Summary: You're supposed to be at the opera with your friends but when a chance encounter lands you in Soldier Boy's arms you end up getting a lot more than you bargained for.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3408
Warnings: SMUT, Language
A/N: Requested by @emyackles. This one is pretty much just straight smut. Please let me know what you think.
You’d lost your damn mind. That was the only logical explanation for your current situation. The thought was fleeting as America’s hero, the original supe, the national treasure himself—Soldier Boy— drilled into you from behind on the balcony off the third floor of The Proscenium, a very fancy theatre where the sounds of the opera were currently drifting out to remind you of where you were supposed to be. Not on a balcony, getting fucked senseless by a man you’d just met forty minutes ago.
The evening had started so innocently. You had dressed in a beautiful purple silk gown, slipped on a pair of heels with gorgeous rhinestones that caught the light with each step. You felt glamorous. You never got to dress up like this and were looking forward to the Phantom of the Opera and your chance to see it at the best theater in the city.
You were with your friends and you had all gone out to dinner before the opera. The night was going well. And then halfway through the first act you slipped out to go to the restroom. That’s when you bumped into him, Soldier Boy. He was dressed in a tux and was easily the most handsome man you’d ever seen.
As you exited the ladies room, you caught his eye but neither of you had a chance to say anything as your heels slipped on the marble floor and you started to fall backwards. He was by your side quicker than seemed possible and he caught you in his big strong arms. Once he set you back upright, he allowed his hand to hover just behind the small of your back. “Careful, doll, these floors are dangerous in heels that high.”
You turned to face him fully. “Thank you. God, that was so embarrassing!” you said hiding your face in your hands. Then you slowly dropped them and looked up at him again. “But really, thank you. It would have been so much worse if you hadn’t caught me.”
He gave you a small smirk and you caught the mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a deep rumble from his chest. “Can I buy you a drink to drive off that embarrassment?” he asked.
You nodded, cheeks still flushed. You offered your name to him as he led you over to the bar and ordered you both drinks. As you walked away from the bar, you said, “I wasn’t expecting to be saved by Soldier Boy tonight.”
He let out a small chuckle. “You can call me Ben.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben.” You offered him a smile and thanked him for the drink. You gestured back to the main room vaguely. “I better get back to my friends,” you said as you started to turn away.
Ben reached out and grabbed your wrist, the touch was surprisingly light. “Actually, if you don’t have to go back so quickly, maybe we could take a quick walk. Finish our drinks.”
You hesitated for a fraction of a second, the sensation of his hand on your wrist sending a spark right down your spine. The music from the main hall, filtered through the heavy velvet drapes and reminded you that your friends were probably wondering where you’d vanished to. But looking up at Ben—at the sheer, devastating charm radiating from him in a perfectly tailored tuxedo—the opera suddenly felt incredibly tedious.
“A quick walk,” you agreed, your voice a little softer than intended. “Just until the drinks are gone.”
Ben’s smirk widened, that same roguish glint dancing in his eyes as he let go of your wrist and offered you his arm instead. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, the muscle beneath the expensive fabric feeling like solid granite. He didn’t lead you back toward the grand lobby or the bustling bar. Instead, he guided you down a quieter, dimly lit corridor lined with framed vintage playbills and polished mahogany.
“So, what brings a girl like you to a place like this?” Ben asked, his deep voice dropping an octave, low and conversational as you walked. “You look like you belong here more than the rest of the high-society phonies inside, I’ll give you that.”
The compliment made your cheeks warm all over again. “It’s a special occasion. I don’t usually get an excuse to wear silk and rhinestones. What about you? I didn’t think the opera was exactly your scene.”
Ben let out a low, rumbling chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s not. Trust me. Vought handles the PR, I just show up where they tell me to look pretty. Some charity gala attached to the opening night.” He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze heavy and deliberate as it swept down the length of your purple gown, making you feel entirely exposed in the best way possible. “Gotta admit, though... I’m suddenly real glad I didn’t skip it.”
