Imagine trying to have a normal Halloween party but all of your guests are REAL monsters that are horny as FUCK.
You see a fairy prince rubbing his bulge as you walk by, some werewolves eyeing your hips with each step, and you swear those “fake” vampire teeth just got longer as if getting ready to sink into your neck-
You’ve gotta stop having open invite parties unless you’re ready to feel tentacles and knots stretching you out.
Humans are cute, and you’re a particularly intriguing snack to monsterkind. With those plump hips and soft tummy, they’re about ready to tackle you and get to making babies.
A few drinks in and your giggling as a bottle spins. You end up in a closet with something you can’t quite comprehend and leave with your panties soaked with viscous black fluid and mind numb.
Some pretty vampire boys take turns kissing you, their cold fingers traveling down your body. It’s only later that you realize they’ve begun drinking from your neck, you’re too buzzed to even notice the pain.
Your pussy gets played with by an incubus who doesn’t even try to hide his flicking tail. Not like you’d notice anyways, you’re too focused on the feeling of his tongue swirling your clit.
Several cocks enter you that night, some slimy and long, others short at first before growing longer and thicker once they cum. By the end of your night they’ve all left some sort of claim on you, and you’ll be visited by different monster suitors until you pick which one to mate with.
You’ve got the sight after all, even if you’re not aware of it yet, and monsters prefer a human that came see them when they’re plowing into them.
Hopefully next time you’ll actually realize you’re getting pounded by actual monster cock, though.
𝜗℘ ˖ ࣪ . ˖˙ sneaky link!toji realising he's in love mid fūck :: cws. smut, pwp, cowgirl.
“shit baby, look at’cha,” toji sighs as his eyes follow your movements on his cock. you’re hypnotising him with the way you’re bouncing on his thighs, the mixture of cum on his lap making the sounds of your thrusts extremely loud and sloppy.
his big hands rest on your hips and then move up to your waist. toji’s always loved touching your body whenever he could while he has you in his bed. “c’mooon, let me see those pretty eyes.”
you’re moaning at the sound of those praises leaving toji’s lips. he does it subconsciously—telling you how beautiful you look whenever you take his fat cock. or how gorgeous you are and sound whenever he’s eating you out.
he brushes the hair out of your face, instinctively wanting to admire you. toji doesn’t realise it—everything he says and does comes so naturally to him. he was never like this with the other women he’s slept with.
“fffmgh, toji,” your noises are what drive him to keep going. toji hates how you have him wrapped around your finger. he’s a sucker for anything you do. and don’t get him started on the amount of times he nearly came into his pants from just the thought of your pretty face underneath him.
perhaps that is what people call love, toji shakes the thought away and focuses on fucking you properly. he grips your hips and lifts them up so he could thrust upwards into you, not wanting to think of such silly things anymore. foolish, there’s no way a man like him can ever love again.
he’s doing this for his own pleasure. not yours.
“toooji, c-can i cum, please? mhh, need’to,”
and yet, here he is, working hard to please you. to hear more of those moans in the shape of his name. to have you come undone in his arms in the most endearing way possible.
your enjoyment is what brings him pleasure. all toji needs is to see your eyes roll back once he sends you over the edge and he’s spilling everything he has inside of you.
toji closes his eyes and tries to drown out the thoughts. he chases after that high, wanting to fill you with his cum for the nth time that night, “not yet, princess. let’s cum together, m’kay?”
those are—once again—words he’s never uttered to any other woman before during sex.
"Toru—oh my god—baby, slow down." Your whines were music to Gojo's ears—with your fingers tugging tautly on his messy white locks. "You have to slow down."
Gojo hummed against your clit, glazed eyes meeting yours as his fingers squeezed your thighs. "Not happening, honey," he purred, pulling back to show off the glistening slick on his chin. "You taste too good."
He pressed a sloppy kiss over your trembling clit before pressing the flat of his tongue over your slit to leave a torturously slow lick.
"Oh! Nonono," your thighs closed around his head instinctively with a choked moan, tugging once more on his hair. "Don't do that."
"But baby!" He crooned, tearing off from you, jutting his lip out in displeasure. "You taste like heaven." Gojo grinned at the blush scattered across your cheeks. "You don't really want me to stop... do ya'?"
It took everything in you to keep your voice steady as you admitted, "No." You didn't want him to stop.
That's all it took; the glint in his eye was maddening as Gojo latched his lips back onto your swollen clit, sucking slowly.
He kept his eyes trained on how your expression twisted in pleasure—rubbing your thighs softly as he groaned at the taste.
"Oh damn it." You mewled out, jerking a hand to cover your mouth as Gojo teasingly went in circles around your clit, laughing softly at the flustered state he had you in.
He choked momentarily as your hand shoved him deeper into you; the squelch from wet-on-wet skin had his hips rutting down against the mattress with a muffled "Baby" as your hips arched into his mouth, chasing the vibrations his voice brought.
"How is your jaw not sore?" You hissed out, hips bucking helplessly, fingers tangling down to Satoru's scalp as tears began to prick the corners of your eyes.
The coiling heat burrowing itself low in your stomach felt like it was going to snap any second.
"I don't pay any attention." He pulled back, just enough to tease your clit with the tip of his tongue. "Why, honey, want me to stop, ice my jaw & finish later, hmm?"
The sentence barely made it to your ears before your hand tugged him back down, flush into your soaked pussy; he groaned lowly before getting back to work.
It felt like he was making out with your cunt—lips, tongue, nose, and everything pressing perfectly into your sinful flesh as he feverishly lapped at your slit.
His own sobbing moans escaped with each sweep of his tongue, fingers tugging your thighs tighter around his ears.
He trailed one hand down the back of your thigh with a cruel slowness, shifting just enough that he hissed against your aching clit in sync with his neglected cock rubbing the mattress.
"Hey, hey," you whimpered, thighs clenching tightly around him. "Careful."
"M'sorry, honey." He cooed, slowly sliding two of his sweet, sweet fingers around your entrance before sinking them inside you. "Does that make you feel better?"
"Mm-hmm," you purred, tugging his hair softly, Gojo's fingers slowly sinking deeper into your pulsating cunt with a needy groan as he slurped over your clit once more.
He could feel how your body trembled: shaky thighs, hips struggling to stay against your mattress, and fingers toying with his hair; hell, even the sinful noises that bubbled out of your mouth were a show of how close you were.
Every last detail was driving him mad as he began scissoring you open; his thick fingers were doing God's work to please you, & you both knew it.
With a final teasing kiss to your clit, he pulled back. "C'mon, baby, I've got you; it's alright." His fingers curled almost perfectly, grinning as your hips bucked up. "There you go, c'mon."
Gojo darted his tongue out to lick the sweet slick off his lips with a sharp flick of the wrist—white-hot pleasure ripping through you as your hips bucked off the bed.
The evidence of your orgasm soaking Gojo's face & arm—and your poor satin sheets—as he let out a laugh of pure glee.
What a fucking sight.
"Well... good mornin' to you too, princess." He rasped, pressing rapid, teasing kisses to your knee—his free hand rubbing softly against your shaking skin.
"Baby, I see stars. You're evil." You whimpered, thighs trembling as he slowly pulled his fingers free, slowly slipping his tongue between them to lick off your juices. "Nonono, Satoru, that's gross."
