Your name. Your real name.
And it’s like breaking the surface of water after nearly drowning—like oxygen flooding into starving lungs. It strips you raw, turns the world molten beneath you, sends you spiraling into release all over again, the pleasure so sharp it almost aches. His hand claps over your mouth, muffling your sob of a moan as your body locks up, trembling.
“Yeah. There we go. Let it all out f’me.” His voice is dark, rough with something that sends another sharp pulse between your legs. His hips slap against your ass, relentless. “I’ve fucking got you.”
And you know he does. In a way you don’t trust your breath or your bones. In a way that terrifies you just as much as it makes you need.
Your vision blurs, heat rippling through your limbs, but he—he is unmoving. Steady. Like steel. Like he can take you at your best and your worst. Like he could tame this thing between you, whatever reckless, nameless thing this is, and make it his.
“That’s right. You look at yourself,” he grunts, one hand digging into your hip, the other still clamped over your mouth. Your glassy eyes flick up to the mirror, catching his reflection behind you—pupils blackened, lips parted, gaze locked on you. “M’gonna dumb you out. Fuck you ’til you can’t walk, never mind run.”
Your nails scrape divots into the granite as he shoves you further over the counter, forcing you to take him deeper. A wrecked whimper slips through your teeth, body caught between overstimulation and desperate, eager want. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the slick drip down your thighs, soaking into your ruined cargos — you know he can feel it too.
“Shit.” He rasps, voice fraying. His hand leaves your mouth, slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding as his other moves. Fingers finding the mess between your legs, pressing slow circles over your swollen clit. “Tight little slut.”
Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”
“That’s it. Gimme another,” he mutters, rolling his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your vision blur. “C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can.”
It’s too much. The thick, hot drag of his dick with every punishing thrust — the rough slide of his fingers. The weight of his body pressing you into the counter like he’ll never let you go. You can’t think. Can’t breathe—
And then he growls your name again, deep and needing, and it sends you over with a broken sob, body writhing, mind slipping into static as you cum again, clenched so tight around him it makes him stutter.
His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so his lips brush your ear. “Good girl. Fucking perfect—”
You feel it when he loses himself. Through the fog of pure bliss. When his grip turns almost punishing, when his hips stutter, when the ragged groan tears through his throat. He grinds deep, burying himself to the hilt, body rigid as he groans and spills inside you with a choked curse.
And then, there’s stillness.
Both of you breathing uneven — more so him, heavy against the nape of your neck. And for a long moment, it’s just that. Just the sound of your bodies slowing, just the lingering thrum of pleasure untwisting from both of your bloodstreams.
Then, his fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough. Just to make sure you feel it.
“You ever pull some reckless shit like that again,” he mutters, voice raw, scraping against your ear, “you won’t be able to fucking talk when I’m done with you.”
Your breath stutters, thighs twitching at the promise in his tone.
“You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t run. Don’t put yourself into the fire just to fucking feel something.” His hand slides up, grips your jaw, tilts your head just enough so you can see him in the mirror — blue eyes all pupil, sharp jaw clenched. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I take care of what’s mine. No matter what.”
A slow, shuddering breath leaves you. He watches your lips part, watches the way your body reacts to his words. Then, his grip on your throat eases. A slow drag of his hands down your body, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you ruined under him.
“Understand me?” His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous.
You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”
He hums. Seemingly satisfied, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder.