You reached the end of the hall, where a heavy set of double doors led out to a secluded, private balcony overlooking the perfectly curated garden and winding paths but it wasn’t far from the main sidewalk and you could hear people out on the street. The night air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the stifling warmth of the crowded theater. Step by step, the music grew fainter, muffled by the thick glass behind you, replaced by the distant hum of traffic far below.
You walked over to the stone railing, the heels of your shoes clicking softly against the concrete. The city lights stretched out before you, a glittering expanse of gold and white.
“Wow,” you breathed, leaning against the cold stone, holding your drink with both hands. “It’s beautiful out here.”
“Yeah,” Ben said. But when you turned your head to look at him, he wasn’t looking at the skyline at all. He was standing right beside you, his drink already set down on a nearby ledge, his intense gaze fixed entirely on you. “Beautiful.”
The air between you instantly grew thick, charged with a sudden, heavy friction. The casual charm he’d been projecting in the hallway melted away, replaced by something much more predatory, much more deliberate. He stepped closer, crowding you against the railing until you could smell the rich blend of his expensive cologne and the sharp edge of bourbon on his breath.
“Ben...” your voice was a breathless whisper, the glass in your hand trembling slightly.
He didn’t say a word. He just reached out, his large, calloused hand sliding up the smooth silk of your waist, his thumb tracing a slow, burning line up your ribcage. The contrast of his rough palm against the delicate fabric made your breath hitch. He took the drink from your hand, setting it down next to his without ever breaking eye contact, before his hand returned to your hip, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you to him.
“You’re a distraction, doll,” he murmured, his face dropping closer to yours, his breath hot against your lips. “A real dangerous one.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs, the steady, heavy weight of his presence trapping you between the cold stone of the balcony railing and the solid heat of his chest. Every instinct told you this was moving too fast, that you were playing with fire, but the way he looked at you—like he wanted to tear the silk right off your body—made it impossible to think straight.
“Is that right?” you whispered, a sudden spark of defiance cutting through your nerves. You leaned back just an inch, tilting your chin up to look him dead in the eye. “And what do you usually do with dangerous distractions, Ben?”
A low, dark growl rattled in his throat, the sound incredibly intimate and entirely feral. “Usually, I get rid of them,” he murmured, his thumb pressing firmly into the dip of your waist. “But I think I’d rather keep this one around for a bit.”
Before you could reply, his hand moved from your waist to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair with a firm, possessive grip. He pulled you up to meet him as his mouth came down on yours.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was demanding, heavy with the taste of bourbon and a raw, unchecked power that left you completely breathless. You gasped against his lips, and he took immediate advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding past your teeth with an intoxicating, practiced heat. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped the back of your throat, completely lost to the crisp night air. Your hands, which had been resting uncertainly on his chest, clenched tightly into the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, holding on for dear life as the world spun around you.
Ben let out a muffled groan, his other hand sliding down to the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard line of his thighs through the layers of your gown, the sheer, overwhelming strength of him making your knees go weak. The rhinestones on your heels caught the faint city light as you shifted, trying to get closer, completely drunk on the sensation of being held by someone who could break you in half but was choosing, instead, to consume you.
When he finally broke the kiss, he didn't pull away far. He trailed his lips down the line of your jaw, his beard scraping pleasantly against your sensitive skin, before burying his face in the crook of your neck. He nipped at the soft flesh right above your collarbone, making you arch into him with a quiet gasp.
“God, you smell incredible,” he muttered, his voice rough and strained, completely stripped of that polished, PR-ready charm. His hands were moving lower now, bunching up the smooth, purple silk of your skirt, his large palms warm against the bare skin of your thighs. “Tell me to stop, doll. Tell me right now, because if you don’t, I’m not letting you back inside to those friends of yours.”