"Bullshit." He purred, leaning down to kiss up your stomach slowly. "I'll have you know, that both my meal—" He paused to press chaste kisses up your breastbone, stopping only once he reached your collarbones. "—and my pretty girl are absolutely delectable."
He burrowed his face into the crook of your neck with a near-silent hum.
"You're such a prick," you groaned, curling a hand to latch onto his hair again, grudgingly scratching his scalp. "And sticky."
"You're still okay, right?" Gojo whispered, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his fingers trailing up & down your sides in an attempt to soothe.
"Yes. I'm fine, you idiot." You grumbled out, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his temple & subtly adjusted your hips under his. "Give me a minute?" Your free hand tangled into the back of his shirt. "Just… just lie with me though."
"Yes, ma'am, I've got you." He assured, pressing a quick kiss to your neck. "Just breathe, baby."
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : rewrote my first Gojo smut fic to celebrate 10k. original.
"I-it was a letter, Kuna!" you moaned into the pillows. Your voice was muffled under the pressure of his hand keeping you still.
"Seduction, no less, I-I have duties that you cannot seem to let me attend to." He grumbled, soft groans slipping through his pursed lips.
You couldn't help that he got turned on by your handwriting! It kind of concerned you the lengths and distances he would go.
The parchment lay crumpled beside your head, ink bleeding into the silk sheets where his clawed thumb had pressed too hard, too eager.
Your penmanship, loops and swirls of diplomatic correspondence, had done this. Had summoned him from his throne, from the matters of curses and domains and territories he claimed to prioritize over you.
His lower hands gripped the meat of your hips, fingers dimpling the flesh hard enough to bruise. The upper set bracketed your shoulders, one palm flattening against the back of your skull, the other splayed across your spine, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
"You think I cannot read between the lines, woman?" His voice rumbled through his chest, through the floor, through you. "The way you dot your i's. The curve of your p's. Practically begging."
What the fuck is he talking about? You thought momentarily.
You tried to shake your head, to protest, but he pressed down harder, your cheek grinding against the ruined letter. The ink smeared, your words becoming illegible. ‘Your Excellency, the eastern territories require-’
His cocks pressed against you, both of them. The weight of them settled against the cleft of your ass, the slick heat of your cunt, and you could feel every throbbing inch, every ridged vein. He hadn't even entered you yet, and already your thighs were trembling.
"The last time you wrote to me," he continued, his voice dropping into something darker, something that made your stomach clench, "you signed it with such care. Such precision."
His hips rolled, the heavy shafts dragging against your wetness, coating themselves in the arousal that had started the moment you heard his footsteps. "I kept it. Did you know that? Between the pages of texts even I shouldn't possess."
The thought of him sitting in his private chambers, reviewing your neat, proper handwriting with those crimson eyes, touching the paper the way he touched you. "You are strange," you breathed, and the words came out wrong. Came out worshipful.
His laugh was low, mean, the sound vibrating through the stomach-mouth that pressed against your lower back. That mouth's tongue-forked, hungry-licked a wet stripe up your spine, tasting your salt, your fear, your desperate want.
"My ‘strangeness’ you seem to enjoy," he agreed, and there was no shame in his voice.
The first cock nudged against your entrance, the blunt head spreading you open, and you gasped, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets. He didn't push in.
He waited, letting you feel the threat of it. His pink hair had fallen across his brow, sweat already beginning to darken the strands. His eyes were half-lidded, blown wide with lust, the red irises nearly swallowed by black.
"You want to know what I did with your letter, little scribe?"
"I-" Your voice cracked when he shifted, the head of his cock catching against your clit, sliding through your folds with deliberate cruelty. "What did you do?" His grin split wider, and his hips snapped forward. The first cock buried itself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, and your scream was swallowed by the pillows, by his hand, by the sheer size of him stretching you open.
Your vision whited out, stars bursting behind your eyelids as your body fought to accommodate him. He was too big. He was always too big, and you would never get used to it, would never stop feeling like a vessel being filled beyond capacity.
"Touched myself with it," he growled against your ear, his breath hot, his chest pressing against your back. The second cock nestled against the first, pressing against your stretched rim, threatening to join it.
"Wrapped that pretty letter around my cock and imagined it was your throat. Your cunt. Your hand." You moaned, long and broken, and he laughed again, cruel and delighted.
"Got it all wet. Ruined your neat little words. Couldn't even read the damn thing after, just a mess of ink.” He thrust, shallow and sharp, making you jolt.
His lower hands slid up your sides, claws dragging against your ribs, not breaking skin but promising they could. The upper hands returned to their positions, one on your head, one on your spine.
He pulled out until only the tip remained, letting your body clutch at him, desperate to keep him inside, then slammed back in with enough force to shove you up the bed. Your knees slid against the silk, your nails tore at the fabric.
"Count," he ordered, and the word was ragged, his composure beginning to crack.
"What?" His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arched, until you could see the ceiling, the shadows, the madness in his eyes.
"Every letter. Every word you used to tempt me." His hips snapped harder, faster, the second cock now pressing against your entrance, the pressure building, building, building. "I want to hear you apologize for each one."
"I wasn't-"
"One," he commanded, and his second cock pushed in. Your body seized. Your mind went blank. The stretch was unimaginable, two of him filling you, splitting you, rearranging your insides until you weren't sure where he ended, and you began. The burn was fire, was pleasure, was pain, was everything all at once, and you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, all you could do was feel. "Say it."
"One," you sobbed, and he rewarded you with a thrust that made your toes curl.
"Good girl. Next word. The first one that made me hard."
"T-Territories," you gasped, because that was the first word you could recall, the one that started it all.
His laugh was dark, approving. "Territories. Yes. You wanted to discuss territories with me." He punctuated the word with a thrust that made your eyes roll back. “As if,” he scoffed. The hand in your hair released you, and you slumped forward, gasping, only to feel his palm come down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap.
The sound echoed through the chambers, mixing with your cry, with the wet slap of his hips against your skin. "Keep going."
"E-Eastern," you managed, your voice breaking.
"Eastern territories." Another slap, harder this time, and you could feel the heat blooming across your skin, the imprint of his hand spreading like a brand onto your flesh.
His pace grew brutal, insane, the bed shaking beneath you, the headboard cracking against the wall. He was lost in it now, in you, all pretense of control dissolving into pure, animal need. His claws dug into your hips, his teeth grazed your shoulder, and the mouth on his stomach pressed open-mouthed kisses against your back, tasting every inch of skin it could reach.
"R-Respectfully-" you tried, and he laughed so hard his rhythm stuttered.
"That's it. That's the sound I kept your letter for." His voice was ragged now, his hips pistoning, his skin slapping against yours with a rhythm that bordered on violence.
Your climax was building, a wave so high you couldn't see the top, couldn't breathe for the pressure of it. He felt it too. The way your cunt was squeezing him, milking him, trying to pull him deeper, trying to keep him forever.
"Cum," he ordered, and his voice was absolute, was law. "Cum on my cocks and show me what you wrote that letter for."
The orgasm ripped through you like a blade, like fire, like every nerve in your body igniting at once. Your back arched, your mouth opened in a silent scream, and your cunt clamped down on him so hard he groaned, long and deep, his rhythm faltering as you pulsed around him, as your slick gushed down his shafts, as you painted him with the proof of your pleasure.
Your body was still spasming when he pushed through it, still shaking when he fucked you through the aftershocks, still gasping when he finally, finally let himself go.
His hips slammed into you one last time, burying both cocks to the hilt, and you felt him pulse inside you, felt the hot flood of his release fill you, spill out of you, drip down your thighs in thick, white ropes.
He came for what felt like minutes, his body shuddering against yours, his arms tightening until you couldn't move. You let your body slump against the sheets; you know you will be here for a while.
CHOSO ♡ KAMO
"Hello everyone! Welcome back to the stream." You greeted your camera, adjusted to an unfamiliar angle in an unfamiliar room. Choso's fingers hovered over his keyboard to ask where you were, even if he knew. He couldn't let his top commenter spot go.
The chat exploded with greetings and comments about the unexpected stream. You're usually strict on your schedule, and multiple streams in one week were rare.
T3_Sahur: ur better than El Cinco
Yuki Supremacy: Haii!! Can you please play the new update of the last stream's game????
SixSevenEyes: {@T3_Sahur} ur taking it too far, el cinco tops
"Okay, okay! No game today, just wanted to talk." You interacted with chat for a bit. Usually, Choso was the first to comment and get noticed by you, but his hands were busy stroking his cock to your voice. He had missed it since he last saw you. Begging for you to take him to New York with you, it was only for a day, but the thought of you being so far away for so long was too much on his heart, and the dwindling supply of lotion.
He double-clicked his mouse, zooming in on your face. The comments were distracting, and instead of saying their usernames and repeating comments, he wished you'd say his name. Call out to him, touch him, tell him what to do next.
His hands were nothing like yours, so soft and pretty. He imagined yours instead of his, stroking his cock, bringing him closer to the edge. Grabbing his phone from off the ledge, he took a picture of cock. The notification sounded through the screen. Picking up your phone, your eyes widened suddenly. Quickly looking up at your monitor, making sure the audience could not see the obscene picture Choso had sent.
Under the photo, he typed impatiently, 'Say my name plzz.'
Your hand darts out, phone face down on the desk before anyone can see. The motion is too quick.
KenjakuFanAccount: oop what was that
lovesick_angel: did ur phone scare u LOL
RamenKing55: sus
You laugh it off, the sound tight in your throat. "Sorry, sorry. Just the notification scared me. You know how it is."
Your fingers itch to pick the phone back up, to look at the picture again, his thick cock, pink at the tip, wetness beading at the slit, his hand wrapped around the base with those silver rings glinting.
Three dots. He's typing.
Choso: i miss u so much it hurts
Choso: ur so pretty on camera
Choso: please say it
"Um—" Your voice cracks. You grab your water bottle, take a long sip, and let the cool liquid ground you. "No, I haven't been there," you hummed. Picking up your phone, pretending to look up the restaurant. Instead of a Google search, it was different angles of your boyfriend's cock begging for you.
"Choso would love it there."
He moaned into your panties, taking them from the laundry. He needed you on him, and this was the closest he was going to get to smelling your sweet pussy. His tongue lapped up the gusset, tasting the leftover fluids on his tongue.
His hips buck into his fist at the sound of his name falling from your lips. Choso. The way you said his name could make him cum in his pants, no matter how many times you've said it.
He wished you weren't currently sitting in a hotel room thousands of miles away while he was suffocating himself in your worn panties, cock leaking all over his stomach.
The screen blurs for a moment as his eyes roll back. He blinks rapidly, forcing himself to focus on your face.
His phone buzzes again, but he doesn't pick it up. Can't. Both hands are occupied now—one fisting his cock, the other pressing your panties to his face so hard the elastic digs into his cheeks. He inhales deep, greedy, like a man drowning. The scent of you floods his lungs, settles in his chest, makes his head spin.
On screen, you're talking about something. The restaurant. Some place he's never heard of, some place you went without him. The thought makes something dark curl in his gut. His grip tightens, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, spreading pre-cum down the shaft. He should be there. He should be in you, not jerking off to your voice.
"I think he'd order the spiciest thing on the menu," you're saying, and your voice has gone softer now, more distracted. Your eyes flick down to your phone, then away. "He's like that. Can't help himself. Always to the extreme."
Choso whines, the sound muffled by the cotton pressed against his mouth.
The chat scrolls faster.
AppleBottomJeans: who's choeso???
RamenKing55: {@AppleBottomJeans} her bf bro catch up
SixSevenEyes: El cinco better
He wants to comment. Wants to type something, anything, just to see his name in the chat, to have you read it aloud in your voice that makes his balls draw up tight.
"Anyway," you say suddenly, sitting up straighter. The movement makes your shirt— his shirt, he realizes with a jolt that has pre-cum dripping down his knuckles, rides up, showing a strip of skin he wants to sink his teeth into.
His free hand leaves his cock, grabbing his phone with shaking fingers. The screen is slick with pre-cum, but he doesn't care. He opens the camera, angles it down, takes a picture of his flushed cock, the veins standing out, the way his balls are drawn up tight and aching.
He doesn't type anything this time. Just sends it. Watches your face as your phone buzzes again.
You don't pick it up immediately this time. You keep talking, something about the trip, about the project, about the schedule. But your eyes keep darting to the phone. Your leg is bouncing under the desk. Your chest is rising and falling a little faster than it should be.
Please, he thinks, gripping his cock again, stroking slowly and deliberately. He begs you to pick it up. Look at it. Think about him inside you, filling you up.
The phone buzzes again. And again. He's sent three more photos now, each one filthier than the last. Finally, you pick it up.
Your eyes widen. Your throat works as you swallow. And Choso watches, hypnotized, as your thighs press together under the desk. "Sorry," you say, and your voice is rough now, strained. "Just someone keeps texting me. It's distracting."
You laugh, but it's hollow. "It's not important."
Choso's hand stills. He's typing before he can stop himself, thumbs flying across the screen.
Choso: no one important???
Choso: i made u cum three times before i left
Choso: remember? u were crying so pretty on my cock
Your phone buzzes five times in quick succession. You don't pick it up. You keep talking, keep pretending, but your hand is trembling where it rests on the desk.
His cock aches. Fist fucking his cock vigorously. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he comes. Bringing the fabric from his face, he presses it to the tip of his cock, soaking the fabric in his cum. He sends another picture. This one is your panties stretched over his cock, the fabric dark and wet.
"I have to go," you say suddenly, and your voice cracks on the last word. "Stream's over. I'll schedule something for next week. Bye."
The screen goes black. A few moments later, a message pops up. Pink panties, the gusset soaked in your juices. 'Just wait till I get home.'
He knows you intended it as a warning, but it only made his cock grow harder.
TOJI ♡ FUSHIGURO
Toji rarely checked his phone during a job; however, boredom was taking over. His hands fiddling with the earpiece readily in his ear. The vibration of his phone in his deep pockets was an escape from the stakeout.
Three full days of torture, not only had he not left the truck, but he didnt even get to see his sweet wife. If it weren't for the payout, he would never take jobs like these. Green eyes narrow against the glare, expecting another useless update from the client.
Instead, his thumb hovers. A message from you. A picture. He clicks it before he can think. It's a mirror shot.