You looked past his shoulder, through the glass doors of the balcony. Far down the hall, the heavy velvet curtains seemed miles away, and the faint, muffled echo of the orchestra felt like a lifetime ago. You didn't want to go back. You didn't want the opera.
You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck, your fingers threading into his hair. “Don't stop,” you breathed against his ear, your heart racing. “Ben, please.”
He growled against your neck. He swiftly lifted you up and perched you on top of the smooth flat railing of the balcony. Ben lifted your dress again and bunched it up at your hips, throwing the excess over the railing and out of his way.
Slowly, trailing his fingers up your thighs with his eyes locked on yours, he sent a shiver through your entire body. He grinned at that and hooked his fingers into the straps of your panties. He pulled them down and you heard his breath catch; it was almost a little gasp.
Your eyes found his again, immediately wondering what was wrong.
“Thank Fucking Christ. Finally, a woman with a bush,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
Your face flushed again slightly and then you laughed at the absurdity of it. “Well, I’ve never gotten that reaction before.”
He raised to his full height and crashed his lips down on yours. The kiss was messy and full of heat. All tongue and fire. His hand slid down and tangled in your curls, slowly working down to your clit. Ben groaned into your mouth. He pulled back. “I need to taste you. You and your perfect bush.”
Before you could reply, he pulled you down off the railing and pressed you back against the cool, smooth stone. He dropped to his knees right there on the concrete, spread your legs with his hands and buried his face into your pussy. Ben’s beard brushing against your hair was a new sensation and it felt amazing. It sent an electric energy through your entire body.
You let out a whimper as he sucked on your clit a little rougher than you expected. Ben’s nose was buried in your soft curls as his tongue lapped at your entrance. He licked his way back up and groaned as he saw how you were so wet that your arousal clung to your pussy hair. He let out another feral grunt and latched back onto your clit. His intensity pulled an orgasm out of you before you even had the chance to feel it building. You covered your own mouth, head thrown back, trying not to draw attention from the street below as you fell apart, with his hands braced firmly on your thighs as they shook, barely holding you up.
As you came down Ben finally relented. He nuzzled his face into your bush one more time like it was his favorite thing on earth. He rose back to his feet, wiping your juices off of his beard and licking his fingers clean. “Fuck, sweetheart. You taste amazing. I fuckin’ knew it.”
“Ben, I need you. Please,” you begged, hands finding their way back into his hair. He kissed you again and you could taste yourself on his lips and tongue. You pulled one hand out of his hair and reached down to palm him through his pants. He let out a hiss against your lips.
Ben spun you around and undid his belt and yanked his pants down just enough to free himself. You felt the heavy weight of it hit your ass. He didn’t waste any time. He had you bent over the railing, dress flipped up and was driving into you like his life depended on it.
I really have lost my fucking mind. Fucking a stranger– No. Not just a stranger. Soldier Boy— on the balcony of a fancy theater. Anyone could look up and see us. Anyone could walk down that hall and find us. Fuuuuck, he feels soo good.
You lost your train of thought as another orgasm wracked your body. “Bennnn…” As you shattered beneath him, Ben continued his hard thrusts, hitting your g-spot over and over again, prolonging your pleasure. The moans falling from your lips now were unchecked and not muffled but you couldn’t seem to care. Ben definitely didn’t care. They only seemed to be making him more feral.
“Shit, you feel so good,” he grunted. Ben continued his ruthless pace, his hips snapping into yours like they knew them. Like you’d done this with him a thousand times and your bodies just knew each other. He didn’t question whether you could take it. He just took you. And that turned you on just as much as his tongue had.
Two more climaxes later and your abused, overstimulated pussy, clenched around him with aftershocks as he finally buried himself deep inside you and let go, spilling into you like you were his. Like he didn’t even have to ask. For some reason, that also sent an electric fire through your body.
After sex like that, you wished you were his.