Your phone is angled just so, a big black shirt hanging off your skin. A loose hand pulling at the collar, a bit of cleavage peaking through the material. The bathroom light catches the sheen of what looks like oil on your skin, highlighting the plush swell of your thigh. Your lips are visible in the reflection, parted slightly.
Toji's jaw tightens. His cock, already half-hard from days of nothing but monotony, was pulsing against his thigh. He can almost feel the warmth of your skin under his palms, the way you'd arch into him if he pressed you against the cool bathroom mirror.
A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest. His grip on the phone tightens until the plastic creaks. He can practically hear the wet, slick sounds his fingers could make, can picture the way your lips would part, the little breathy gasps you'd let out accompanied by his name.
He doesn't think. He hits the call button. It rings once. Twice. His patience, already a frayed wire, snaps.
"Pick up," he growls to the empty truck, his voice a gravelly rasp.
On the third ring, there's a click, and then your voice.
“Toji?"
"Nah," he cuts off, his voice low. "Don't just send me shut like that and play it cool." His own hand drops from the phone, palming the heavy, aching length of his cock through his cargo pants. The coarse material rubs against the sensitive head, and he has to bite back a groan.
"My day was great, thank you," you scoffed, "I can't miss you?" he could hear the faint sound of water running and turning off.
"I missed you too," he grunts, finally giving in and unzipping his pants. He's thick, heavy in his own hand, the skin hot. He wraps his fingers around the base, giving a slow, tight stroke. "Talk to me, baby. What are you doing?"
“Just got out of the shower, might watch a movie,” you hummed, voice soft against the microphone. The sound of a drawer sliding open, the soft jostle of fabric.
"Don't," he says, "Don't put anything on yet."
"What?"
"The movie. Keep talking to me," he rasps, working his fist up his shaft, pre-cum beading at the tip. "Haven't heard your voice in ages."
There's a pause, the soft pad of bare feet against tile. Then the whisper of fabric, the rustle of cotton sliding over skin. He can picture the shirt falling against your thighs, the way the worn material would cling to the curve of your breasts. “It's been three days, Toji,” you chuckled softly.
“That's a long time,” he groaned. The sound of your soft laugh crackles through the speaker, and he swears he can feel it against his neck. He fists himself tighter, slower, the way you like it when he's being mean.
"A long time," you echo, voice low. "You sound busy."
"Just sittin' in a truck," he grits out, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. The movement makes his hips jerk, a barely restrained snap of muscle. "B-bored out my fuckin' mind."
"Bored?" The word lilts up at the end, and he hears the soft creak of the bed. The one he should be in right now should be pressed against you, not sitting in some stale truck. "Or lonely?"
"Both," he growls, and he can hear the edge in his own voice. The one that usually makes you shiver, makes you press your thighs together. "Miss you. Miss watchin' you fall apart on my cock."
A sharp exhale from your end. The rustle of sheets.
He closes his eyes and sees it: you sprawled across their bed, that black shirt riding up your thighs, your hand drifting down. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he breathes, working his length in firm, practiced strokes. His forearm flexes, veins standing out against scarred skin. "You touchin' yourself right now, baby? Got that hand between your legs?"
"Maybe," you whisper, and he can hear the smile in your voice.
His grip tightens. "Don't play with me."
"I'm not playing," you purred, and the hitch in your breath tells him everything. Your fingers are doing exactly what he'd be doing if he were there. Circling slowly. Teasing. "Just...thinking about you."
"Sure." His strokes get rougher, the wet sounds of his fist working his cock filling the truck. “What're you thinkin' about, sweetheart? How I'd have you bent over that sink? How would I pull that wet hair back and make you watch yourself in the mirror while I fuck you slowly?"
Your breath stutters. "Toji.”
"That's right," he grunts, voice dropping lower, meaner. "Want you spread open on my cock, just how you like it.”
"Yes," you gasp, and he knows you're not just playing along. He knows that breathy little sound, the way it cracks in the middle. Your fingers are buried inside yourself right now, curling just right. "Wish you were here.”
"Missed you," you whimper, and he hears the wet sounds of your fingers moving faster, faster. "Missed your cock. Missed how full you make me."
"I'll be back soon," he promises, voice ragged. He's pumping his fist in rhythm with the sounds coming through the phone, the slick slide of your fingers, your desperate little gasps. "Gonna fill this pussy up so good. Gonna fuck you 'til you can't walk straight."
"You better," you gasp. "Please, Toji, I'm-"
"I know," he cuts you off, his own release coiling hot and tight at the base of his spine. "Let me hear it. Wanna hear you come for me."
Your soft moans echo through the speaker, and it sends him over. He comes with a guttural sound, thick ropes of it spilling over his knuckles, hitting the steering wheel, his thigh.
His hips jerk through it, muscles locked tight, eyes screwed shut as he pictures your face, your slick fingers, the way your thighs would shake against his hips.
"Who taught you to talk like that?” you questioned, a yawn escaping your lips.
"Don't worry about it." He glances down at the mess on his hand, the streak of white across his cargo pants. You snicked through the phone. "Clean yourself up, sweetheart. Don't want you fallin' asleep all sticky."
A soft laugh. "Sure."
The line clicks, and he's left in the dark again, the truck's stale air pressing in. But his skin is still humming, your voice still ringing in his ears. He looks at the picture one more time before he swipes it closed, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
A voice comes through his ear, “Fushiguro. Heres a small reminder. I can hear you in the fucking truck. With the earpiece in your ear,” Shiu’s voice laced with anger. It took everything in Toji not to laugh.
“Next time, take it off!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hope you enjoyed the show.”
SUGURU ♡ GETO
The phone buzzes against the polished wood of the altar.
Suguru doesn’t look at it immediately. His fingers are steepled beneath his chin, dark eyes half-lidded as he listens to the droning supplication of a new follower, some desperate woman with trembling hands and a story about curses that he’s already forgotten.
The phone buzzes again.
He exhales slowly through his nose, patience thinning. His long fingers slide across the altar’s surface, retrieving the device with a languid grace that makes the woman’s voice falter mid-sentence. She watches him, wide-eyed.
The screen glows.
His thumb stills over the image, veins in his hand tightening as he registers what exactly he’s looking at. The new robes. The ones he had tailored for you personally, silk that cost more than these monkeys' monthly offerings. But you’ve adjusted them. The obi sits too low on your hips, loosened. The collar hangs open, exposing the slope of your shoulder, the pale column of your throat, the shadowed valley between your breasts where the fabric pools like spilled wine.
Miss you.
Suguru’s jaw ticks. His tongue runs along the inside of his teeth.
He looks up at the woman kneeling before him, her mouth still moving around words he no longer hears.
“We’ll continue this another time,” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his voice. The woman scrambles to her feet, bowing so low her forehead nearly touches the tatami.
He doesn’t watch her go. His attention has already returned to the phone, thumb dragging across the screen to pull the image up again.
He waits until the shoji screen slides shut, until the footsteps fade down the corridor. It rings once before you pick up. He hears the breath you let out, the way it shudders at the edges.
“Suguru.”
He leans back in his seat, the carved wood digging into his spine, and lets his voice drop to that register he knows makes your thighs press together. “Texting me in the middle of my work.”
“You said you liked the robes.” Your voice is light, “I wanted to show you how they fit.”