Ben smoothed his hands over your back, pulling you back upright and against his chest as your dress fell back down into place. You were both taking in ragged breaths as he tucked himself back into his pants and turned you to face him.
Ben cupped your cheek with a heavy, steady hand, his thumb catching a stray tear of pure overstimulation that had slipped down your face. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving against yours, but the smug, thoroughly satisfied grin on his face told you he knew exactly what he’d just done to you.
“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice lower and rougher than before, completely stripped of the clean-cut hero persona. There was a genuine, grounded warmth in it now, a quiet intensity that made your heart skip a beat for an entirely different reason.
“Yeah,” you breathed, your voice shaking slightly as you reached up to rest your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid, powerful thud of his heartbeat. “Yeah, I’m good. More than good.”
Ben let out a soft, rumbling chuckle, leaning down to press a quick, firm kiss to your lips. It tasted faintly of salt, liquor, and the raw heat of the last forty minutes. “Damn right you are.” He stepped back just an inch to straighten the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, running a hand through his hair to fix the strands your fingers had completely disheveled. He looked back down at his pants, fastening his belt with practiced, casual ease, before looking down at his shoes. “Hold on a second.”
He dropped to one knee again, but this time it wasn’t to bury his face in your skirt. He reached down and picked up the lace-and-silk panties he’d stripped off you earlier, shaking them out before holding them up to you with a wink. “Don’t want to leave any evidence for the high-society phonies to find.”
Your face burned crimson as you took them from his hand, quickly slipping them into the small evening clutch you’d left sitting on the ledge next to your forgotten drinks. “Thank you,” you murmured, smoothing down the front of your purple silk gown, trying your best to look like a woman who hadn’t just been thoroughly taken against a stone railing.
Ben stood back up, adjusting his cuffs, looking every bit the pristine, untouchable national treasure Vought put on billboards—save for the slight flush on his neck and the dark, knowing look in his eyes. He picked up his glass, taking a final swig of the now watered down bourbon before setting it back down.
“Your friends are probably looking for you,” he said, though he didn’t make a move toward the door just yet. He stepped closer again, his fingers reaching out to gently tug at a stray curl of your hair, twisting it around his finger. “And as much as I’d love to take you back to my place right now and spend the rest of the night figuring out just how many times I can make you scream like that... Vought’s got me on a tight leash tonight. I gotta go back inside, shake some hands, and pretend I care about opera.”
The sudden reminder of reality hit you like a splash of cold water. The fantasy was fracturing, returning you to the world where he was a living god on television and you were just a girl who’d slipped on a marble floor. A heavy weight settled in your chest, a sharp, sudden ache of wanting something you knew you shouldn’t.
“Right,” you said, forcing a small, polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Duty calls. Thank you for the... drink, Ben.”
You started to turn toward the double doors, your rhinestone heels suddenly feeling a little less stable than they had forty minutes ago, but Ben’s hand shot out, his grip wrapping firmly around your wrist once more. It wasn’t a painful hold, but it was unyielding. Absolute.
You stopped, looking back over your shoulder at him.
Ben wasn’t smirking anymore. His expression had turned serious, his jaw set as his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that pinned you to the spot. “Hey. Look at me,” he commanded softly.
You turned your body back to face him fully.
“I don’t know what kind of guys you’re used to, doll, but I don’t just walk away from something like this. Like you,” Ben said, his voice dropping into that deep, authoritative rumble. He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a sleek, heavy silver pen, and grabbed a paper coaster from the ledge. He scribbled a row of numbers across the back in a bold, jagged script, then pressed the cardboard firmly into your palm, folding your fingers over it.
“That’s my private line. Not Vought. Not my handler. Me,” he said, his thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles. He leaned in close, his breath brushing your ear one last time, sending a final, lingering shiver down your spine. “You call me tomorrow. If you don’t, I’ll find you. And trust me, sweetheart... I’m real good at finding things I want to keep.”
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