“Is that what you were doing?” His fingers trace the screen again, tracing the shape of your hip through the silk. “Looked to me like you were doing something else.”
He hears the soft exhale of your laugh, the rustle of fabric. He imagines you shifting where you’re sitting— probably his bed, he thinks.
“I was thinking about you,” you say.
“Yeah?” His thumb presses the speaker icon, sets the phone down on the altar beside him. The image stays up, bathing the dark wood in soft light. “Tell me exactly what you were thinking.”
“I was thinking,” you start, and your voice has dropped, gone husky in that way that makes his cock twitch against his thigh, “about the last time you had me in these. How you said the purple made my skin look…”
He remembers dragging the silk up your thighs, bunching it around your waist. You’d gasped when he pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee, your hip, the soft swell of your belly. He’d worked his way up slowly until you were trembling apart beneath him.
“I remember,” he says quietly.
“Suguru.”
“Did you get the robes wet, sweetheart? After you took that picture?” His hand moves without thinking, palm pressing against the front of his trousers. “Tell me.”
There’s a moment of silence, and then the unmistakable sound of fabric shifting. You’re moving, he realizes. Settling back against something. He can picture you perfectly, hair spread across his pillows, one hand still holding the phone, the other drifting down your stomach.
“Yes,” you breathe.
“Continue,”
“I thought…” Another rustle. Your voice goes tighter. “I thought you might tell me to touch myself. Since you’re not here to do it.”
Suguru’s eyes close. His thumb circles the head of his cock through the fabric, pressure just shy of enough. He can feel himself hardening fully now, pressing against the confines of his robes.
“Put the phone down,” he ordered. “Prop it up. I want to see you.”
He hears the clatter of the device being set against something. He picks his phone back up, switches to video.
You’re sprawled across his bed like an offering, the robes still half-on, half-off, the silk bunched around your hips in dark purple waves. One of your hands is pressed flat against your stomach, fingers just grazing the waistband of the robes. The other is beside your head, fingers curled into the sheets.
“There you are,” he purrs, watching you shiver at the sound of his voice. “Look at you. Gorgeous.”
“Come home,” you whisper, voice begging for him and his attention.
“Soon.” He traces your shape on the screen, wishing it were skin. “You know I would if I could. But I’ve got business to finish here.”
“More important than me?”
The question is teasing, but there’s an edge to it. He knows this game. “We have a mission.” He undoes the ties of his robes, letting them fall open. Watches your eyes go wide and dark on the screen. “But you’re the one who sent me that picture in the middle of my meeting. So you can wait a little longer, can’t you?”
You swallow. “How long?” There's a hint of disappointment underneath your tone.
“Patience, love, patience.” His hand wraps around his cock, gives it a slow, deliberate stroke. “Now. Show me what you were doing before I called.” Your thighs press together, but your hand slides lower, fingers hooking into the silk. You push the fabric aside, bare and wet, the folds of your cunt glistening in the dim light.
“That’s it.” His voice has gone rough, thumb swiping over his tip, collecting leaking pre-cum. Your fingers slide through your slick, spreading it, and a sound escapes your throat that he feels in his own. His hand moves faster, matching the rhythm you’re starting to build.
The room is silent except for the wet sounds of you touching yourself, the soft hitch of your breath, the occasional groan he lets slip.
“Wish that was me,” he says, watching your fingers circle your clit. “Wish I were there. I’d spread you open on this cock so slow you’d feel every inch. Make you beg for it.”
“Sugu-” Your voice breaks, hips lifting off the bed. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please talk to me. Tell me what you’d do.”
He leans forward, eyes fixed on the screen. His hand hasn’t stopped moving, the rhythm steady and punishing.
“I’d start with that pretty mouth,” he says, voice low. “Been too long since I felt those lips around me. Let me fuck your throat until you’re crying.”
Your moan is desperate, fingers pressing harder against yourself. He sees your hips start to rock, chasing the pressure. “Then I’d put you on the bed. Just like that.” He gestures at the screen, at your sprawled, open body. “Spread these thighs wide and bury my face between them. Wouldn’t stop until you came on my tongue.”
You hummed, nodding your head to his words.
“Then, I’d press my cock up against your pussy.” He strokes himself faster, watching your face contort, watching your body arch off the sheets. “Fill you up so good. Make you take all of it. Every fucking inch. You’d be so tight around me, wouldn’t you?"
Your hand is a blur between your legs now, your other hand gripping your breast, pinching the nipple. Your mouth is open, sounds spilling out.
“You’d come for me,” he continues, his own breathing harsh, his hips starting to thrust into his fist.
“I’m so close-”
“Let go.” His voice cracks on the words, authority fracturing into something rawer. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Wanna watch you fall apart. Wanna see it.”
Your body seizes, mouth falling open in a soundless cry, and he watches your thighs clamp shut around your hand as you come, shaking, shuddering, your whole frame drawn tight as a bowstring before releasing.
The sounds you make are broken, beautiful, and he lets himself tip over the edge after you with a groan he doesn’t bother to stifle, spilling across his stomach, his hand, the edge of his robes.
“Mhm.” He’s cleaning himself with a cloth from the altar— he’ll have to have it sent to you later, but that’s for future Suguru. “I'll be back soon.”
You roll onto your side, face appearing in the camera, flushed and satisfied, and so beautiful it makes his chest ache. “I'll be here.”
“Good.” He picks the phone up and brings it close to his face. “Once our mission is complete, we will have all the time in the world."
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
KENTO ♡ NANAMI
Before he dies from exhaustion, he will curse his boss for eternity. Like any work trip, promises of a relaxed environment were thinly veiled lies of overtime.
Occasionally, you would send pictures of things you did throughout the day; those were the things keeping him going and preventing him from tossing his laptop out the window and quitting.
Nanami's tie hung loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His laptop glows dimly on the desk, spreadsheets bleeding into one another until they're nothing but a blur of numbers behind his tired eyes.
He should be reviewing the projections for tomorrow's meeting. Should be answering the emails that have piled up in the last three hours. Instead, his phone is in his hand, thumb hovering over the last image you sent.
It came through forty-seven minutes ago, a brief respite from the drudgery of quarterly reports. The notification had been innocuous enough-just your name, the little camera icon.
He'd opened it expecting another photo of the things to do that day, or the view of a cafe, or perhaps a plate of food you were enjoying without him.
You're angled in front of you, similar to a selfie you sent yesterday, except then you had more clothes on. You were wearing the set he picked out two weeks ago, the one he'd handed to the sales associate without a hint of embarrassment because he already knew exactly how it would look on you.
The lace is the color of dark wine, delicate straps cutting across the swell of your breasts, the matching panties sitting low on your hips. You've posed with one hand, making a small heart with two fingers.
His hand moves before his mind catches up, palm pressing against the front of his trousers where his cock has already begun to stiffen. He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight, and doesn't bother to stop himself.
He leans back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and drags his zipper down with deliberate care.
His cock springs free, half-hard but thickening by the second as his gaze returns to the screen. He wraps his fingers around the base, a low sound catching in his throat at the familiar weight of his own hand.
The photo stares back at him, your eyes through the mirror meeting his, and he swipes his thumb across the head, spreading the bead of moisture already forming there.
He remembers unwrapping you from a similar set. How the lace had bitten into your skin, how you'd shivered when he'd traced the edges with his fingers before his mouth.
His grip tightens, fist moving in a slow, punishing rhythm. His hips twitch upward, chasing the friction, and his head falls back against the chair. The ceiling tiles blur above him, but he doesn't need to see the picture anymore. It's burned behind his eyelids, the curve of your breast, the delicate jut of your hipbone.
His breathing turns ragged, each exhale punched out of his chest. His thighs spread wider, heels digging into the carpet as he fucks up into his fist with increasing desperation. The slick sound of it fills the quiet room, obscene and urgent, and he doesn't care. Doesn't care about the meeting tomorrow, about the emails, about any of it.
His thumb swipes over the tip again, and he groans. He's close, the pressure coiling hot and tight in his gut, and he imagines it's your pussy wrapped around him, your body riding his cock. He imagines the way you'd look down at him through your lashes, how you'd let him guide your pace.
His cock pulses, a thick string of precome dripping down his knuckles, and he uses it to slick the way, his strokes turning sloppy, relentless.
His orgasm hits him like a freight train, his hips jerking off the chair as he spills over his own fist in hot, pulsing stripes.
His jaw is clenched so tight it aches, a broken sound rattling in his chest as he works himself through it, every muscle in his body locked taut until the last wave finally, mercifully passes. Even then, it wasn't enough.
When his torment ended, and he finally made it back home. Arriving through the door, you body pressed up against him, hugging him tightly.
You lips pressed against his cheek, littering his face with your soft lips. He'd never admit he came to your picture till nothing came out.
“I missed you so much, Ken!”
“Missed you too,” he smiled, breathing on your neck. Lifting you from your feet, letting your legs wrap around his hips. You giggled into the air, fingers combing through his hair.
He loved your laugh, but he needed to feel you, be inside you, and hear your moans in his ear. He imagined it enough; he needed the real thing.
SATORU ♡ GOJO
The house was quiet, a thing you once thought impossible in the Gojo household. However, with the absence of its head, the silence was unbearable.
You missed your husband dearly, out saving the world, yet you couldn't help but be jealous of the curses who got to see him more than you did.
You carried around one of his blindfolds that he thought went missing when really you stole it, hoping it would make him stay home, even just for a minute longer. You brought the black fabric to your nose, breathing in the remnants of him.
You needed him so bad. Your fingers slipped under your panties. Pretty lace ones that you hoped to show off to Satoru when he got back, that was supposed to be 4 hours ago, and you were growing impatient.
The black fabric pressed against your face, and you inhaled. Your fingers found the wet heat between your thighs before your brain could catch up. The lace of your panties was already damp. You dipped beneath the waistband, middle finger sliding through slick folds, and your eyes fluttered shut.
The memory of him was a bruise you kept pressing. The way his huge hands would bracket your hips, fingers denting the soft flesh there. The cocky slant of his smile right before he did something stupid. His weight, always too much and never enough.
You circled your clit, slow at first. Your hips rolled up to meet your own hand, and it wasn't right— his fingers were longer, thicker, knew exactly how to curl to make you scream, but you worked with what you had. A soft whine escaped your throat. You were so wet, just from the thought of him.
You pushed two fingers inside, gasping. Not enough. Your palm ground against your clit as you fucked yourself on your own hand, imagining it was him. The way he'd hold you down, one palm flat against your lower back, the other wrapped in your hair. The way he'd laugh, his cock twitching inside of you before he unloads himself inside you.
"C'mon," you breathed, not even sure who you were talking to. Yourself. Him. The empty room. "C'mon, 'Toru, please-"
Your fingers worked faster, sloppier. You were close, that familiar heat coiling tight in your belly, your thighs beginning to tremble. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, riding your own hand like it was him, like he was finally fucking home, filling you the way you needed.
Had you been paying attention, you would've noticed the increase of cursed energy, objects falling from the walls, and space crackling around the space, stilling the particles in the air.
You froze, eyes snapping open.
Satoru loomed over you, his blindfold missing from his face and his pale hair falling into his eyes. He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, watching your fingers still buried inside your soaked cunt. A mocking grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"My poor baby."
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You tried to pull your hand away, embarrassment flooding through you, but he caught your wrist. "No, no," he murmured, pushing your fingers back down. "Don't stop on my account. You were so close, weren't you, baby?"
Your mouth went dry. "You- you teleported?!"
"Mmh." He leaned down, and the warmth of his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. "Just got finished. Was checking on you through the cameras, thought you were sleeping." His teeth grazed your earlobe, and you shuddered. "Imagine my surprise when I see my pretty wife saying my name. So lonely without me, I know, I know." He holds your head against his, caressing your hair.
"Don't-"
"Shh." His finger pressed against your lips, trailing down your chest, down to your lace waistband. "I was wondering where that blindfold went."
Your cheeks burned. "I missed you."
"I can see that." His eyes dropped to where your fingers were still buried in your cunt, your slick coating your knuckles. He let out a low whistle. "It's on me, should've come home on time, I'm sorry."
"You were supposed to be home four hours ago, Satoru."
He wrapped his hand around your waist. "Four hours," he repeated, bringing your fingers to his mouth. His tongue darted out, tasting you. "Apologies won't do."
He sucked your fingers clean. You watched, transfixed, as his eyes stayed locked on yours. When he pulled them out, a string of saliva and your own slick connected his lips to your knuckles.
"Up."
You didn't move fast enough. He grabbed your hips, pulling your body on top of his. The blindfold slipped from your neck, and he caught it, tucking it into your bra with a soft laugh. His cock pressed against his pants, a heavy, insistent line of heat that made your mouth water.
"Four hours," you repeated. "Do you know what four hours feels like when you're not here?"
He opened his mouth to answer, something that would make you want to hit him, but you were already moving. Your hands fumbled with his belt, impatient. The metal clinked, and you yanked it free, tossing it somewhere across the room where it hit the floor with a sharp clatter.
"Eager much?" he breathed, but the amusement in his voice was strained. His hips lifted into your hands as you worked his pants open, and the sight of him springing free made your cunt clench around nothing.
He was already leaking, a pearlescent bead of precome glistening at the tip, and you wanted to taste him so badly it hurt.
But you needed him inside you more.
You didn't bother with your panties; you just pushed them aside, the fabric pulling against your slick folds, and positioned yourself over him. His hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there.
"Look at you," he murmured, and his voice had gone low, rough. "So fucking wet for me. Were you thinking about me the whole time?"
You sank down onto him in one motion.
The stretch was everything. Your body opened for him like it had been waiting, like it had been starving, and the sound you made was embarrassingly loud— a punched-out whimper that turned into a moan as he filled you.
His tip pressed against your cervix, exactly what you craved, and your hands braced against his chest as you tried to catch your breath.
Satoru's head fell back against the headboard. His grip on your hips tightened, and you watched his jaw clench, the muscles in his neck corded with restraint.
"Fuck," he gritted out. "Fuck, baby, you're-"
You didn't let him finish. You lifted yourself, slow, savoring the drag of his cock against your walls, and slammed back down.
His eyes snapped to yours, "Oh, we're doing it like that?"
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your voice had fled, replaced by guttural need, so feral that it clawed up your throat and came out as a broken moan. Setting a brutal rhythm that made his thighs tense beneath you. Each time you took him to the hilt, his hips would twitch up to meet you, and the impact sent shockwaves through your spine.
"I missed you, too, honey." His voice was strained. His hand guided your movements, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise, the other gripped the headboard. The wood was cracking under his fingers, but neither of you was worried about it.
"Y-you're always fucking l-late," you groaned, your hand cupping his chin, fingers pressing into his jaw harshly.
"I-I know, I know. I'll be better for you, baby." He promises, hips rutting against your ass. You leaned forward, palms flat against his chest, and rode him harder. The angle changed, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you cried out. The sound echoed off the walls of the too quiet house, and you didn't care.
"You said-" Your voice broke as you slammed down again, tears welling up in your eyes. "You said four hours, Satoru. Four hours of nothing. No texts, no calls, just-" His thumb found your clit, and whatever you were going to say dissolved into a sharp gasp.
"You're right," He circled the swollen nub, and your hips stuttered in their rhythm. "Tell me how wrong I am." The wood behind him snapped in half, splintering above him. Instinctively, he holds up the board, pushing it against the wall.
"You're a-always lying, just to get what you want. I was worried about you, Satoru. I can never know if you're okay. " Your thighs were burning, slick with sweat and your own arousal, and every nerve in your body had condensed to the place where he was splitting you open.
He nodded in agreement, accepting the words falling from your lips. "And you broke the fucking headboard!" You rode him faster, harder, your nails raking down his chest. The muscles there tensed beneath your fingers, and he let out a sound half laugh, half groan.
"It's my fault," he breathed. "I'm sorry, baby."
"Yes," you sobbed. "'Toru!" His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. The sting made your cunt clench around him, and he felt it, his hips bucking up into you with renewed force.
"That's my girl," he growled, and the praise was a drug, flooding your system with heat. "Gonna take what you need, yeah? Ride me, wifey."
You nodded, or tried to— his grip on your hair made it difficult. Your hips were moving on their own now, a frantic, punishing rhythm that had his cock punching into you again and again. The headboard started to knock against the wall, a steady thump-thump that matched the beating of your heart.
You fell forward with a startled cry, your chest hitting his, and Satoru's arms wrapped around you immediately. You walls constrict around his cock as you came. He followed soon after, cum painting your insides white.
The headboard hung at a sick angle, one side completely detached from the frame, and you stared at it with wide eyes.
"Baby," he breathed, and when you lifted your head to look at him, his expression was wild. "Baby, that was the hottest thing you've ever done."
Before you could respond, he flipped you. His weight pressed you into the mattress, one huge hand bracing beside your head, the other finding your thigh and hitching it up around his waist. The new angle drove him even deeper, and your back arched off the bed.
"'Toru- "
"Shh." He pulled back, his gaze fixed on where your bodies were joined. "My turn. You've got to play. Now I'm gonna take what's mine." His fingers dipped into your bra, pulling the black blindfold from between your tits. "Wear this too." He wrapped the fabric around your eyes.
"Oh," His cock twitches alive inside of you. "That's really hot, wifey."
A small figure crawls onto his lap. A scroll with a multitude of ink strokes is within his hand, four eyes scrutinising the tinted paper as if it had personally attacked him. In reality, he is just trying to cover up the fact that his heart slightly, slightly softens when his wife becomes needy.
Your eyes peek at Sukuna’s face which holds a feigned concentration. A bit displeased with his lack of attention, your hands come to softly tug his hand, to which he quirks a brow and shoots you a pointed look. You purposefully lean into his herculean-like figure, the bump on your belly pressed against his maw. It forms a small pout before softly kissing the swell covered with a layer of silk. A hand is placed upon the wide span of your hip, rubbing circles with his thumb on the plump flesh.
“I would request you of something.” You utter, leaning your head on his bicep. He lets out a soft grumble, quirking a brow at your plea before placing the scroll down to give his full attention to his wife, “What, woman?”
“Could you please cut up some peaches for me?” You give him the most sweetest puppy eyes look you could muster, a look which has gotten you out of many, many things with him. The king of curses purses his lips before allowing you to shuffle off him to retrieve your beloved peaches, specifically diced into small cubes.
But as soon as he’s about to exit through the sliding door of your private quarters, you sheepishly call out to further extend your request, “…And can you also add soybeans and tofu with it?”
Silence ensures, and you know he’s making a mental note in his head to not question the love of his life when her hormones are all over the place. His head did not turn back. He is ready to leave to get your cravings sort but then you continued, “…With eggplant and boiled eggs also diced into cubes—”
That is what makes him snap his head back to stare at you, “What kind of abomination are you making me cook? Do you intend to eat this?” The words come quicker out of his mouth than processing it through his mind.
The stifle of giggles makes him snarl, stomping back towards you before leaning in to try and intimidate you, “Do you enjoy ordering me around like a slave? What else do you want me to fetch, hm? Fuckin’.. beetroot from the ground now?”
“..Well, now that you’ve mentioned it-”
“For fuck sake, woman.” He growls before sauntering off and slamming the sliding door shut.
Yes, he’s going to collect beetroot straight from the soil.
ᝰ.ᐟDomestic dominance headcanons I can’t stop thinking about
Guiding you through streets with a hand on your hips, moving past you in the kitchen by grabbing your hips or waist to nudge you aside. Maybe they're holding a hot pan or plate and will gently guide you aside with a hand on your hips and words like "Careful baby—there we go, good girl".
Make you keep eye contact with them whenever you speak, it could be you rambling on about your day fidgeting with something on your lap and they will guide you to look up with two fingers to your chin, gently coaxing you to meet their eyes, "Hey, eyes on me, pretty".
Always making sure you're fed. You're busy with work, typing one email after the other and they will come up behind you tap on your cheek and press a fruit slice to your lips "Open. Now" and you do because there's no other choice.
It's always the one worded commands that make you lose it.
"Sit."
"Come here."
"Stop."
You don't carry bags or touch door handles around them and if you try, "what did i say?" With that stern look that makes you shut up instantly.
Pulling you between their legs while they're on a call, pressing your back to their chest as their hand travels up your shirt and traces lazy patterns against your stomach while they talk, making you shudder.
You say something snarky, bratty, they just give you the look, lean in and say "That's not how you speak to me. Try again".
Knows when your exhausted and will come shut your laptop for you with a simple "You're done" and drag you off to bed over their shoulder if your unwilling to leave.
Makes sure you're hydrated, if your water bottle is not as empty as they wish they will simply place it in your hands and cross their arms, standing over you. "Drink. Now".
Will always put your seatbelt on for you, usually with a snarky "There. Try not to die".
Always offering you the best seat in the house with a pat on their lap "Come. Sit."
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred, it's to be expected), angst, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, some plot to get to the smut (posessiveness, some spanking, dirty talk, teasing, praise and degredation kink, dom!Ben, fingering, begging, manhandling, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, oral f!reciving, edging, creampie, big dick ben, overstimulation, body worship, rough sex, just complete debauchery, dumbification, dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦author's note: made myself start drooling with this one. enjoy!✦
You had a secret. And you kept it buried in the deepest, most sacred corner of your heart. Not out of shame.
Out of survival.
It’s best to keep your head down, in a world like this one. Supes patrol the streets, and people who are a little too loud and unhappy get sent to their death. Vought says it’s just to be corrected, but you know. Everyone knows.
They’ve just all learned how to whisper about it.
And you’re braver than you wanted to be. You do more than you should be doing, when the most anyone should be worrying about is waking up in their bed the next morning. But there’s the teenage girl who lives down the hall from you, who got loud about hating Homelander in school, and almost got taken because of it. You helped her get out, and lied to the face of the people who showed up to find her.
You lied with a smile, too.
He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.
And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.
You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.
“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”
You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”
“No, because I’m not a-“
“Fucking pussy.”
You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.
“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.
“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.
“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”
“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.
Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”
“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“
Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.
He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.
But he’s not.
“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”
You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.
He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.
“You have.” You’d breathed.
And you’d really believed it.
But then he’d just… Left.
You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.
There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.
But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.
You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.
“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.
He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.
“You talking to me?”
“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”
The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.
“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”
“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“
“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“
“You said that already.”
You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”
His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.
Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.
In the store, you’d hadn’t been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.
He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.
And he’d laughed.
That night, he’d just laughed.
“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”
“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”
The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.
He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.
“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.
He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.
“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.
He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“
“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”
“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”
You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.
“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.
“Why shouldn’t I.”
“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“
“And why should I trust that?”
He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.
“I swear I won’t.”
“Promises mean nothing.”
“My promises mean something-“
“Not to me, they don’t.”
He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.
The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.
He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.
“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”
And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.
“What the fuck-“
“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”
“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“
“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“
“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“
“I am not going to shoot you-“
“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“
“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.
And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.
But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.
Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.
“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.
Ben had followed.
And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.
Then it had been gone.
Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.
So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.
It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.
And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.
Now, you’re careful.
After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.
Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.
No one could know who you are. What you were to him.
Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.
Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.
Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.
But still.
You’d hoped he would.
“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.
And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.
“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.
“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.
“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“
“You liked Paddington 2-“
“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”
You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.
“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”
And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.
“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.
Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.
“You got no idea.”
And you wish you had.
You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.
If you had, he might still be next to you today.
You broke a cup.
The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.
Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.
I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.
That he had been everything.
You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.
And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.
Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.
It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.
There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.
This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.
No.
This is new.
Which means Ben- He’s alive.
He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.
He left you.
It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.
He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.
You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.
He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.
Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.
And then he left.
Just left.
Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.
But not back with you.
Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.
He didn’t come back.
Ben couldn’t fucking find you.
He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.
Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here.
But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.
He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.
Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.
It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.
Although he had always listened.
But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.
His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.
Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.
He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.
And then you’d smiled at him.
He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.
There were things to be angry about now, though.
You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.
Hollow.
Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.
Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.
If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.
And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.
He just had to find you first.
Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.
All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.
The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.
“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“
“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.
“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“
He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“
“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes. Yes- Sir-“
“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.
He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.
“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”
Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.
“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”
Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”
“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.
Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.
You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.
And Ben had known.
“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.
That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.
Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.
You still worked there. You weren’t gone.
Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.
“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”
Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”
Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.
He had to go find you.
You get home, and you feel like nothing.
It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.
You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.
Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.
You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.
You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.
You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.
This is just always going to hurt.
“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”
You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.
Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.
“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”
You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.
Or you’d just pass right through thin air.
And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.
You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.
Then he left.
And you’re not anyone’s anymore.
Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.
“Ben?” You whisper.
A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.
“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”
He takes a step forward.
You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.
Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.
You shrink away.
“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.
“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“
He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.
You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.
“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.
He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.
Ben sees you. You can see him.
And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…
“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”
Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.
“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”
“You left.”
And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.
“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”
Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.
“I saw you on TV.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“
“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”
The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.
“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“
“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“
“You left.”
“No, I didn’t-“
“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.
It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.
“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“
Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.
Weak.
“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”
Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.
But Ben doesn’t leave.
He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.
His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.
Still calls it yours.
“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”
You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.
“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”
Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.
Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.
“Why should I believe you?”
Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.
Just focused.
“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“
“Swear it?”
Ben nods, and you tilt your head.
“You swore you’d come back.”
“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”
You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.
“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”
Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.
“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.
You don’t flinch. You never have.
“Prove that you are.”
A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.
You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.
“Be- Ben-“
He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.
“Ben-“
“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”
God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.
Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.
He doesn’t even come up for air.
“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“
He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest.
“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”
“I- Ooooh-“
You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.
“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”
“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“
“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”
You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“
“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”
Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.
“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“
“You- Benjamin-“
“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”
The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.
“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”
“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.
Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.
“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”
“Ben-“
“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”
Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.
“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”
“Mmmh.”
“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.
“Ben-“
“Say it.”
“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“
Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.
It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.
“How- How big is your dick?”
He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.
“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”
You pout slightly. “I am being good.”
Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.
“Ben-“
“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“
“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“
You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.
Then you realize.
Shit.
“Ben, I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.
“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“
Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.
“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“
He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.
Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.
“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”
His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.
“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”
You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.
“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“
“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”
“Oh- Okay.”
You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.
“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.
You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“
You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.
“Good girl.”
The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.
He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.
Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.
“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”
Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”
And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.
You still might cry.
Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway.
“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“
“I love you.”
You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.
Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.
You both will.
“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“
You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.
Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.
Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.
“Say it again.” He mutters.
“I love you.”
You offer it easily. It’s his to have.
And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.
It means he’s on a fucking mission.
“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”
You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.
“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”
“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.
It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.
“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”
You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.
“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.
Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.
“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”
You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”
“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.
His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.
“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“
He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.
“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.
He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.
Another warning.
“That’s- Fuck-“
He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.
“More, Ben, more-“
A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.
He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.
Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.
You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.
And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.
Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.
Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.
Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.
Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.
“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.
“Be- Ben-“
“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”
Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.
Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.
And again, Ben stops.
You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.
“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“
He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.
“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“
Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.
But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.
Take it. He’d said.
You don’t think you have a choice.
“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.
The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.
“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”
You glare at him, and he just grins.
“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”
He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.
“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”
Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.
And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.
“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”
You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”
He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.
“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”
You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.
Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.
But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.
“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”
He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.
Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.
“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”
You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”
“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.
“Ben- Oooooh-“
He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.
“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“
You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”
You had a smart, sharp retort.
It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.
Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.
“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.
“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”
You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.
Ben laughs, prowling up over you.
“You’re fucking drooling.”
“You’re pretty.”
“I am not fucking pretty.”
“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”
He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”
“You are a show pony.”
That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.
“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“
You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.
That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.
You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.
Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”
You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.
“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”
A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.
“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”
His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.
“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”
Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.
“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”
You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.
“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”
He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.
“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“
He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.
“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“
Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.
It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.
“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“
You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.
Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.
“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”
You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.
After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.
Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.
You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.
You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.
He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.
“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.
No pants. Unhelpful.
“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”
“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”
“I am not slobbering-“
“Yeah, you fucking are.”
You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.
“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re not my boss-“
“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”
You blink at him.
And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.
“You love me?” You whisper.
He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.
“Of course I do-“
“Say it.”
He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“
“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.
This time, it’s going to work.
“Please?” You add.
Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.
You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.
“I love you.” He grunts.
You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.
Meant to remind you that you have time.
“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.
“You’re real lucky-“
“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.
He always lets you. Because he loves you.
“I am.”
✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
